Chapter 13
Swag
The cuffs dig into my wrists. Not enough to cause real pain, but enough to piss me off. I don't say a word as they walk me through booking. Eyes forward. Shoulders squared. I’ve been through worse.
Fingerprints. Mugshots. Standard bullshit.
I keep my silence, refusing to acknowledge the younger officers staring at me like they’ve caught a monster. Let them wonder what they’ve got in the cell. Let them be afraid.
Once they shove me behind the bars of a holding cell, I finally let myself breathe. Not that it’s any more peaceful here. The place stinks of bleach, sweat, and fear. The metal bench under me is cold, and the fluorescent lights buzz like angry bees.
And then I hear the slow clap.
“Hell of a fall, Prez.”
I don’t have to look up to know the voice. Ricky Langston. I clench my fists but keep my face stone-cold.
“Didn’t think I’d get to see the day,” Ricky drawls, swaggering up to the bars like he owns the place. “Jackson “Swagger” Boseman, outlaw king, caged like a goddamn animal.”
I tilt my head up, stare him down. “You still trying to play cop, Langston?”
He grins wide, leaning against the bars. “Oh, I’m not just playing, old man. I’m the law now. And guess what? The law doesn’t like watching you throw your weight around this city like you’re untouchable.”
“You don’t have this city,” I mutter. “You just wear the uniform. Doesn’t make you a man.”
Truth is, I have the city, and I’ve foolishly let him think he holds an ounce of power when he doesn’t. That ends now.
But that smile of his doesn’t budge.
“Maybe not. But I do have something else now. Something you want.” He lets the pause stretch. “Jo-Leigh.”
My body goes still.
He chuckles. “Oh, yeah. Saw the way you lost your shit at the bar. Real smooth, by the way. You think she’s gonna wait around for you, behind bars, when she’s got someone who actually protects people knocking at her door?”
“She’s not yours,” I growl.
“Not yet.” He leans in closer, his voice dropping. “But she’s scared now. Confused. And I know how to take care of girls like her.”
I’m on my feet before I realize it, gripping the bars so hard my knuckles turn white. “You go near her again?—”
“What?” he sneers. “You’ll grow wings and fly outta here? Face it, Boseman. You’re out. And I’m in.”
He straightens, brushing imaginary dust from his badge.
“Better get comfortable. I’ve got big plans for Baton Rouge. And you? You’re going to rot behind bars while I show her what a real man looks like.”
I watch him walk away, calm and smug and way too damn pleased with himself. But the second he’s gone, I sit back down, breathing hard. This isn't over. And if he touches her? He’s not going to wear that badge again. He’ll be buried with it.
Hours go by without a single soul coming by to check on me. The metal bench is cold against my spine, but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel much of anything. Not after watching Jo-Leigh’s face as they put me in cuffs. Not after remembering the words Langston said.
An older man finally comes to the cell, unlocking it.
“You get one phone call.”
I glance at his badge and ask, “You Hulk’s old man?”
The man’s eyes widen, and he looks around to make sure no one overheard me. There’s my answer.
“How did the lover of an outlaw end up here?”
“Shh.” He says. “No one knows.”
“That better translate into something for me. Understand?”
The man nods. “Anything you want, sir.”
He leads me to a white phone and stands to the side as I lift the receiver to call my attorney. The phone stinks of sweat and sour breath. I dial fast and hold the receiver tight to my jaw.
He picks up. “This is Valez.”
“It’s Swag.”
“I heard,” he says dryly. “You’ve made quite a stir.”
“I want out by morning. I don’t care what it takes.”
“You’ve got assault, resisting, and now a firearms enhancement stacked on top of the suspicion from the bar raid. That’s not a slap on the wrist, Swag. They’re going for blood.”
“So am I. I want bail, and I want a gag order on anyone saying my name in a courtroom.”
He’s quiet a beat. “You need to start thinking about your options. I’ll get the paperwork filed, but this won’t be cheap.”
“I said I don’t care.” I hang up before he can finish.
I dial Talon next. The line clicks after two rings.
“Prez?” Talon’s voice is tense.
“I want to know what happened to the cameras at the bar.”
“Langston must’ve had a warrant. They were yanked when we got there to clean up. You think he found something?”
