Auctioned to the Prisoners (Auctioned #4)

16

LORY

CRIMINAL CONFESSIONS

I've watched enough true crime documentaries to know that there's a weird psychological condition that occurs when people are held in isolation in close confines, especially when they're reliant on their captors. So, as I sit in Hyde's lap and he feeds me bites of prison food, kissing me in between mouthfuls, and my heart flutters and warms, I question myself. When Rock gently cleanses me between my legs with a rough prison towel, then kisses me on the inside of my thighs, and my stomach soars with butterflies, I don't allow myself to revel in the sensation. And when Kinkaid plays with my hair, brushing through the strands with his fingers to tease out the tangles their frantic sex-play has caused, and I'm taken over by shivers, I convince myself that it's nothing.

We're trapped together, ticking off days, while the world spins outside, and we get lost in each other's bodies and minds.

They're as tender with me as they are passionate. Since the last time Grady visited, they've avoided mentioning my sister, but I catch them looking at me out of the corner of their eyes with concern lining their faces. I notice their carefulness when they touch me as they give me a chance to say that I'm not in the mood. They don't understand that getting lost in what we do with each other is the only thing keeping me sane.

Or maybe they do.

Maybe that's why it feels like we're clinging to each other while the boat goes down.

Tonight, Rock dragged all the mattresses onto the floor in the main room, placing them into a square. We're lying with our heads almost touching in a kind of star shape, staring at the cracked ceiling above as the moonlight pokes narrow fingers through the barely-there windows and a sickly yellow glow leeches in from the corridor.

We're getting to the end of our supplies, and Grady hasn't reappeared. None of us have mentioned it, but it's on all our minds. Rock's belly rumbles because he ate half the portion he usually consumes to ensure there's enough bread left for the morning. All the men have been slowly rationing their meals while still giving me an overspilling plate. They think I haven't noticed, but I have. I’ve been eating less, then patting my belly, pretending I’m full, and walking away from my leftovers, which don't get wasted.

We try to care for each other without mentioning it.

“If you could have any meal, what would it be?” I ask, thinking about sticky BBQ ribs and creamy mac 'n' cheese. My mouth waters.

“This isn't a last-meal scenario, is it?” Hyde asks dryly, “because that shit is a little too close to home.”

“Nah,” I say, reaching out to lace my fingers through his. “Not a last meal. A favorite meal. Like, if we were on the outside, what would you want me to cook for your birthday?”

He turns to me, his green eyes intense even in the low light. I've gotten used to the ferocity of his expressions, the way he wears all his emotions on the outside like a color-changing coat. “You'd cook me something for my birthday?”

“Sure.” This is imaginary land, but I have a clear picture of what it could be like. A big rustic wooden table big enough for the four of us in the house me and Hyde created in our fantasies. A birthday cake in the center, although I'm not sure what kind these men would prefer. I could wear an apron, like the ones women wear in homely movies where loving wives and mothers are doted on by their strait-laced, reliable husbands.

I've only ever seen that shit on TV.

“Steak and mashed potatoes,” he says quickly.

I smile. “What about the cake?”

He thinks for a moment. “I used to walk past this bakery when I was a kid. They had cakes in the windows… all kinds. Pink ones for girls and blue ones for boys. They had superhero cakes, big chocolate ones with dripping edges, and grated chocolate toppings.”

“Sounds delicious,” I say as his gaze turns misty in the memory. “Which would you choose?”

“You good at baking?” Rock asks, hopefully.

“My nana taught me a lot,” I say. “I make bread and biscuits and cookies and brownies.”

“You do?” Hyde seems overwhelmed by the thought of home-baked goods like this fantasy is invading a part of him he suppressed thinking about a long time ago. “I wanted a Spiderman cake,” His voice trails off wistfully, and a knot twists in my throat.

“Me, too,” Kinkaid admits.

“Spiderman's okay,” Rock mutters. “But Batman kicks ass.”

