16. Strike Two
16
Strike Two
“Real shitty, is how it went.”
Another twenty-four hours had ticked away. My face ached, and my floating ribs were floating more freely than usual, yet the countdown continued. I’d avoided common areas the rest of last night while considering what I would do when Jax and his tagalongs struck again. If he wanted my Hex mark, then he, too, was pressed for time. If he didn’t kill me, the Capitol would, and he could kiss his ticket into the Bloody Hex goodbye.
“Was it that bad?” Donovan frowned from the other side of the visitation barrier.
“Dude pulled a scalpel and threatened to flay me open. It was pretty bad.”
“Is that what happened to your nose?” Donovan asked.
My nose was swollen and stained about five shades of red that spread into purple shadows under both eyes. But getting jumped in the showers was a topic I’d passed over in favor of discussing my run-in with Ripley Vaughn.
“Also, he works in the infirmary, but I don’t think he’s a healer at all.” I rushed ahead, pretending I didn’t hear my brother’s question. “Do you know anything else about him?”
Donovan shook his head. “Not really, no.”
“Well, it’s a nonstarter.” I held the phone gingerly against my swollen cheek. “‘A fool’s errand.’ His words. Did I mention he’s British? Pretentious asshole.”
“Did you give him the necklace?”
A laugh rattled pain through my chest. “Sure did. Didn’t help a bit. Where’d it come from, anyway?”
“Vinton,” Donovan replied. “He’s got a new zombie following him around. I’m not supposed to know about it, but I’ve seen her in the halls. I think it’s hers.”
His face showed a sudden sickly pallor, which I understood. Vinton with a zombie was like one of those creepy kids that tortures animals. Pathological.
“Weird,” I said.
“Yeah.”
Time for a change of subject, and apparently Donovan thought the same because he said, “Nash asked about you.”
“Nosey bastard.” A smile tipped my lips. “Even in prison he wants to be in the middle of my business. Tell him my cellmate’s a fucking colossus, and I’m giving him my body in exchange for protection.”
Donovan recoiled. “Wait, seriously?”
“No, but you should tell him that anyway. It’ll be good for a laugh.”
It might have been funny to me, but my brother remained somber.
I cleared my throat. “How’s the… Capitol work going? How’s the boss handling having his own boss?”
Of all the things I’d missed during my incarceration, hearing the details of Grimm’s days spent kissing Maximus Lyle’s ass was the most regrettable.
Donovan glanced at the guard holding up the wall behind him, then replied in a hushed voice, “He’s gone a lot. I guess it’s good. He says things are on track.”
“Speaking of things being on track…” I cupped a hand over the receiver. “When might I expect a more productive visit? From everybody? Six days till the trial, you know.”
Shadows crossed my brother’s face. “Yeah, I know.”
He looked more composed than he’d been a couple days ago, but only marginally. It occurred to me that, despite his initiation being on hold, other things could be happening outside my notice. Since our parents’ deaths, I’d never been away from my brother this long. When we were kids, I didn’t trust him alone with the other guys. Part of me still didn’t.
“What’s the matter, Donnie?”
“Gr—” He caught himself and scowled. “ He’s obsessed with the Ripley Vaughn thing. Says there won’t be a ‘visit’ at all unless Vaughn’s on board.”
Anger prickled down my arms, drawing my hands into fists. “That’s bullshit. Why does he have anything to do with this? I’m the one with my head on the chopping block.”
Donovan’s features pinched. “I know that, Fitch. I get it, okay?” He looked away, mulling over words before speaking at last. “That’s the deal, though. No Vaughn, no visit.”
“Did they tell you he’s a fucking rat?” I stabbed a finger against the tabletop. “That’s why he’s in here. He tried to roll over on the gang, and it didn’t pan out.”
Because of me. The lynchpin. Was that true?
A heavy breath whooshed through the phone’s earpiece. Donovan slumped in his chair. “No, they didn’t say any of that,” he muttered.
A hand tapped my shoulder. Guard butting in, always at the worst moment. “Outta time, inmate.”
I shrugged him away. “Fuck off.”
Fingers sunk in, tipping my chair onto its back legs so I was looking up at the grizzled guard. “Say that again, and I’ll send your ass back to the infirmary,” he said.
My tongue snaked across my lips. It was bad enough I had to cower like a kicked dog in this place, worse for my brother to see it.
The guard shoved the chair upright where it hit the floor with enough force to rock me forward. My ankle chain rattled.
“Hang it up,” the guard said.
I couldn’t look at Donovan, too focused on keeping my simmering rage from boiling over. The handset dropped onto the table with a clunk, and I stood.
When I turned away, a knock on the Plexiglas prompted me to glance back at my brother. He stood, too, holding his phone and pressing the other hand in a fist against the clear barrier. Tears glistened in his dark eyes.
He was mouthing something inaudible until I snatched up the receiver and put it to my ear.
“Hey, Fitch?” His voice was thick, fighting back a sob.
The guard swiped at the phone, but I sidestepped him. The cord pulled taut.
“You’re gonna be okay, right?” Donovan asked. “You’ll figure this out?”
My stomach flopped like a dying fish.
I locked my gaze on his, then gave a sharp nod. “Yeah. I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
The guard made another grab for the phone, I thought, until he caught a clump of my hair instead. He jerked back, pulling me against his chest and barring his baton across my throat. The phone fell away, swinging near the floor.
More pounding on the glass. I squeezed my eyes closed.
“Talk dirty to me, Daddy,” I growled at the guard.
The baton cracked into my jaw.
Swearing, I raised my hands. Keeping my feet under me proved a struggle with the chair legs tangling in my ankle chain. Not such a problem since the guard was determined to haul me out of there, even if that meant carrying me by the nightstick hooked under my chin.
He waited till we got to the hall outside to let me drop onto the slick, linoleum floor.
I hacked a breath and rolled over to see him standing over me with his baton at the ready. Waiting for an excuse to use it as more than a choke chain.
My teeth clenched. “Real boss energy here. Definitely doesn’t feel like you’re compensating for something.” Angling my eyes toward his crotch, I bounced my brows.
“That’s a strike, inmate,” he replied. “Makes two for you.”
I huffed a breath and worked my way to standing—a challenging task with only a dozen inches of chain linking my ankles.
“What happens on strike three?” I asked once I was upright. “Do I get to go back to the dugout?”
The guard grunted. “Sure. You can warm the bench in solitary, smartass.”
Solitary confinement was a consequence I hadn’t considered, though it seemed obvious now. To avoid it meant keeping my nose clean for six more days, which would have been a lot easier if I wasn’t being blood hunted by Jax and his lackeys.
Don’t worry, I repeated to myself as we began the slow shuffle back to my cell. I thought it again and again, hoping Donovan believed it, and wishing I could.