Epilogue
Lance
The guy standing in front of me runs his fingers through his shaggy hair.
It parts to the side and falls away from his face.
He’s really pretty. The movement makes his muscles flex and twist in a way that could make most of the men in this prison start to drool.
My eyes follow the movement instinctively, boredly, before snapping back to his.
They’re blue, like the ocean. Like the sky. Like mine. Not brown.
Not his.
I shift on my feet as I try to discreetly glance up at the camera in the corner of the room. It doesn’t matter how hard I try not to be obvious about it, because the people I talk to are always oblivious to where my attention is, and him? He always notices.
I smile at all the right times, chuckle when it’s necessary, and pretend to be intrigued.
All while making it really damn convincing.
He believes it. They believe it. Hell, sometimes I could even believe it.
It’s just one of the countless things that my brother and I spent the entirety of our childhood being trained to do until it became second nature.
Read the room, command the space, and set the tone.
Be noticeable, confident, and present, but not enough to garner undesired attention.
You want people to be drawn to you, but as the son of one of the most influential billionaires of this time period, I’m never to be the center of attention. Ever.
I continue to play the role I was given to a fault, as if they intended for my face to see the light of day. None of that matters, though. I’m still the monster they made me into.
The ever-changing opportunist.
The chameleon.
My eyes are trained on the floor, counting blemishes in the concrete to entertain myself while… Creigh? Craig? Colt? I don’t fucking remember. That’s not important. He’s fucking talking. A lot.
I prop myself against the wall as I hum along to the conversation mindlessly. Then… it happens. He provides me with the perfect opportunity. He spits out some lame joke that I would never actually laugh at, but it’s precisely the opening I need.
Without missing a beat, I reach out to palm at him playfully as I bend over in laughter.
When I pull back, I tug the barbell in my tongue between my teeth to combat the smug smirk that I can feel tugging up the corner of my lips.
I glance at the man in front of me, giving him the best smolder I can muster, before cutting my eyes over to the camera in anticipation.
I settle myself back against the wall as I tuck my hands into my pockets, my fingers tracing along the edges of my phone impatiently.
I wait five seconds.
Ten.
Fifteen.
My eyes find the clock on the wall behind what’s-his-name, and I watch as another twenty seconds tick by unceremoniously.
My phone doesn’t vibrate against my thigh.
It doesn’t start blaring that ridiculous ringtone to interrupt this useless conversation.
There’s just silence. Well… except this guy’s nonstop talking.
Why isn’t he calling?
The guy mentions board games, and I immediately perk up. Finally. Something interesting to talk about. “I do love a good board game,” I add enthusiastically. “I haven’t played any since I was a kid, though.”
“Really?” He asks, both his voice and face laced with confusion.
I get it. In fact, I get it often. There are tons of people here with a past like mine.
The whole ‘woe-is-me. I was treated like shit.’ backstory.
It’s not like it’s uncommon in a place like this, but there are still plenty of people here that had decently normal upbringings.
Not being able to play board games unless we were hiding somewhere isn’t exactly a billboard worthy parenting hack or anything.
However, what it tells me is that this guy isn’t worth my time.
If his level of concern is this high over a childhood lacking in board games, I can only imagine how he’d feel if he found out what my childhood was actually like. No thanks.
“You should join us sometime. We play every Friday night,” he offers enthusiastically.
He pauses, and it takes me a few seconds to realize that he’s waiting on me to reply. Honestly, I haven’t the faintest idea what to say. Could I use friends? Sure. Do I want him to be said friend? Not really. Not even a little bit.
I give him a reassuring smile as I dig my phone from my pocket and pull up my calendar.
Aside from my new work schedule, there’s absolutely nothing on it, but I already knew that.
Jett and Ollivander are the only people I’m close to, and now that Jett and I have been assigned opposite shifts from one another, the time we can spend together is sparse.
Or completely nonexistent, really. Ollivander… Well, when is he not working?
I scan over the dates in my calendar, pretending to look for an opening that I can offer the guy in front of me.
Within seconds my phone starts to ring in my palm, immediately causing relief to flood through my veins.
I glance up at the guy in front of me as I take a few steps back, gesturing to let him know that I have to take the call.
“Roman…” I answer with the edge of annoyance that drives him insane.
“Tell him bye, Lance.” He demands.
“I really thought that I was going to get away with it this time.” I feign a pout as I pace around beneath the camera. I know he’s watching me. I can feel it. I always can.
“Mmmm…” he hums thoughtfully. “Do you want me to let you get away with it? Just this once?”
No.
I glance over at the guy, my eyes devouring every inch of him theatrically, as if I’m debating whether or not he’s worth this one chance at freedom before I start pacing again.
He smirks back at me mischievously. I can’t even lie…
the guy is fucking gorgeous. He has this perfect silky black hair that draws attention to his ocean blue eyes.
His smile is magnetic, but there’s almost this devious undertone that makes him far more enticing than he has any right to be.
He isn’t really my type, but maybe if I weren’t hopelessly caught up on someone else, I’d go there. Just for a night.
“Yeah…” I lie. “That’d be fucking nice.” I hiss through the phone. It may not be the full truth, but it isn’t exactly a lie either. I wish that I wasn’t so hung up on Roman that I could feel something, anything, for the guy in front of me. Or anyone other than him, honestly.
He’s quiet for a moment. His heavy breaths coming through the phone faster and faster as the seconds tick by. I can practically hear him working himself up. He’s easily the loudest thinker I’ve ever met.
“Too fucking bad,” he growls back at me. “Tell him bye.”
“And if I don’t?” I argue. Not because I actually want to go out with the guy, or even because I really care.
At this point, I would take practically any out I was offered to remove myself from the conversation I was stuck in with the dude, but I’ve come to enjoy the push and pull that I have with Roman.
He pushes every button I have, then I pull him closer before walking away, leaving him in my orbit. It’s the only way to keep him close.
I’m not entirely stupid. I know he isn’t really interested in me.
Have you seen the motherfucker? He’s pure perfection from head to toe.
He could have anyone he wanted. I just got lucky that he made the mistake of giving me a single second of his attention.
Due to all the social etiquette and charisma training I went through, a single second is all I ever need to trap someone on my hook.
I’m dreading the day he finally gets bored of me, but until then… I play.
“Then I guess you’ll be giving up your meal for winning that bet, hmm?”
A growl bubbles up from my chest as my hackles rise.
It’s an irrational reaction, and I’m aware of that, but there’s nothing I hate more than losing a bet to someone.
The knowledge that I won that bet against Roman, who has access to information about every damn person in this prison, that’s a trophy in its own right.
Having him serve me food is not only the icing on the metaphorical cake, it’s the actual trophy.
He knows how competitive I am with bets though, and he’s using that to his advantage.
“You wouldn’t,” I hiss back at him in disbelief. “I won that shit fair and square.”
Let’s get something straight here… if I didn’t get food from Roman, it wouldn’t be a big loss.
In fact, it wouldn’t be a loss at all. Food is free.
Everything is free. There is no currency exchange here, so it’s not like he’s actually giving me anything that I couldn’t get on my own.
We can eat anything we want, anytime we want.
At most, he’s going to walk down to the shop, order some food, and stand there for all of ten minutes before he walks back to his apartment with the prepared meals in tow.
To me though, it’d be a loss. A big loss.
It’d be a white flag. A submission. I would be giving into to him, letting him off my hook, and that— No.
I’m just not done with Roman yet. I don’t know if I ever will be.
“In that case, you’re going to tell your friend goodbye. Then you’re gonna go home, change clothes, and be at my apartment in two hours for lunch.”