“I know he’s sniffing too hard. And Jo-Leigh was the bait.”
“You want her watched?”
Silence stretches before I answer. “Make sure no one else touches her. And find out who the fuck has been feeding Langston intel.”
“You got it.”
“Damien Valez is trying to get me out, but it looks stacked against me.”
Talon is silent. “Want me to call in the brothers?”
“Not yet. Don’t want to play into his hands.”
“Got it. See you on the other side.”
I end the call and then hesitate before dialing Jo-Leigh’s cell.
She doesn’t know I have her number. That I’ve always had it.
And there’s a good chance she won’t answer an unknown caller, but I have to try.
It rings. Once. Twice. Voicemail. I don’t speak.
I can’t. The words won’t form. But I stay on the line, letting the silence speak for me until the call ends.
Back in the cell, I sit down, back to the wall, fists clenched. Jo-Leigh’s face haunts me—shocked, scared, furious. But the worst part? She didn’t look surprised.
Langston made his move. Now it’s my turn. It’s just going to take some time.
***Three Fucking Days Later***
They think bars can break me. That steel and concrete can chain a man like me down.
But they’re wrong. The bars aren’t what eat at me.
It’s her. It’s knowing Jo-Leigh’s out there free and exposed and I can’t do a damn thing about it.
I lean against the cinderblock wall, the stink of sweat and bleach clinging to the air.
I was moved from the jailhouse to the Parish Detention Center two days ago. Since then I’ve reconnected with old friends who still have my back. That’s how I ended up with the burner phone currently in my hand. I hold it to my ear, dialing Valez.
“This is Valez,” comes the voice on the other end.
“Damien.” I grit the name between my teeth. “Tell me something good.”
“You’re not rotting in there, Swag,” he replies, annoying the shit out of me. “You’ll be out within forty-eight hours. Tops. They’ve got jack shit to hold you on.”
I exhale, eyes scanning the slow-moving guards and twitchy cellmates nearby. “You’re sure?”
“I’m your attorney, not a psychic. But yeah, I’m sure. That raid? Total procedural mess. The warrant reads like a damn rookie wrote it while half-drunk. And the tip that got them in the door? Anonymous and untraceable. Some might say it’s a work of fiction.”
My jaw tightens. “She was there, Damien. They knew she’d be there.”
“She wasn’t the target, but someone wanted to use her to burn you. You don’t think Langston’s behind this?”
I slam my fist against the concrete, phone cradled tight. “Langston’s been sniffing around since the second she came back. He’s not subtle.”
“Well, I’ve got a PI on his ass now. If he’s got skeletons, we’re gonna dig them up and rattle them loud enough for the judge to hear.”
“Make it fast.” I press a hand to the back of my neck, willing myself to stay grounded. “He was at her apartment. After I got taken. You think he just ran into her?”
“No.” Damien’s voice sharpens. “I think he’s playing dirty. But that’s what I’m here for. You? You focus on keeping your cool.”
“Cool doesn’t suit me.”
“Then fake it. Because you lose it in there, Swag, and you won’t be walking out in two days. You’ll be crawling out a month from now.”
I say nothing. Because he’s right. And that burns worse than any jailhouse food.
Before we hang up, he adds, “And Swag? She hasn’t left Baton Rouge.”
I freeze.
“How do you know?”
“Talon’s got eyes. And ears. And right now, she’s at her apartment. Alone.”
The line clicks dead before I can respond. I sit there with the phone in my hand, staring at nothing, letting the rage simmer just under the surface.
They think this cage has me tamed. But the moment I get out? I'm going to burn the fucking world down to protect what’s mine.
Two days drag by before I’m pulled from my cell to meet with Damien before my court appearance.
A guard opens the door, nods once, and lets in Damien Valez like he’s walking into a damn boardroom instead of a prison.
Three-piece charcoal gray suit, polished shoes, not a wrinkle on him.
He’s the kind of man who makes judges second-guess themselves and prosecutors sweat through depositions.
He takes a seat across from me and sets down a leather folder.
“Swag.”
“Damien.”
He flips the folder open. “The judge scheduled your hearing. It’s happening this afternoon, as I’m sure you guessed. I’ve already filed the motion for dismissal.”