“So, two Spiderman cakes and one Batman cake.” I grin that these three hardened criminals are about to argue over which superhero is best. “What about your birthday meals?” I twist to find Kinkaid staring at the ceiling. I touch his fingers, and he turns, setting me alight with his eyes caught between sapphire and glinting steel in the darkness.

“Steak and fries with buttered corn and broccoli,” he says.

“What is it about men and steaks?”

He smiles fleetingly. “It's the caveman trapped within.”

“My caveman isn't that trapped,” Hyde admits.

“Mine neither.”

I twist to look back at Rock, who's behind me. “So, what am I cooking you?”

“Ribs,” he says, licking his lips hungrily. “Ribs dripping with sticky BBQ sauce, with them skinny, crispy French fries and onion rings, and a big ol' salad.”

“Salad? That's what your caveman is calling for?”

“He's equal opportunities when it comes to vegetables.”

I laugh, as my initial fantasy is now colored with their ideas. Three meals, three cakes, three happy, relaxed faces. My mind twists out of reality and into a Stepford Wife fantasy so easily.

Stupid woman.

I barely cook for myself these days, let alone for anyone else. But I'd like to try, I guess. Maybe I'd be one of those women whose house is always filled with the scent of delicious food. People down the street would remember the dishes I made for potlucks.

My family never got invited to anything like that, but my nana could cook well. I could try to make her proud.

Somewhere in the prison, noise erupts again. It happens regularly, but even though I've been here for a while now, I still haven't found a way to tune it out. Every time it happens, I flinch, reminded of where I am. It sounds stupid, but this unit we're locked in has stopped closing in around me like a place of captivity. I've stopped thinking about the auction. I've stopped worrying about my safety. Most of the time, it’s like I'm hanging out with friends. Friends with a lot of benefits.

Kinkaid, Rock, and Hyde spoil me in such sweet ways that fill me with feathery feelings I can’t suppress. We haven't known each other for long, but intense, around-the-clock contact has pushed us into close connections that none of us can avoid.

“Stupid fuckers.” Hyde makes a tutting, disapproving noise. “Like wasting all that energy is going to get them anywhere.”

“It's never about getting anywhere,” Rock reminds him. “It's like a pressure valve. Every so often, they release some steam.”

“They're just going to end up getting more time added to their sentences,” Kinkaid says.

“Thank fuck, there's no risk of that while we're down here.” Hyde shifts onto his side, and I glance at his bare chest, which is all ripped and inked. I've never craved to lick a man before I got locked in here, but now, just the sight of his warm, smooth skin makes my mouth fill with saliva. He rubs his abs absentmindedly, and my fingers itch to trace the happy trail leading down but I restrain myself. If I touch him that way, it’ll be the end of this conversation.

“Unless we get caught,” Kinkaid reminds him.

Like confetti scattered after a wedding, all my na?ve, wishful thoughts are swept away. I’ve never asked these men why they’re in prison or how long they’ll be here. At first, it seemed too personal, like prying could spark something I wasn’t ready to face. But now, the truth feels even more dangerous. What if they’ve done something violent? What if they’ve hurt someone? The thought terrifies me. It would change how I see them—turn this fragile sense of safety into fear. And I still have so many days left in their company, so I’ve chosen not to know.

It's foolish, but it’s the only way I’ve managed to keep the dread at bay for this long.

“What about you, Lory?” Hyde asks. “I mean, I'm no baker, but I could follow a recipe, I think.”

“I reckon you'd make a good baker,” I say after I get my mind back to the right part of our conversation. “You have the strong, cool hands that bakers need.”

Hyde’s surprised, raising his dark brows and pursing his full lips. Maybe nobody ever told him he'd be good at something. Some kids never hear the confidence-boosting words they need from their caregivers.

“Only thing I've ever been good at is thieving, and it turns out I'm not even good at that.”

He makes a huffing sound in his throat, and I freeze, realizing this is an opening to a discussion I've put off. Should I take it and find out the truth? Will I get another chance?

