Chapter Three
During his month of solitary, Roman dwelled on how he got here. It wasn’t that different from his fall as champion, after all. It came down to Roman’s arrogance getting the best of him; a blink of a moment and the lost footing changed the entire course of Roman’s life.
He had always been a fighter long before he stepped into Marlow Penitentiary, but outside the prison, he used to be better at hiding his ruthlessness.
While Roman had presented himself as a preppy frat boy, he came from a much different background. Joining a fraternity wouldn’t have been his first choice. Going to college, in general, had never been part of the plan. Not that his family made plans. No, they just survived, scrambled, and struggled against the tides of life. Somehow, Roman had found himself living a dream he didn’t recall having. When Stacy promised him the fraternity would always have his back, Roman almost started to believe her.
Stacy. That was a haunting name and one he tried not to fixate on as his mind reveled in memories of a former life he’d never claw his way back to.
He fell fast and hard for the silly rituals, the constant comradery, the surreal parties. But that all disappeared when Roman got arrested. Sometimes, someone would reach out. Nothing big, nothing life-changing, but a call or a card or a twenty tossed into his commissary helped remind Roman he hadn’t been completely forgotten by the outside world.
The quarterly contact from a brotherhood official felt more like a checklist than true care. Not that Roman wanted to be remembered by the outside world. After what he’d done, Roman wanted to disappear most days. He just hoped that in the darkness, he wouldn’t have to fade away. He wouldn’t have to suffer any more than he already did, but the universe seemed content.
Flashes of red and rage reminded him of what brought Roman here, how his unchecked temper had cost him everything in his life yet served as the only life jacket to keep him afloat here at Marlow Penitentiary.
One drunk night out on the town, a mouthy guy on the streets of a busy downtown while bar hopping, and Roman in a mood to show off a bit of the darkness he carried before dressing in khaki slacks and silly polos. He’d hit the man too fast, too hard, and once the violence began, Roman couldn’t stop himself. He raged against the man, slamming him onto the pavement. He’d seen blood, and he was hungry for more. Punch after punch, and nothing seemed to satiate his thirst. The cheers of his brothers fueled him for a moment, but their concern did little to temper his rage. None were bold enough to pull him off, to stop Roman in his tracks, and he relished that power, that authority he carried in a blink.
“Stop,” Stacy had snatched Roman by the arm, a pleading look on her face rivaled with the constant calm she carried everywhere she went.
Roman loved that about Stacy. She was an enigma. Everything she did put her in the center of friends, of parties, or people in general, but no one really knew Stacy unless she allowed it. Roman had been allowed to know her, truly know her behind the veil she wore for the audience of life, and he loved the unmasked Stacy. But in that moment, it wasn’t Roman and Stacy and his daydreams about finally having a real relationship with her. No, right then, Roman’s rage won out, and he shoved her away.
Roman wouldn’t be contained, but he didn’t want to hit her, to hurt her, even though he wanted to continue fighting.
He still thought about how fast the truck hit Stacy. He still thought about how much blood there was, how much of Stacy’s insides were littered across the ground. Littered because they were useless to her now. There wasn’t a goddamn thing Roman could do to temper back the night. Stacy had died on impact, and the worst part was that he hadn’t stopped fighting. Anger had consumed him, and while a flicker of Roman’s vision caught sight of the horrible events his shove had caused, most of him still wanted to break the man beneath him.
Now, he wanted to break the man even more, toss the blame onto him. Blame him for everything wrong in Roman’s life. It seemed so easy to pour out that fury through his fists. It took everything to pull Roman off the half-dead drunk, and Roman still fought, still raged against the police.
He didn’t rage during the trial, though. No, all his anger had been knocked out of him the first time the police showed Roman a collage of Stacy Anderson’s corpse.
“I hope you die in there,” Stacy’s mom had hissed.
That wounded Roman. His apologies to the court meant nothing to her. The years he spent as Stacy’s friend—as Stacy’s anything-but-a-boyfriend because she had goals to check off in life first. The years he joked with Stacy’s mom, singing a song she’d endured a billion times before Roman, but still managed to sing along with him every now and then. He credited his cute face; she claimed he had a good voice.
None of it mattered anymore. Roman had lost that life the minute he faced charges. He tried to push Stacy out of his mind, a difficult task since she haunted him most days.
Roman’s release from solitary didn’t come as a comfort. Yes, he could finally have engagement with other humans again, but the taunting comments had only gotten worse in his absence. Inmates practically lined up to pick a fight with him, provoke him again, get him another month of solitary, or worse. He had no friends, no allies, and no relief from the barrage of enemies. Roman needed to put a quick end to this situation.
Patience had never been a virtue Roman mastered or respected, finding it more imperative to lunge for an opportunity instead of waiting for the earth beneath his feet to settle. Roman bolted for the cafeteria. Early or not, he didn’t care. He silently waited for the lunch crowd to arrive, and once they had, Roman approached Ezra and his new flock of followers. In the month since he’d seen Ezra, the only thing that’d changed about him was the stubble on his face, which hid the boyish features he had when they first met, and there was this air of well-trained arrogance that oozed off him waves.
