Chapter 5 – KADE
KADE
Age Fifteen
The concrete burns under my legs even through my juvie-issued khakis, but I've claimed this particular corner of the yard as mine, so here I fucking sit.
Four months in this shithole and I own more real estate than I ever did on the outside. Funny how incarceration works—lock up a bunch of feral kids and watch them recreate the same hierarchies they had on the streets, just with uglier uniforms.
Tank lounges against the fence beside me, all six-foot-whatever of him casting enough shade that the smaller kids gravitate toward us like moths to a really intimidating flame.
Not much to do in this place except scheme and lift weights, and one look at my brother is enough to tell which one's his favorite pastime and which one's mine.
I've bulked up, too, but Tank is… well, a fucking tank. Even more than usual. He's got his arms crossed, bandana pulled up over his lower face despite the heat, watching our little empire with those dark eyes that miss nothing.
Even the guards give him a wide berth. Especially after that bitch ass guard with the mullet caught a glimpse of what's under the bandana.
After that, we started getting special treatment.
Guess he figured a guy who'd survived that wasn't to be fucked with, even with a baton and a taser strapped to his side.
Same stupid story with my aunt and uncle, which is why they were clinging to each other with fucking relief while they watched Tank getting loaded into the back of a cop car like a rabid dog.
My aunt was always scared shitless she'd see Tank's face again.
Wouldn't even let him eat at the table with us, not that he would have even wanted to anyway.
They'd send him away for good without thinking twice if it weren't for the fat wad of cash the state gives them for taking care of a "problem" foster kid.
Joke's on them, though. Tank's not the problem.
I'm the problem.
"Yo, Kade." Jake shuffles over, one of the newer fish who figured out real quick that aligning with us meant not getting his skull caved in during yard time. Kid's the same age as me, but skinny as fuck, with nervous energy that reminds me of a chihuahua on meth. "Got that thing you wanted."
He slips me a small baggie, and I pocket it without looking. The guards here are about as observant as Jinx's mom after a bender, but there's no point in being sloppy. Business is business, and business has been booming lately.
Tank's eyes narrow at me. I know that look. It's his you're being a fucking idiot look, which he perfected around age eleven and has been using on me ever since.
"What?" I lean back, spreading my arms across the fence like I own the place. Which I absolutely fucking do. "Don't give me that look."
He signs something that roughly translates to, You're going to get more time.
"Please. Officer Casto practically handed me his supplier's number.
These assholes are more corrupt than we are.
" I pull out a crumpled twenty from another pocket, courtesy of Jimmy Two-Teeth, who needed protection from the Southside crew.
"Besides, I'm just the middleman. Supply and demand, brother. "
Tank's disapproval is as glaring as a neon sign. For a guy who can't talk, he's loud as fuck when he wants to be.
And judgmental.
"Look," I say, pocketing the cash, "I buy from the guards at wholesale, mark it up twenty percent, everybody's happy. It's called capitalism. American pie and all that jazz."
He signs bullshit with enough force I'm surprised his fingers don't snap off.
"Oh, come on. Don't be such a fucking boy scout." I grin at him. "Think of it this way—with your cut, you can buy Ellie something pretty when we get out next month. You know how she loves sparkly shit."
Tank goes still, then looks away and folds his arms over his chest. That's his version of slamming a door in my face, the passive-aggressive giant.
The truth is, I think about Ellie constantly too. Four months without seeing her feels like four years. Getting a month off our sentences was practically a miracle, but it's nowhere near enough.
I wonder if she's opened those birthday presents yet, or if she meant what she said in her letters about waiting until we're back.
Knowing her stubborn ass, they're probably still sitting on her desk in that obnoxiously pink room of hers, collecting dust while she counts down the days like some tragic heroine in those old movies she makes us watch when it's her turn to pick.
Jinx actually likes that shit. And Tank doesn't ever fall asleep or try to sneak on his phone like me and Cy, but it's hard to tell if that's because he gives a shit about the movie or just because he knows she likes it.
It's pathetic how the four of us orbit around her like she's the fucking sun. I knew the moment Tank brought her home, she'd change the dynamics of the group forever.
Just didn't realize I'd be jockeying with him for the role of biggest simp.
"You think she's opened them yet?" I ask Tank, even though I know he won't answer when he's in a mood. "The presents?"
He shrugs, still not looking at me.
"Bet you five commissary pudding cups she hasn't. Girl's more stubborn than both of us combined, and that's saying something considering you once went three days without eating because Uncle Dickhead forgot to buy groceries while me and Aunt Cathy were gone and you didn't want to ask."
