The Care of Broken Things (Breaking Free #1)

Chapter One

Rat’s Report

Samuel was re-reading Crime and Punishment.

He didn’t like it much, but there weren’t many options.

The “library” was a few plywood shelves in a displaced office that smelled like mold no matter what he did to clean it.

Most of the books were how-to manuals or severely outdated mysteries.

Still, he liked the library. It was quiet and let him get some writing done.

The problem with being “librarian” (a self-appointed position) was that anyone could come by to bother him the way Rat was doing.

“Either tell me or don’t.” He’d said that at least a hundred times over the last five years. “I’m not going to guess.” He hated guessing games. Certainty, in his experience, was better than surprise.

“Just dropped off a hottie. We’re talking prime beef here. I thought I’d give you a heads up so you can be first in line.”

“No thanks." It was what he always said.

He found the concept of romance in general a waste of time.

But between two prisoners? It was just a form of pretend built on loneliness and desperation, and he hated it—the drama, the inevitable falling-out, and the happiness so paper thin you could smell the fear through it.

“I’m not trying to set you up. I gave up on that a long time ago. But you’re going to want to take a look at this one.”

Samuel turned the page. Rat hated when he pretended to ignore him. The man threw up his hands. “Fine, but I’ll bet you my crossword you lose your mind the second you clap your eyes on this guy.”

He looked up. “The new one?”

Rat drove the prison van, and people were always leaving the paper in it.

With at least a decade left on both of their sentences, neither Rat nor Samuel had much use for the news, but they both enjoyed the crossword, especially the Times crossword, and the warden gave it to Rat every Sunday.

She’d probably have given it to Samuel instead if he’d asked for it, but his complicated relationship with Warden Cruces meant he’d rather pull out his own toenails than ask her a favor.

“Yup, haven’t even looked at it yet.”

Samuel set down his book. “And if you win?”

“Just the sweet, sweet pleasure of ‘I told you so.’”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, an obnoxious habit he was getting too old for. “Where is he?”

“Still in the office. But you’d better hurry. Hottie’s sure to get out any second, and front-row seats are filling up quick.”

But he didn’t hurry, taking the time to wipe down some shelves first. Rat was bouncing from foot to foot by then, but that nervous rodent-like energy wasn’t the reason for his name.

He’d been on a stint as a drug-carrying mule when a “friend” had ratted him out to authorities.

The nickname made him sound more like perpetrator than victim though.

Maybe that was why Rat was so vehement about telling the truth—a trait Samuel appreciated.

He had more than a little obstinate honesty in himself.

Even as they arrived at the office, Samuel wasn’t thinking about the prisoner, already looking forward to a quiet session in the yard with the crossword—just what he needed to make up for the commissary running out of peanut butter.

Unexplained dry runs happened all the time, and Frank, the commissary guy, never had explanations.

Luckily, Samuel still had a couple of jars tucked away in his little pantry, though it was heavily rationed.

He was trying to calculate just how many spoonfuls he could have a day (out of jars that contained twenty-six servings) when every thought dropped out of his head.

“Afternoon,” the new god of his life said.

He was taller than Samuel, already a rarity, and black as the cocoa nibs Jenny sometimes sent in his care packages. He was also extraordinarily, impossibly beautiful.

“If you’ve come to show him around, forget it,” said CO Mathews.

His doughy body was partially blocking the prison god, something Samuel was both thankful for and annoyed at.

The correctional officer was rooting through his ring of keys with the standard inefficiency of most prison staff.

He passed the right key twice before stopping to put it into the gate.

“Warden gave me strict orders to settle him myself. You pack of animals will tear him apart as soon as my back is turned, that’s for sure. ”

For once, the man was right. There was no way the prison could accommodate such a man.

The six months Samuel had added to his own sentence was evidence of that.

He’d bashed in every face that had so much as glanced at him until the whole prison (including its staff) had learned he was one piece of ass that wasn’t worth the price.

And this new guy was even prettier than he was.