Levi, however, appeared hollowed out and exhausted. It pained Roman to avert his gaze from his friend, but right now, he couldn’t chance eye contact. He was furious and ready to fight, but seeing Levi truly evaluating him would steal his anger and replace it with sadness.
“I want a rematch,” Roman demanded.
“And I want another appeal.” Ezra shrugged, licking pudding off his spoon. “Wants don’t mean a fucking thing.”
“You got lucky before,” Roman said, placing his hands on the table, unyielding to the group sitting around Ezra. “But when the Challenger’s Chance comes up, I want you to know I’ll be there. I want you to see me coming, a courtesy you didn’t offer, but now I know your tricks.”
“Tricks?” Ezra tsked, still fixated on his dessert over Roman. “Tricks are what sad people call talent. They don’t understand it, so it must be deceit.”
Ezra was warping things, goading Roman, which he realized and did his best to ignore the bait. It had been a trick, a cunning and calculated one, especially for a man who professed to have only just arrived at Marlow Penitentiary that day.
The last time they fought, Roman went easy, Roman was tired, and Roman fell for an obvious ploy. It wouldn’t happen again.
“Just be ready to hand that title back over.”
Ezra chuckled. “You assume I would accept your challenge for a rematch.”
Roman scowled. “Are you too big of a coward to face me again, to face me head-on?”
“You have nothing I want,” Ezra said, finishing his pudding and reaching for Levi’s. “Yet, I seem to have everything you crave.”
Roman’s eyes finally flitted to Levi. A shell of his former self. He sat silently next to Ezra, surrounded by the other men at the table, and didn’t look up from his own tray. He’d gone ghostly white since the last time Roman saw him. His shoulder-length hair seemed stragglier, and despite being a lighter brown, it held a haunting darkness to it, adding to Levi’s empty blue eyes and vacant expression.
“There’s no challenge to dethroning you again,” Ezra said, pulling Roman’s attention back. “Might add to the humiliation, but I’m no monster. I don’t wanna see you suffer just because you’re arrogant.”
One flick of his gaze back to Levi said that was an utter lie.
“How about this.” Ezra cleared his throat, commanding the already captive attention of his table. “You come to me with a real offer, something worth my time, and I’ll entertain your rematch. I’ll give you a chance to lose to me again. Fair and square. Sound good, friend?”
Ezra extended a hand like they’d shake on it, shake on some unspoken wager Roman would have to set the terms to, and hope Ezra would accept. He slapped away Ezra’s friendly hand. When a man at the table rose in defense, Roman glared, daring him to step up.
Part of Roman wanted to end this here and now. Fight Ezra, fight all eight men at the table, fight the guards who’d sweep in to break things up, fight every other inmate who’d cheer at his defeat. But Roman wasn’t that arrogant. He knew even he had limits, and damn if that wasn’t humbling.
Ezra snapped his fingers, and everyone at the table stood, not to fight but to follow as Ezra took his leave. It was at this moment that Levi looked up to steal a look at his friend. Roman wanted to speak, to ask what had happened to Levi this last month, but he had ideas. Terrible, terrible ideas. Ezra whistled, and Levi’s head snapped back to his tray, where he quickly shoveled something in his mouth, anything for sustenance, and then got up to trail behind Ezra like a fucking pet.
It infuriated Roman, fueling him to find a solution. Roman left the cafeteria in search of something he could offer to convince Ezra to accept a rematch.
The day didn’t offer Roman any solutions, just more reminders of his new place in life. Dinner had been scarce since someone decided to throw a bit of extra protein into his meal in the form of dead bugs. A few more men instigated things, attempting to provoke Roman, to make him swing first. Not that it really mattered in the grand scheme. The guards turned their attention elsewhere when someone taunted Roman, but he knew the second he fought back or even defended himself, if one inmate were brazen enough to raise a fist, it’d be Roman who would end up back in solitary.
That night, Roman managed to convince a guard to add him to the arena attendance.
“Fine,” he said. “But only because the champion is feeling charitable.”
Roman clenched his teeth at that, biting back a snarl. Ezra did him favors, let him watch a bout he couldn’t participate in. Not unless Roman had something to stake.
He’d hoped the event would spark some further insight into his predicament. Some of the fights were entertaining, at the very least, but nothing helped him. Maybe when Ezra finally stepped up after the preliminary matches, Roman would see something, learn something he could exploit.
The Challenger’s Chance had finally arrived, but Roman didn’t have anything to offer, anything to convince Ezra to accept his rematch. Roman considered taunting him, baiting the crowd into an effort to call Ezra a coward, but decided against it. They seemed to like his reign so much more than Roman’s. He didn’t set expectations for anyone except to leave him alone. They could be as cruel and spiteful as they wanted. They could abuse other inmates uncontested. They could give into their vices without reprimand.
Levi approached Roman, seemingly taking advantage of Ezra’s pending battle and torn attention.
“You came?” Levi asked, poorly attempting small talk.
“I did.” Roman sighed. “I’m trying to figure out how to get Ezra to agree to a rematch. Don’t suppose you have ideas?”
