Chapter Nineteen
Evicted.
We are evicted.
That prick actually kicked us out of our own home; where we’ve lived for the last ten-plus years. The only home we have, mind you!
I’m not sure where the asshole expects us to sleep and store our shit, but I’m assuming it’s one of those, don’t give a fuck not my problem type scenarios.
Months have passed on this island, and they’ve somehow both vanished before our eyes and dragged on and on like a really boring movie with no ending. We’ve adapted to the new normal as best we can, coexisting in a world where we’ve been replaced at jobs where we were basically tenured.
Reduced to grunt work. From top dogs to fucking rodents. And it’s all thanks to him.
It barely seemed feasible that The Ivory would bring in cartel guys to replace us. When it first happened, I held out hope that we could adjust. But things have gotten progressively worse, with no sign of stopping.
And now it’s time for action.
Tonight is the perfect night to break out of this cycle of endless torment we’ve been living in for more weeks than I can even keep track of.
There’s a big storm headed straight for us.
In fact, it’s already started. I can hear the vicious winds and aggressive rain through the shabby concrete walls in the East Wing as I sit cross-legged on the floor of the padded cell, pen and paper in hand.
“And then tell him that I said Happy Thanksgiving, and that I look forward to his stuffing,” Ren snickers. “That’ll make him smile.”
I have to chuckle, while of course giving him a look like he’s deranged. Which he is, so he’s used to it.
Gotta give the guy credit. Weeks upon weeks of being tortured in the East, and yet his only concern is making his boyfriend smile. That’s dedication right there.
Or, ya know… Severely unhealthy codependent obsession.
Same thing.
“Okay, ew,” I grunt, writing his perverted message to Luthor down, because he’s in a straitjacket and can’t write it himself. “How would you know if it’s Thanksgiving, anyway?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he sighs out a tired breath, sounding every bit as run over by a Mack truck as he looks. “It’s Novembuary eighty-ninth to me. Just write.”
“You got it, Prince Eric,” I hum, using humor as a defense mechanism in the same general way he is. To keep myself from crashing down into a mile-deep hole of depression. “What else?”
“I don’t know,” he breathes, too tired to even keep his head up anymore. He sinks onto the floor on his side. “Just tell him you’ve been watching out for me. Say some positive shit… Even if it’s not true. I don’t want him to worry.”
I stare at him, gulping. “Will do.”
“Thanks, kween… slay.”
God, he can barely even pop off.
I feel awful. Ren’s been getting it hard, for no real reason other than that the Warden’s always sorta had it out for him. I’m not crystal clear on why…
I know Ren burned down one of The Ivory’s businesses. I also know this isn’t the first time he’s had the doctors go in on Ren with full force down here.
In the past he’s taken it without batting a masochistic whacko eye, but this time is different.
He and Luthor are together, for real this time.
It’s deeper than whatever reluctant hookup games they were playing in the past, that much is clear to all of us.
I mean, 48 hasn’t so much as brushed up on any of the guards or prisoners since the prison went into lockdown, so it’s been a while.
That must be some sort of record for him.
If it’s a sign of faithfulness to show his love and devotion to Lex Luthor Deon, it’s definitely working. But it doesn’t much matter when they’ve been separated yet again by The Ivory—aka Mr. Ruins Relationships Like It’s An Olympic Sport.
This time, though, I think it’ll take more than a separation to break them up.
But I don’t have time to worry about prisoner dating problems right now. There’s a plan in the works, and I have to get this note up to Luthor before I run out of time.
Rustling his messy dark hair, I stand up with a sigh. “Alright, kid. I’ll make sure baby daddy gets this.”
“Much obliged,” he yawns. “Oh, wait. Do you know if Velle got that stuff for me? My supplies?”
“I’ll double-check, but I know he said he was stashing it in Felix’s room tonight.”
“Sweet.”
Giving him one last lingering look of empathy, I murmur, “Hang in there, 48.”
He simply nods, eyes closed like he’s falling asleep before I’m even out of the cell.
I do feel bad. Of course I do, I’m not a complete hunk of stone. Regardless of how much I’d tried to shove away feelings in the past, falling in love really has a way of just filling you with mush.
It’s gross, and stupid, but also kind of fascinating.
The thing is, though, it’s not that I necessarily feel bad for Ren out of human compassion. I sincerely care about the kid. Despite his many, many issues, he’s a good dude, and Luthor really brings out the loyalty in him.