I swallow, crossing my legs at the ankles. I should ask. Maybe finding out who these men really are will put everything back into perspective, and I'll stop worrying about what it'll be like to leave them behind when Grady comes to lead me to my freedom. I’ll stop forming connections to them that are bigger and stronger than any I’ve felt before.

I have to step carefully. It might not be so bad. Please let it not be bad.

Thinking this way is wrong, but I haven't lived the most law-abiding life. My grandpa loved to bring home things he brought out of the trunks of cars or at the pub, knowing full well they'd been stolen, anything from a new TV to a leg of lamb. We'd have to marvel at how cheap he got them, too. When I lost my job and didn't have enough in my account for groceries, I snuck a few packets of ramen into my purse at the supermarket. When I was a teen, I used to palm lipstick from the drugstore when I didn't have money. I was desperate to keep up with the other girls, and it was the only way. Doesn't stop me from experiencing guilt about it, but it does make me understand.

“Is that what you're in for?” I swallow a ball of cotton in my throat, bracing myself.

“Yeah,” he says. “This time.”

I hadn't considered they might have served more than one sentence. That’s how na?ve I am. “And the other time?” I wait for him to elaborate.

“The first time was for aggravated assault.”

My heart falls, leaving a ghostly cold trail in its wake. I glance down at his hands, and they feel different now that I know for sure they're capable of violence.

“You showed undeserved restraint,” Kinkaid says icily. “That fucker deserved to die,”

“Why?” I ask.

The room goes silent, and when I turn to Hyde, his eyes are glassy. I swallow thickly, hating that this conversation is a minefield capable of exploding and hurting.

Kinkaid folds his arms across his chest. “Anyone who hurts kids should be put underground. I don't care how it sounds. I don't care about rehabilitation. If they're a fucker who abuses kids, there's a special place in hell waiting to fry their ass, and I wouldn't mind being the one to send them there.”

I agree with him in principle, but I don't think I could ever be the one to snuff out a life, no matter how unworthy. I don't have the guts.

“What about you?” I ask Kinkaid, concerned to leave the conversation hanging over Hyde's head any longer. Inside, I'm praying that it's going to be something moderate.

“Gun running, ” he admits. “And drug dealing. High end. That’s why they worked so hard to catch me. Didn’t want rich kids snorting their trust funds up their noses.”

Neither of those crimes is without victims, but I still deflate with a strange sense of relief—it’s not the kind of violence I was most afraid of. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself, desperate to find some good where I shouldn't. No one climbs to the top of those kinds of businesses without getting their hands dirty, without making it clear they can handle competition—brutally, if necessary.

I think back to the moment Wilson tried to hurt me. Kinkaid didn’t hesitate. His response was immediate, like a switch flipped. His body moved so fast it was almost a blur. I stare at his hands now—strong, capable hands I’ve felt protecting me—but I can’t pretend anymore. These hands have done more than shield; they’ve delivered pain, even destruction.

His blue eyes sweep over my face as I process his confession. “You’re wondering if I regret it.”

“Do you?”

“Every day. I made so many bad decisions. I could have taken so many different paths. I fell into it slowly, and didn’t try to get myself out. Getting caught was the only way it was ever going to come to an end.” He rubs the center of his brow. “Getting caught or getting killed.”

A shiver runs the length of my spine and makes my fingers tingle. Regret is something I understand and second chances. He’s not a perfect man. None of them are. But neither am I, and I have to accept that. I believe he regrets his actions because the man he is now doesn’t feel capable of returning to the life he left.

“And Rock?”

The room remains silent.

Once again, I turn to look at the big man who always treats me gently. He doesn't meet my eyes this time and I lose my hold on hope, suspecting that it's him, the one who seems the least likely to have hurt someone badly, who has been convicted of a violent crime.

“He didn't do it,” Kinkaid offers first.

“He was framed,” Hyde says. They both sound so convinced that I frown, confused.

“You're saying that Rock has been wrongfully convicted of a crime?”

“Of rape,” Rock says softly. “I've been convicted of rape, but I didn't do it.”