Levi shook his head.
“Just think about it,” Roman insisted. “You probably know more about him than anyone else, bunking together.”
Levi clenched his jaw and shook his head harder, not wanting to betray Ezra’s confidence, which deeply saddened Roman.
“What’s happened to you?”
“Ezra’s a strict person.” Levi didn’t offer more than that, but Roman couldn’t simply accept the standard by line.
“Has he…” Roman swallowed the words, the question he wanted to ask, the answer he knew in his heart but desperately wanted to hold out hope for.
“He hasn’t forced himself on me,” Levi answered, and the relief that hit Roman was almost enough to make him fly. “And I haven’t accepted his friendship.”
“What?”
“He wants me to accept his friendship,” Levi explained. “To give myself willingly, to choose to submit.”
That was a first. Levi had been approached by plenty of inmates over the years because of his open sexuality, and very few offered a choice when telling him what they wanted. Levi would politely explain he was a top, add to the fact he was quite picky about the cocks he shoved in his mouth, and then try to break the tension of a threat with the levity of humor.
It never worked in his favor. Levi would get his ass kicked, but thanks to Roman, he never got his ass fucked. Roman always stepped in, always fought Levi’s battles because the worst of the men always seemed to come in droves for Levi, picking on some vulnerable, easy gay guy who needed a real man’s attention.
When Roman became champion, no one bothered Levi ever again. Now, Roman sank into the horrible realization that Levi would have to fight for his life, his body, every day until Roman could offer him real protection. Roman couldn’t even protect himself right now. Not really.
“What happens if you don’t accept his friendship?” Roman asked, watching Ezra drop his first opponent and demand a second.
“He said his cell is for friends only, and maybe I could relocate somewhere I’d be happier.” Levi’s face began to crumble. He fought it so hard, willing the tears back, but Roman saw him about to collapse into devastating sadness. “He suggested the warden could transfer me to Finnegan’s cell.”
Roman’s entire body froze. Jake “the Snake” Finnegan would destroy Levi. He’d break him and hollow out everything left of Levi until all that remained was a strung-out husk of a man, unable to think or speak, only serve the vicious crew that funneled drugs throughout Marlow Penitentiary.
“He’s a fucking psycho,” Roman snapped, balling his fists and fighting every urge in him not to walk into the arena mid-fight and deck Ezra.
“Yeah,” Levi scoffed, more somber than angry. “Hence why I’m scared. Jake’s been making comments, teasing. It’s gonna fuck up my sobriety, and I don’t know if I even care.”
“Maybe you should be Ezra’s friend.” Roman gritted his teeth, hating himself for the suggestion but truly believing that if he couldn’t protect Levi, then at the very least, Ezra could and would.
He’d make for the better option than Jake any day.
“Considered it,” Levi admitted, guilt and shame making his face turn even more pitiful. “But I’m just a game piece to Ezra. He’d grow tired of me within a few days of my submission, a few weeks if I were lucky. Then I’d be exactly where I am now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything he’s doing, the way he talks when we’re alone, is directed toward you.” Levi turned his face, hiding behind his hair while admitting he talked about Roman behind his back, or at the very least allowed Ezra to talk while he listened. “He wants you, Roman. Wants to take everything you hold value for and destroy it.”
Roman scowled.
“I think it’s like his way of scorching the earth and saying your reign meant nothing.” Levi weakly shrugged. “There’s nothing he wants from you, just to see you miserable, so there’s no way to make him accept a challenge.”
Roman fumed, growing more and more furious with each passing second. He’d lost everything, but he damn well wouldn’t lose his only true friend, the only person who had his back no matter what, the only person who didn’t give a damn about the title of champion.
Roman bolted into the arena, unable to contain his anger anymore. Patience be damned. What the crowd thought meant nothing to him. Ezra would answer for this. Without hesitation, Roman swung Ezra’s opponent around by the shoulder and decked him across the face.
A one-hit knockout was all it took, but Roman didn’t credit himself too much. He’d seen Ezra toying with the guy, wearing him down until he could barely stand. Hell, Roman unleashing his rage on the guy would probably allow him to salvage a bit of his dignity when he came to. After all, Roman had used a cheap trick to blitz-attack him.
“This is your attempt at forcing a confrontation?” Ezra tsked, shaking his head at Roman like he’d caught him stealing from a cookie jar. “It’s poorly calculated. You assume you’re the only person here who will break the rules and overstep.”
Ezra looked to the crowd, where some of his new allies pushed their way to the front lines and awaited a sign to jump Roman, to take him down before he could even land one hit on Ezra.
“I’m here to set terms for our rematch,” Roman declared. “A wager, if you will, for the current champion.”
Ezra smirked at that slight.
“Already told you, you’ve got nothing I want. Already took your crown. Took your stuff. Took your bestie. You got nothing left to offer me.”
“I do.”
There was a curious look on Ezra’s smiling face, but his eyes, those haunting green eyes, held more rage in them than all of Roman’s muscles, ready to lash out and attack.
“Oh? What’s that?” Ezra asked, his cool and cunning voice only added to the anger Roman kept in check.
“You can have me.”