More than just falling in love, I think it took joining forces in mutual disdain for a common enemy to bring us all together.
Us versus them no longer means us guards versus them prisoners. It means us versus him.
All of us, versus The Ivory and anyone who makes him up.
Alright, I’m getting riled up. Let’s do this.
The plan is going to be tricky. It’s a bold move, but honestly, we’re out of options, and even more out of time. We can’t wait any longer.
It’s happening tonight.
Good luck, Ivory. You’re gonna need it.
Making my way back up to gen-pop, I’m bustling. I’m nervous, but determined. Scared, but the adrenaline that comes from fear is driving me to work on instinct. I imagine this is how it feels to go to war, or to be on a SWAT team responding to a crisis.
Not many of us are actually trained soldiers. I know I’m not—neither is Velle. Peters is a Marine, and Linetti was in the Army during the Iraq war. Then there are the actual cops—Rook, Jasper, and Lucas.
The rest of us are self-taught, meaning we’ve had to lean on those with formal training a lot over the last few weeks.
Mainly Peters and Rook, since Linetti is a bit of a hot mess, Lucas did nothing but get himself into trouble as a cop, and Jasper…
Bless his heart, but I barely trust him with a Starbucks order, let alone teaching combat training or infantry.
But Peters and Rook are born leaders, so they’ve taken the lead. Still, they both have a tendency to look to Velle for approval in most things, which is wild since he’s literally a bouncer from Staten Island.
Velle has a love-hate relationship with being in charge.
He loves it ninety-nine percent of the time.
But that remaining one percent is where Rook and I come in.
We’re his partners in all things, now more than ever.
Helping carry his burden, while taking orders without argument and stepping in when he needs us.
Our team as a whole has gotten so used to running things over the last ten years, being relieved of our duties was an adjustment for sure. No more herding inmates to and fro. No more posting up outside the showers or the caf. No more breaking up fights and dragging sorry bastards to the hole.
Out of nowhere, we’d been demoted.
So instead, we’ve spent our time mulling around the East Wing and solitary. Mostly bringing food to inmates, bringing them for showers down there. We were also suddenly expected to handle deliveries and help the goddamn cleaning crew.
It was ridiculous. Ten years on this island, and we’d become janitors and fucking couriers. Very much intentional.
Any time we’d even cross paths with the Warden’s new team, it turned into a pissing contest between us and them. With me in the freaking middle, like I even give a shit about all this testosterone-fueled nonsense.
I swear, they would’ve started peeing all over the place if we weren’t the ones who’d be cleaning it up.
Territory means much less to me than mind games, and at the end of the day, that’s what this is. A show of control from the one person I would definitely pee on, if I wasn’t concerned that he might like it.
Anyway, there has been a plus side to the shift in responsibilities. It’s allowed us more time to dedicate to our plan, and keeping away from general population has given us an excuse to be conveniently absent when we need to be.
I’m sure The Ivory has figured this out. When he brought his troop in, he also stationed them in the control rooms, meaning he’s definitely keeping a closer eye on things. To be fair, he’s always monitored our every move. Now, it’s just a lot more threatening.
Like when Rook, Velle and I meet up in a quiet corridor and, out of nowhere, one of those big douchebags comes patrolling.
Because of this, we’ve made it a habit never to stay in one spot for more than a few minutes. We’ve been using our signals and codes more often, and overall, we’re being careful.
But that doesn’t mean it isn’t still highly satisfying to mess with them on occasion.
Like when I casually stroll into the caf while Equino, Pedroia, and Cruz are monitoring dinner to covertly deliver Luthor his note from Ren.
The way they glare at me is almost as satisfying as knowing they have no clue about the note.
I’ve gotten good at these secret and silent passes of conversation—necessary when the assholes have instituted a no-talking order. It’s fucking asinine. Just one of many blatant shows of power they’ve implemented since their takeover.
I’m not saying we didn’t do fucked up shit to the inmates over the years ourselves. We definitely did. But not allowing the prisoners to speak seems excessive as fuck.
The storm is really raging outside. And inside this prison, things are getting weird.
I run into Byron in the halls of the East, uncuffed and just roaming around with Trevel Fenwick—the newest addition to Manuel Blanco’s prisoner collection. Kang and I exchange words, and I come away from it feeling frayed.
Physically, I’m strong. Ready.
But on the inside, there’s a storm.