Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

4

Reni dumps his tray on the table which already has four inmates seated around it. They all look up at Reni’s arrival, sending him friendly greetings—

The warm welcome drains away to a dull tolerance as everybody’s eyes shift over to Izz—a synchronized movement, as if they rehearsed it—hitting him with the same intensity to shrink an elephant—

Did he forget to put his pants on? A swift glance down says no. So not a real-life naked walk through, like his stress dreams as a child—showing up at school naked. Wouldn’t that be a shockingly memorable first impression. He’s not sure he wants his first impression to be the pantless newbie.

Reni plants his ass on the bench, tucking his long legs under the table, gesturing for Izz to take a seat in front of him. Pulling Izz out of his irrational inward freak-out.

He complies, plopping down onto the hard metal bench, with the kitchen behind him—placing the vast majority of the room to his back. Everything is overwhelming, he’d prefer to ignore the room, and pretend he isn’t surrounded by hundreds of inmates. He can see a few in his peripheral—as well as those at the table—but the rest are shielded from his sight. If he drowns out the constant noise, he can almost forget they’re behind him.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Reni clears his throat, and begins the introductions. “Everyone, this is Izz. Izz this is Phelix.” Flicking a thumb to the short-haired blond, at his side, with sleeve tattoos covering the inmate’s hands and palms.

Phelix smiles, nodding at Izz. His golden curls an unnatural glossy gold, a pigmentation Izz has never seen in someone’s hair. Delicate strings of gold, shaping his face in an almost movie star fashion. Almost , if they pulled a movie star out of a real-life drug cartel. He gives off the vibe of someone who’s powerful without the need to show it off with brute force. The man who gives the orders from the background, disappearing those who don’t follow those orders to his satisfaction.

“That’s David—” Reni continues his point-and-name routine. Jabbing his finger at a sizable guy next to Phelix.

David wears a cluster of scripture tattoos on the sides of his face. The swirling text is too hard for Izz to make out the letterings . . . or read the script. It has the feeling of something Godly—purely based on the way its script resembles the old English text painted on parchments in church movie scenes.

It’s saying something that all my references for judging ‘ bad guys’ is based out of movies . . .

“He’s Erik,” Reni waves a hand at the inmate across from David.

Erik is the shortest at the table, skinny enough for his clothes to look baggy. Long brown hair cascading down to the small of his back. No tattoos, at least, none that Izz can see. He gives off a stoner-druggy vibe.

At least this time Izz can safely say he’s not basing Erik’s appearance out of movies. He has seen his fair share of druggies’ around his family home . . . if you could call that run-down apartment a home.

“And that’s Isco,” Reni points out the last unknown inmate at their table.

The man occupying the space to Izz’s left narrows his eyes at Izz, an inquisitive expression passing over his face which is littered with scars.

I wonder what happened . . . ?

A deep scar runs a curved path down Isco’s chin, brushing against his throat, tearing through the previously unblemished skin. Two smaller scars slicing across his right eye, falling above and below the miraculously unscathed eye. A close call to losing the eye or being blinded. Three lengthy scars circling the right side of his neck, trailing under his ear and onto his collarbone to integrate with the tattoos peeking out from his collar.

If Phelix’s vibe represents the cartel boss-man, than Isco’s vibe screams hitman, readily able to do the boss’s bidding.

Sucked into his little guess-the-crime game, his eyes shift down to Isco’s hands. The need to confirm his theory of this inmate beating people to death is too strong for him to resist.

The hands attached to thick wrist on the intimidating inmate are what Izz expects. Roughened hands with boxy black letters engraved into each knuckle, matching the crude ink etched into the backs of both hands.

Isco is a man Izz knows is capable of murder. He knows it within his bones. Why? Because despite what people say, he’s judging this book by its cover. And this book’s cover terrifies him.

As if sensing his unease—or to mock him, who knows—Isco cracks his knuckles, snapping Izz’s gaze away to his face, a smirk lifting his scarred cheeks.

Izz gulps, nervously digging into his food, he isn’t intimidated often, but this man is daunting—okay, so he usually isn’t intimidated. Except in here. Everything is new and strange, and all the people in here are unpredictable. Due to the fact that he has no clue why any of them are locked away. Has no idea who can be trusted and who can’t.

Scooping the sticky mess of pasta into his mouth, he tastes the cheap cheese flavour. Sticking to his teeth and the roof of his mouth. Even with it fighting back he still enjoys the pasta. It’s not as terrible as he was dreading the prison food to be.

Surveying the tables he can see, Izz studies the numerous clusters of inmates. Nothing beyond what he can observe without turning his head, trying not to be too obvious about his spying.

They’re all outcasts—groups who are not part of the gangs. One table in particular has several inmates spread over it, alone, not interacting with one another.