I sink back to stare at the ceiling. Over the past few days, I've come to know these three men in many ways. They've had the opportunity to take from me, to be violent with me, to make me scared, but apart from Hyde's initial loss of control when he was spinning out, they've always handled me with care. On the first day, even though they must have all been desperate to fuck, they kept themselves under control so that I could get used to them. That isn't the mark of a rapist. That first time, I slid myself along Rock's length over and over, and not once did he try to push inside me.

“How many years did you get?” I ask.

“Eight,” he says.

Eight years for a crime he didn't commit, or at least he says he didn't. “How many have you served?”

“Six.”

I’m suddenly nauseous, mentally calculating all the months I've lived on the outside that Rock's had stolen. I may not have been curing cancer or making a radical difference to the world, but those days were mine to spend as I liked. Rock hasn't had that pleasure.

I twist to lean up on my elbows, wound up by the injustice. “Haven't you challenged the sentence? Appealed?”

“Of course, he has,” Hyde interjects. “He's studied the law inside and out. He knows it better than the idiot public defenders who are supposed to help him, but it doesn't make a difference. You know how many innocent men there are inside?”

“How many?”

“A fucking lot.”

“Five percent,” Rock supplies. “Five percent is the estimate.”

“Are you serious?” I've never taken much interest in the justice system, and I've never needed to, but now I'm trapped inside it. I'm suddenly faced with the reality of what it could be like to be imprisoned when you've done nothing wrong.

“If we weren’t generating a profit for private corporations, half of us wouldn’t be in here.” Hyde shakes his head, disgusted.

“He's going to get out,” Kinkaid says. It sounds definitive, even though he’s speculating. I guess he will at the end of his sentence, but eight years. For nothing.

“Yeah, with the conviction hanging around my neck for life.”

“You can make a new life,” I say, trying to find something positive to say.

“Who's going to want to love a convicted rapist?” His voice is so sad, it breaks my heart.

“A wrongfully convicted one,” I correct.

“She'd have to believe me first,” he says. “It's hard enough getting anyone to look at a man the size of me without them imagining I'm violent, let alone convince them I haven't committed a crime I served time for.”

“I believe you,” I say.

“You'd trust me on the outside?” he asks.

“I'd trust you.” I'm ninety percent behind my words, but what does it matter? He still has years to serve, and by then, I'll probably be halfway across the country with my sister. This isn't a reality TV show where the contestants have the chance to walk away together, happy and in love. I'm not that deluded, even though my heart is opening petal by petal.

“How much time do you have?” I ask Hyde.

“A year,” he says, his voice carrying a touch of sarcasm. “If they don't drive me mad first.” There's a wry smile, but I can sense the exhaustion underneath.

I turn to Kinkaid. “What about you?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I'm not getting out anytime soon.”

The weight of his words hits me harder than I expected. A lump of sympathy rises in my throat for a man who’s lived his life in a hardened, unforgiving world. I want to weep for him—weep for the thought of him being stuck here, left behind while I enjoy my freedom. I'm really getting sucked into this forced closeness, this isolation we all share, and that’s the insanity of it all. I’m a crazy woman, starting to imagine a life beyond these walls with three prisoners, three men who’ve been toughened by this place, by their pasts.

With their confessions hanging heavy in the air, Hyde pulls me closer, his breath warm against my skin. Kinkaid moves in, pressing his solid, powerful body against my back, his heat seeping into me. Hyde's intense green eyes bore into mine, like he can see through to every secret I keep hidden. My heart races, vulnerable under his gaze, but somehow, more alive than ever. Rock’s rough hands slide up my legs, gripping me with a possessive strength that leaves me breathless. Caught between three dangerous men, surrounded by their raw intensity, there is no escape—and I don’t want one. Not anymore. I’m in too deep, willing to risk my heart, because being held by them feels like the only place I belong.

And yet, a part of me still wonders about the warden’s debt to them—the secret that binds these men together. Whatever it is, it’s something big. Something powerful enough to destroy them all. But deep down, I’m not sure I ever want to find out.