Chapter 6
LOCKDOWN
GRAYSON
Prison cells don’t clang shut like they do in movies. At upgraded facilities like Cotsworth, steel-composite doors—reinforced with ballistic glass—replaced the outdated, barred design, keeping level-three inmates like me cut off from any outside contact.
I’m ordered to stand inside my white cell and face the cot. With my back to the guards, one of them unshackles my cuffs while the other keeps watch, before the cell door slides into place with a hollow click. Once the door is locked and I’m sealed inside, I turn around.
Cotsworth did away with solitary. It’s now referred to as enhanced security confinement. I’ve had this six-by-eight room all to myself for the past year, and my space is sparsely decorated with the only things I hold of value.
I don’t need many possessions. Too much tends to clutter a life, detract from what’s largely important.
On the one mounted plastic table is a stack of puzzle boxes, the most recent one completed to display a scenic view of the Maine coastline. Sent to me by one of my fans. I have a number of those. Killer groupies is what the prison guards call them.
In the middle of my cell, a precast pull-up bar extends from the ceiling, specially designed to prevent inmates from harming themselves. And along the longest wall, two large posters: Kells Castle, and a labyrinth. I got the labyrinth myself. The other was a gift from the groupies.
The lights blink out, and the dim overhead track illuminates the cell in an eerier orange glow. Downtime for an hour before the pitch-black. I pull off my jumpsuit, toss it into the corner, and push up my thermal sleeves. Then I stretch out on my cot, staring at the swirls of orange on the ceiling.
Prison is all about routine and order. Most inmates come from a place of chaos, making time in prison painful.
That’s the punishment. Strict rules don’t affect me the same way; I grew up being told when to eat, when to sleep, when to shit.
Being here is like being back home, and I’m biding my time just as I did there, because nothing stays the same.
Change is the one constant you can depend on.
Someone once told me the wait for something to happen can drive a sane man mad, and this place is full of madness. The choice to adapt or not is what sets inmates apart. Those who acclimate to the system, and those who rebel and lose their shit.
In a system designed to strip every choice away, it’s the only one you have.
The guard passes my cell on his round, giving me thirty minutes to myself. I spring off the cot. The labyrinth poster is easily removed to reveal the true treasure hidden beneath.
The collection of images and articles I’ve amassed over the past nine months are arranged in a spiral collage on the wall, starting from when I first began my research, to her most recent trial.
The newspaper clipping of her assault on the courthouse steps.
The first day we met, and my confirmation that London needs me.
I run my finger along her cheek, the image so lifelike I can recall the feel of her soft, warm skin as I grazed her hand. The flesh of her palm marred by a scar she tries to keep hidden, and the ink that bleeds through to taunt me with its secrets.
The outer ring of the collage goes farther back in time, information sourced from the deepest, darkest waters of the web. A girl with dyed blond hair. A decorated officer of the law. And the wreck that changed the outcome of the girl’s life.
I pluck the most recent photo of London from the wall and bring it closer. Her hair is styled down, falling in loose waves over one shoulder. She’s not wearing her glasses, and I try to find every gold fleck in her eyes.
Before the blackness takes the meager light, I paste the image in the center of the collage and back up a few paces until I’m beneath the pull-up bar.
I’m a man obsessed, I can admit that. I knew she’d test me. From the moment she requested an interview, I questioned her motives, wondering why she wanted it so badly. The journalists gave up easily, but not her—my girl persisted.
If I’m obsessed, she’s infatuated—an explosive combination.
I didn’t see her attempt as desperate at the time, but she still made me curious. The more I looked into her, the more I saw her desperation, then I scented it on her in her office.
I can smell her now, that sweet scent of lilacs mixed with her arousal.
Anyone that desperate for answers has demons to feed.
And, oh, her demons are alive and thrashing in our sessions. It’s almost cruel to provoke her, but she needs to be broken, freed from her conditioned mindset in order to accept the truth.
I lower my boxers and kick them aside, then grab the bar above my head. I pull myself up, curling my arms until my chin meets the cold metal. I do three reps at a time—up, up, up—and hold.
I stare at London, taking in the depth of her brown eyes, her sexy, curvy figure she can’t censor with her expensive suits. I see her crossing her legs right in front of me, squeezing them tight, applying pressure to the needy ache pulsing between those soft, inviting thighs.
With each chin-up, my cock grows harder. The tension in my muscles travels down my body until it reaches the base of my spine, begging for release. A fiery burn sears the sinew threading my bones as I speed the reps. Adrenaline races through my bloodstream, blistering my veins.
She’s so close. I can almost hear her…taste her…envisioning her struggling against the binds as her throaty voice cries my name.
A deep groan works free as I complete another rep. My stomach muscles flex as I hold my body up, chin pressed hard to the bar, visualizing her mouth parted on a strangled cry as I tear that goddamn skirt and push between her thighs and—
“Fuck.” The release takes me. Pleasure grips my groin, and I rock my hips, chasing my orgasm with every throb of my cock. Muscles on fire, pulse hammering, I thrust my hips hard once more to drive the freeing sensation down to my calves.
I growl through the release. The sound of my ejaculate hitting the concrete floor mingles with my heavy breaths, heightening the climax before I let go.
I drop to my knees, palms flat against the cool floor. She’s already fading from my mind as I heave in shaky breaths. I reach behind my head and pull my shirt off to cover the mess, eyes squeezed closed. I settle back onto my heels. Claw at my head.
Every scar on my body is aflame.
My flesh demands punishment, but I cling the fading image of London’s face until the compulsion subsides. Lightheaded and trembling, I savor this feeling before it’s torn away.
With her, I don’t crave the abuse. I’ve enforced it for so long, it’s damn near impossible to stop—but she’s my answer.
She’s my salvation.
My blood runs hot. The chilly air touches my slick skin like a cruel caress, and I welcome it.
I drag my hands over the raised scars along my chest, feeling each life I witnessed being taken.
Every one of them is carved into me, a brand that seals my fate, a penance I inflicted on myself for the pleasure I experienced during their suffering.
I’m not alone.
That realization was the first broken link in my chains. I won’t accept anything less than her—my other half.
Not bothering to get dressed, I replace the poster. Before the light is gone, I bring her picture to the cot with me. I trace her features, memorizing them all over again.
The cell goes dark, and I slip the photo under my pillow. I run my hands over my forearms, tracking ink that can’t completely disguise the scars. A reminder that secrets never stay buried.
London wants answers, and I can give them to her. The only question is how far she’s willing to go to get them.