Loners?

The inmate seated closest to him is sporting a black eye, busted lip and bruising down his arm, Izz can’t see the other arm but is willing to bet he has more bruises under his clothes.

The bruised inmate’s heavy-lidded eyes drag towards Izz, like he senses the gaze on him.

Izz darts his eyes away, not wanting to start anything. He doesn’t know why they’re covered in injuries, and has no intention to find out. For all he knows, the guy is a lunatic who gets into fights with anyone who so much as looks at him.

“We also got Sinj in The Hole,” Zidie cuts in, dragging Izz’s gaze over to him. “That’s S-i-n-j not S-i-n-g-e even though they sound the same. Another weird name to join our midst. Ay, Izz.” He squeezes into the space between Izz and Isco, unceremoniously shoving them to the sides.

Izz rolls his eyes at Cupcake. There are plenty of empty spaces on the bench for Zidie to plant his ass on, shoving between them is entirely unnecessary. Isco doesn’t appear to care, unflinching, like the scarred inmate is accustomed to this type of behaviour.

An overgrown puppy. Is what comes to mind to describe Zidie. A giant, friendly, over-excited puppy who doesn’t grasp the concept of personal space—

Colourful, intricately designed artwork flashes Izz, as Zidie’s decorated arm rests on the table by his tray. A multi-coloured, full sleeve, of ocean creatures, swishing and swimming around each other to create a beautiful 3D picture. Whoever he went to, to get his work done, Izz wants their number. Their artwork is stunning.

“The Hole?” Izz questions, to double check his guess earlier was a correct assumption—when Reni mentioned it in their cell. It has to be some sort of solitary confinement—

“Solitary confinement,” Reni answers for Zidie who’s shoving food into his mouth. “But The Hole’s what we call it.”

Izz hums in understanding, snagging his small bottle to swish down the sticky cheesy pasta. He’s not a fan of the room temperature flavourless liquid, but it’s better than nothing.

I’m going to miss ice cold water . . .

Blake settles in next to Izz, laughing at something Reni said, Izz missed whatever it was. Others at the table are grinning and chuckling along with Reni, who throws back his head and lets out a deep rumbling laugh.

A flicker of movement seizes Izz’s attention. Over Reni’s shoulder, a subtle flash of red guides his eyes to a lone figure sitting at the furthest table. He can’t make out who it is . . . the cafeteria’s artificial fluorescent lighting is avoiding the inmate, curling away from the male, leaving him encased in shadow. As though it’s too scared to touch—

Wait . . .

Izz sucks in a breath, it’s that same inmate. The one who skipped the queue. With the spiked red and black mohawk. The one nobody objected to, for cutting the line. As if they are all scared . . .

His eyes eat up every detail of the mohawked male’s face and body while he’s shrouded in semi darkness in the corner of the room. Izz fails to perceive how both tables closest to the male are a barren empty wasteland. He’s too busy studying the enticing male’s frame.

He’s so engrossed in his examination, he doesn’t notice when the eyes of his obsession flick over. Not until their gazes’ clash, the male’s hard eyes boring into Izz’s soul—

He swallows the lump forming in his throat, a hot flush slapping a red blush onto his cheeks. Heating up his body, a furnace inside his clothes on full blast. He’s a schoolgirl, caught staring at the hottest guy in class. Blushing up a storm.

Whoa . . . He is hot as fuck.

Too entranced to pull his gaze away, Izz gives in to his impulses, allowing his eyes to roam . . .

The inmate has red tattoos, bleeding out from both sleeves, flowing down his forearms to pool at his elbows. Izz’s unable to make out any details from this distance. But the rich red is easily seen, closely resembling blood . . . sliding and dripping down well-defined, toned arms.

He stares openly, fixated on the male—and the inmate stares right back.

Maybe I should introduce myself?

He doesn’t know the etiquette in the prison cafeteria. Had he been at a bar—or somewhere else on the outside—he would have already approached the male—

An inmate scoots past their table, cutting off his view for a moment. Long enough to draw his concentration away from those intoxicating eyes. The reason for his fixation being broken so readily is the inmate’s clothing. They aren’t wearing grey like the vast majority are. This inmate, sideling past their table, is wearing blue.

Izz’s thoughts rapidly change course, from his eye fucking, to a question that had crossed his mind upon arrival.

Izz quizzically turns to Reni, “What’s with the different coloured prison clothes?”

His cellmate misses the question, too busy slingshotting something off his spoon in a failed attempt to hit Erik who is sticking his tongue out at the former.

“Different colours for different meanings,” Blake is the one to answer the question, tearing off a slice of his bread. Speaking around it as he chews.