He even smelled amazing, like coffee and coconut and freshly cleaned laundry.

He kept his hands firmly planted against the bare concrete .

“Wow.” Rat’s voice was too sudden in the wake of the prison god’s presence. “I’m not sure I even want to say I told you so. Are you going to be okay?”

He barely heard him, his eyes pinned to the newcomer’s back. Orange was a hideous color. He’d always thought so, but it had no power over the prison god. The man’s skin was so dark and lush—almost glowing —that it warmed the light wherever it touched him.

“To be honest, I wasn’t expecting this much. A laugh, maybe.”

“Shut up.”

He spoke without quite meaning to. His thoughts, his heart, everything was racing. It was horrifically unpleasant, and still he found himself trailing after CO Mathews in time to see the newcomer’s reception.

The cafeteria wasn’t just a cafeteria. When meals weren't given, it also doubled as the rec hall, so he both heard and felt that wall of sound as he approached.

But as the prison god stepped into its harsh fluorescent lighting, it was like a blanket settled itself over the general noise, muffling—nearly silencing it.

The difference was so stark that even Mathews, who had seen everything in his 17 years as a correctional officer, was unnerved.

Only the prison god was unfazed. He raised a hand toward the general assembly and spoke.

“Pleasure to meet you all. I’m Eli Thompson.”

Samuel didn’t attach meaning to the words, too busy with that voice.

It was deep, as befitting a man of that size, but it had none of the roughness Tank’s voice had.

This was rich and rhythmic. A bit like the operas Jenny liked to listen to.

He'd never understood why before; now he did.

Eli's voice sank into his skin and dissolved in his blood to spread all through him, stirring things up everywhere it passed.

Thankfully, he wasn't aware of those changes, or his terror might really have turned him to stone.

No, he was only thinking it was a good time to go sneaking off back to the library when Mathews snapped, “Fuller! Get this man his gift basket.”

The gift basket was just the shitty collection of items given to new prisoners.

A garbage toothbrush, some no-name toiletries, and a pair of plastic shower slippers.

In general, he didn’t like running errands, but worse was that it meant walking past Eli again.

Don’t look at him , he warned himself. Keep your eyes down.

If he’d been any more in control, he would have been less horrified and more curious about his own reaction, but he was so embarrassed and so afraid he could do nothing but flee.

He didn’t even remember fetching the gift basket.

It was just suddenly there in his hands, and the thing was worse than he remembered.

The toothbrush was one of those garbage motel ones, and the slippers were just a sheet of plastic with a band across them.

Then there was the shampoo—if that's even what it was. He popped the cap off the top, and the smell of industrial chemicals practically melted his nose hairs. He couldn’t hand that shit over.

Just the thought of Eli putting such harsh chemicals on that fairy-tale skin had him shuddering.

He went right to Frank, who was happy to see him, though only because he was one of the only customers to tip the man when he picked up his orders.

“Hey, Fuller. Forget something in your order?”

My damn Skippy’s , he wanted to say. “I was an idiot who left his kit in the showers, so I need a replacement.”

“I’m surprised anyone’s stupid enough to rob you.”

“Probably didn’t know it was mine.”

“Doubt it. You’re one of the high rollers here, and that OCD of yours is easy to spot.”

He didn’t know when basic neatness had become a sign of pathology. “Just give me another set. ”

In addition to the basics, he chose some other things.

Eli had a shaved head. He didn’t know if the man meant to keep it that way, but he'd find it difficult if he did. Razors were loaned out at timed intervals, but too infrequently to be convenient to take advantage of. Electric razors were predominant— for those who could afford them, anyway. He put one into Eli’s kit.

He also bought whatever vitamins were in stock, basic medical supplies, some essential clothing items (socks, underwear, undershirts) some of the better commissary snacks, and, of course, toilet paper.

He had to get another bag to fit all the stuff inside—a sign he’d gone overboard.

Would the man notice? It could take a while to get a new commissary account up and running, and he didn’t know the state of Eli’s finances.

The stuff in commissary was not offered at discount prices.