That gets me a look. Not a good one, but at least he's engaging again.
Here's the thing that's been eating at me, the thought that keeps me up at night in my shitty bunk while listening to my roommate snore like a fucking chainsaw.
What if Ellie's moved on?
She's pretty. Always has been, but now? Now she's the kind of pretty that has me splitting lips when guys at school look too long.
A few teachers, too, which means I've gotta get more creative with my arson threats.
The fact that I'm in here, where I can't shield her from all the male attention she's completely fucking oblivious to and have to rely on that flimsy nerd and a guy who's practically a girl if you squint, drives me out of my skull on a daily basis.
"What if she finds some rich asshole?" The words tumble out before I can stop them. "What if while we're locked up in here playing gangster, she meets some trust-fund dickhead who can actually take her places that aren't the fucking creek?"
Tank's hands move sharp and fast as he signs the same line. Bullshit.
"Be realistic," I snap back. "Even if she didn't find anyone over the summer—and let's face it, Cy and Jinx are too chickenshit to properly beat the vultures away from her—she's gonna get more attention every year.
Best case scenario?" I laugh, the sound bitter.
"She picks one of us and we go full Beatles.
Splitsville. Worst case scenario? She ends up with some polo-wearing fuckboy who can give her everything she deserves. "
Tank's whole body goes rigid, and I can practically feel the rage in his veins. His hands clench into fists, and for a second I think he might actually hit me.
"My thoughts exactly," I mutter, kicking at a loose piece of concrete. "Makes you want to burn the whole fucking world down, doesn't it?"
His hands move again, slower this time. Ellie isn't like that.
"Yeah, for now." The words taste like shit. "But you think she's gonna be content playing trailer park princess forever? Living in that shithole, hanging out in our rusty RV, swimming in a creek that's probably sixty percent sewage runoff?"
Tank's glare could melt steel, but I keep going because apparently I've got a death wish today.
"Why do you think I'm so fucking obsessed with getting out of the park?
" I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "A girl like that deserves better than what we can give her right now.
Nice things, nice life, the whole fucking American dream package.
And there's gonna be no shortage of assholes lining up to provide it. "
The silence stretches between us, heavy as the humidity that makes everything in this place smell like shit. Tank's not looking at me, but I can see the wheels turning behind those dark eyes.
"If I have to lose her to anyone," I say quietly, words meant just for him, "I'd rather it be one of you. At least then she stays in the family, you know?"
Tank doesn't respond. His hands stay still at his sides, and something about the set of his shoulders makes me pause.
"What?"
He shakes his head. Nothing.
"Bullshit. Spit it out."
A long pause. Then his hands move, jerky and reluctant, like the signs are being dragged out of him.
Wouldn't be me anyway.
"Why the hell not?"
He just looks at me. Then his fingers brush the edge of his bandana, barely a touch, and I get it. The thing he never talks about. The thing he thinks makes him a monster.
"Tank—"
She deserves better. His hands cut me off, sharp and final. I just want her safe. Happy. That's enough.
"Then let's fucking do it." I sit up straighter and roll my shoulders, energy crackling through me like I've touched a live wire. "We make a pact. Right here, right now."
Tank raises an eyebrow skeptically.
"I'm serious. We get out of this place, then we get out of the park.
All of us. We become somebody—real somebodies, not just trailer park shitbags playing pretend.
" I look him dead in the eye. "And whoever Ellie chooses, if she chooses any of us, so be it.
No hard feelings, no Beatles breakup bullshit. We stay brothers."
Tank considers this, his face unreadable behind that bandana. Then, finally, he nods.
"Shake on it," I say, holding out my hand.
He signs, Really?
"What, we're too old for secret handshakes now? Even fucking politicians have secret handshakes. Skull and Bones and shit. Stop being such a hipster and shake my damn hand."
Tank rolls his eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out of his skull, but he takes my hand. We do the elaborate shake we made up when we were kids—the one with the fist bump and finger snap that Cyrus always said looked like we were having synchronized seizures.
"There," I say, grinning. "It's official. We're gonna get out of here, make something of ourselves, and give our girl the life she deserves. Even if that means she picks one of us eventually."
Tank's eyes crinkle at the corners, his version of a smile.
The yard around us continues its usual chaos.
Kids playing basketball with a half-deflated ball, others huddled in corners making deals or planning fights, guards pretending to give a shit while actually scrolling through their phones.
But for a moment, sitting here with my brother in this concrete cage, I feel a tiny twinge of hope.
Because we may be locked in a cage, but we're still kings. And when we get out, we're gonna make sure our princess never has to settle for anything less than a proper throne.