I raise a brow. “You that confident?”
“Confident enough that I’m not wasting time prepping for a bail hearing.”
He pushes a sheet across the table. It’s a copy of the search warrant. I scan the details, the pitiful attempt at legal justification.
“‘Unverified anonymous tip,’” I read out loud. “They really thought that’d stick?”
Damien gives me a pointed look. “They thought they’d get lucky. That they’d roll up, catch you doing something illegal, and bury you under the fallout. But you weren’t even on the floor when it went down, and the only thing they found was a bottle of undocumented tequila and a bad attitude.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “That’s all Pretty Boy.”
“I know, but we’re throwing Wrench under the bus if needed. I’ve already coached him.”
My jaw tightens. “Jo-Leigh?”
“She’s not involved. Her name didn’t appear in a single piece of paperwork, which tells me this was never about her. Just about baiting you.”
“Langston,” I growl.
“Langston,” Damien confirms. “I’m still digging, but if what my PI found holds, he’s got a personal vendetta and a history of stepping over the line.”
My knuckles pop as I curl my hands into fists on the table. “You gonna use it?”
“Only if I have to. The goal is to get you out clean—no drama, no headlines. You want revenge, that comes after the court clears your name.”
I nod once, sharp. “Fine. What do you need from me?”
“Control.” His eyes narrow. “I need you to sit there this afternoon like you’ve got nothing to prove. Let me fight.”
“You’ve seen me in court before.”
“And I’ve also seen you nearly swing on a cop with a smirk. Don’t give them a reason to see you as the villain.”
We wrap the strategy in under thirty minutes. No wasted breath. Damien doesn’t do comfort or pep talks. Just truth, razor sharp and delivered with precision. But before he leaves, he says one thing that lands like a fist to the chest.
“She’s watching, Jackson. Whether she admits it or not.”
I don’t respond. Because I already know. And that’s why I have to walk out of that courtroom like the goddamn king I am.
That afternoon, I’m taken to the courthouse in chains and an orange jumpsuit.
Damien immediately steps in, and I’m allowed to change.
When I enter the courtroom, I cringe. It’s too sterile.
Polished wood, pale walls, the American flag waving judgment from the corner.
It smells like old paper and fear. Not mine, though.
Not today. I’m dressed in a tailored black suit Damien brought.
No chains. No orange jumpsuit. Just me. Presentable.
Calculated. Dangerous, but under control.
Damien stands beside me like he owns the damn bench. When the bailiff announces the judge, we all rise. Judge Barlow. No nonsense. Mid-sixties with sharp eyes that miss nothing. She sits and motions for us all to take our seats.
“State of Louisiana versus Jackson Boseman,” the clerk reads.
I feel it the moment I’m called by name. Not Swag. Not Prez. Just Jackson. Stripped to the bones. I let it sit in my gut for a second, then breathe it out.
Damien steps forward. “Your Honor, we move for an immediate dismissal on the grounds of unlawful entry, lack of probable cause, and harassment based on personal vendetta by Officer Ricky Langston of the Baton Rouge Police Department.”
The courtroom murmurs. The DA stands, trying to hide the tremble in his voice. “Your Honor, the raid was executed based on credible?—”
“The tip was anonymous,” Damien interrupts smoothly. “And the officer who filed the affidavit had a documented history with my client’s past romantic connection. We have affidavits, video surveillance, and multiple witness accounts that place my client away from any illegal activity.”
He slides a manila folder onto the judge’s desk like it’s a loaded gun. Barlow flips through the papers. Her expression hardens.
“Mr. Valez,” she says after a long beat, “you’ve done your homework.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And Mr. Dawson,” she says to the DA, “why wasn’t this information disclosed during pretrial discovery?”
The DA stammers. “I—it was an oversight?—”
“It was a failure of due diligence.” She slams the folder closed. “Motion to dismiss is granted. Mr. Boseman, you’re free to go.”
The gavel cracks once. I rise slowly, dipping my head in thanks to the judge.
Then I make the mistake of glancing across the room.
Langston stands near the exit, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
Watching. Seething. I give him a smile. Small.
Tight. Full of teeth. Because this war isn’t over. Not even close.
But I just won the first round and now it’s time to go get my girl.