“Like?” Izz enquires when Blake doesn’t finish explaining.

Reni jumps in, an amused scowl firmly in place from his earlier antics with Erik, apparently on board with the whole conversation. “Blue is for inmates with medical problems, like oldies or epilepsy, seizure prone—or whatever—people. Purple is for I-Wing. Black is for lifers or those doing hard time—multiple repeats of long stints. Grey is for us normal folks, and orange is for the fresh meat, obviously.” He gestures to Izz on the last part.

He does not like being referred to as fresh meat. A cow to the slaughter comes to mind. He lets the subject drop, it won’t be soon enough to have his grey prison clothes. He hates the orange. Why do they dress the new inmates in orange? Making them stand out, like the guards want to put a target on the new arrival’s backs—

A weird noise at Erik’s end of the table has the whole table turning. A noise like a choked gasp of dread, or maybe anticipation—

The table falls silent, like a well-clogged machine, with all its parts seizing in a rehearsed stop—

Standing at the end. Right next to Erik. Is another inmate. And this inmate is massive with a hard-pressed face. Clipped short hair. Eyes narrowed and piercing, scrutinising everyone on the table. And he’s covered in tattoos. Izz’s starting to realise it’s more shocking to see someone here without tattoos on display than to see men completely covered in ink.

“Erik,” the newcomer flicks his chin to the side—indicating one of the twin flapping doors that leads out of the cafeteria—before the guy walks off, disappearing out the doors.

Izz raises a brow at the tension throughout the table after the inmate’s departure. Watching as Erik’s face drops, he stands and empties his tray in the trash bin, depositing it on top, and briskly following the departed inmate.

Izz must have been making a face, because Reni fills him in, “his dealer.”

Oh, that explains why Erik’s so skinny. Doesn’t explain why he looked hollow and nervous before going off with his dealer. You would think an addict would be thrilled to see their dealer? Unless he owes money? Izz hopes he’s going to be okay, and doesn’t get beaten for late payments or something.

Letting out a breath, he pulls his eyes away from the door. The mohawked inmate in the corner is still watching him. And he finds he can’t look away when their eyes lock once more. Drawn in by a strange allure. The male has an intense aura, a dark aura? Yet Izz doesn’t hear any inner voices screaming warnings at him. He believes the inmate is trustworthy, even without knowing what they did to get thrown in here. Perhaps he should find out—

“Who’s that?” Izz blurts abruptly to the table, before his common sense can stop him.

When the group’s hot gazes lock on him—fixated eyes heating his body into one of wary unease—he points his chin towards the red and black haired inmate—to indicate who he’s addressing—at the unoccupied table. It’s too late to pretend he hadn’t said anything.

May as well embrace the chaos.

Reni jerks his head over his shoulder to take a gander at who Izz’s referring to. His head yanks back around like he’s burned, a grimace plastered on his face.

“Don’t stare, man. Seriously,” his cellmate bites off in a hushed, harsh whisper. “That’s Sinn'ous.”

Izz blinks at Reni. What’s that supposed to mean? Should he know who that is? Is he famous or something? A singer?

“ THE Sinn'ous. ” When Izz merely shrugs, Reni’s exasperated voice adds, “the serial killer. He’s killed, like, hundreds of people. They just can’t prove it’s that guy .” Reni flicks a thumb towards the corner, careful to keep it concealed by his body so only those at their table can see the action. “Not officially, anyway. He’s killed guards and inmates in here too. Stay as far away from him as possible, and don’t frickin’ look at him. Keep your damn eyes averted. Keep your whole body averted.”

Izz checks the rest of the table occupants to ensure he isn’t being punked. A messed-up prisoner fraternity pledge thing, or some kind of joke played on the newbie. The collective fear in their faces tells him everything he needs to know. Even Isco appears worried.

“And stick to large groups,” Reni continues, laying out the rules in a freaked-out life and death tone. It’s completely at odds to his fun-loving easy-going self.“Especially if he ever enters a room you’re in. Make sure there are a dozen or more people around you. If you count only eleven, you sprint out of that room so fast the wind’s impact will land you with black and blues, like you went up against a guard hell bent on beating you to death.”

Izz swallows hard—and, because your mind has to look at a car crash—his eyes flick over to the inmate in question.

The serial killer—

Blake slaps him on the back of his head—Izz quickly snaps his attention to his tray, digging his spoon in. His appetite is gone, shrivelled up, along with his mellow this-prison-stay-shouldn’t-be-too-bad mood. He uses the spoon to push his food around, playing with the leftover meal as a distraction.

. . . Well . . .

. . . Shit . . .

He’s lucky he hadn’t strolled over and clumsily introduced himself, and tried to flirt with the mohawked inmate . . .

A serial killer . . . ?