Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

13

Izz walks to the kitchen of his own free will, not out of any sense of duty or obligation. No. It was due to a guard spotting him, he had watched the expression on the guard’s face tighten to one of annoyance. He had hoped the guard didn’t know he was supposed to be in the kitchen. The way the guard’s expression shifted, flattening out into a snarl informed Izz that this guard knew exactly where he was supposed to be. He had turned tail and made his way to the kitchen, much to his displeasure, and the guard’s delight.

The cooking is already finishing, the last of the meals dished out into serving trays. He’s thrilled to discover the prep work is completed. Levis is always serving, which means Izz can hide in the back rooms of the kitchen, avoiding the dirty pervert boss until he’s sure he can sneak off without a guard catching him.

“Hey, Sugar, where’d you duck off to after lunch?”

He’s never so lucky. This cage is cursed, and he has the worst luck. The one inmate in this place he had been praying to avoid walks out from behind the shelves.

“You know you can’t get away with not helping in the clean-up,” Levis smirks, leaning casually into Izz’s personal space. “But I’m willing to let you off with a warning if you . . . apologise to me . . . very . . . very . . . nicely.”

Levis’s hand slides over Izz’s ass, fingers brushing under his shirt. Brushing the skin of his stomach. He grits his teeth, about to erupt and do something he has never done before.

Punch a person in the face.

He’s a virgin when it comes to punching people. With everything that’s happened to him in this Hell-hole, he’s impressed with himself for not losing it and lashing out sooner.

His hands squeeze shut, tightening, ready to swing his fists at the perv’s face. Tensing, he plants his feet, shifting to swing—

The dinner bell rings—snapping Izz out of his bravado, and sapping his courage like a deflating balloon—informing them dinner is now commencing and serving is due to take place.

Ha. Saved by the bell. Never thought that would be something I ever said.

“You’re on serving today, Sugar,” Levis grabs Izz’s shoulder, guiding Izz towards the front of the kitchen.

Levis’s unwelcome touch has his skin crawling, a gritty charcoal taste coating his mouth. His body’s negative reaction to this man is so intense it’s manifesting itself into a physical form which can be felt and tasted.

Why does Levis insist on calling him Sugar? It’s gross, demeaning and flat-out weird. He is not some product to be consumed by whoever wants it, without any say in who consumes it.

Begrudgingly, Izz stomps over to the serving bar, allowing himself to be guided by the kitchen boss. Hating every second of the close contact between them. Not wanting to cause a scene or garner attention, he keeps his displeasure to himself. Too many inmates out here, he doesn’t want them catching on to how freaked out he is.

He’s relieved when Levis leaves him alone to serve, disappearing back into the kitchen. He tries his best to move through quickly. To give the inmates their meals fast and not hold up the line. It still takes him a dozen or so inmates before he gathers his wits and finds his rhythm.

By the seventh dozen inmate, he is a pro. He is also figuring out that he hates serving people. It’s gruelling work. Slow and monotonous.

He’s sick of repeating the same sentences over and over. What’s on today’s menu, do they want this or that, yes this has that in it, no there is none of that available or in any of the dishes.

It’s repetitive, tedious work. And hot. It’s hot as Hell back here with all the food. Like the kitchen’s heat is an invading parasite hell bent on making his life as miserable as possible. It would be so much better if the inmates served themselves.

Why can’t they serve themselves?

He’s marching back to the start to begin the next order. The umpteenth time running through the same routine—

The change in atmosphere is nearly instantaneous. A dark glacial torrent hitting Izz from the other inmates. A solid mass of frozen terror. He surveys his surroundings, dread filling his lungs, constricting his chest. The next inmates in the queue shuffled back quickly, opening a large space in front of the serving bar.

The next male to step up—skipping the line—is HIM. Red and black mohawk spiked hair, in its signature presentation. Sharp eyes cutting through everyone, missing nothing. Thick legs corded with muscles devouring the distance to the bar. The killer moving with deathly purpose across the vacated space.

Striding straight towards Izz.

Why do I have to be the unlucky one in charge of serving the next inmate?

The entire room washes away, drowned out as Izz stares with wide eyes at the serial killer approaching him. The killer who is right there. Right in front of him, and getting closer . . .

He swallows hard, his eyes drawn to the killer’s face. With only a serving bar separating them. A bar he wishes was bigger, with safety glass separating him from the room beyond.

The killer stops in front of Izz, close enough to see the flecks of colour in the male’s irises, an onyx black with little flecks of chocolate brown. A multitude of dark colours framed by thick lashes. At a distance, the killer’s eyes appeared jet black. But this close . . . Izz can see the flecks interwoven within the black.

He drags his eyes downwards, to the tattoos covering the killers arms. Dripping down to pool in the crook of his elbows. Blood droplets escaping from a blood splatter peeking out under short sleeves.

Wonder what made him get that design—

Oh, right. Serial killer. Dah.

The killer reaches for a tray, flashing a wrist inked by a black triple six tattoo, at the suicide point. If it’s called that? It’s apt to call it that, considering the killer’s arms are covered with lifelike blood. The three thick black letters standing out from the deep red rivers flowing over his upper arms.

Devil worship? Or a random design he just happened to like the look of?

The male is a serial killer—supposedly—Izz would place his money on the tattoo being a worship one and not an it’ll-look-cool type thing.

“I’ll take the potato, and whatever pasta you think tastes the best,” the killer’s voice is deep, commanding . . . domineering—

Izz clears his throat. Trying to gag his mind as his emotions rise inside him, hot and heavy—

You’re gawking. Like a fool—a fool with a death wish.

He doesn’t have a death wish. Although from an outsider’s perspective it would appear as though he does. With the way he’s staring and not moving—

Pull yourself together man. Izz inwardly scolds.

“Yes, sure thing, I can do that. That’ll be fine.”

You’re rambling . Izz’s inner voice pipes up. It would be more helpful if his inner voice told him what to say to the dangerous male in front of him, so he doesn’t say the wrong thing and piss off a serial killer.

His hands are trembling, he tries his best to corral them into cooperation, failing miserably. Doing his best to ignore the tremors, to pretend his hands aren’t shaking leaves caught in a hurricane. He scoops out a hefty heaping of mash. Carefully placing it down on the tray. He isn’t sure how much the killer is expecting to be given . . .

Not wanting to be stingy Izz gathers another mound of mashed potatoes. Best safe than sorry. Especially when it comes to dangerous inmates. Who may or may not be capable of murdering you in your sleep.

He slides over to the pasta dishes. Inspecting the different selections of pasta as if it were his first time seeing them. Not as if he’d spent the last . . . hour? serving countless inmates.

He has no clue which ones taste any good. He’s never eaten any of them. He didn’t help cook them, he has no idea what’s actually in any of them. Has no idea if the ingredients were measured correctly, if the flavours are to perfection or salty as shit. It could be a wonderful meal or it could be a disgusting sticky mess.

Shit.

He is in the whole tell-the-truth faze, isn’t he? It hasn’t really kept him out of trouble so far. Though faking it would end badly if the pasta he picks turns out to be a rubbery sludge and not the best pasta choice.

“I actually don’t know what’s good. I’ve never eaten any of these.” Izz’s going with the truth, and hoping it doesn’t turn around to bite him in the ass.

It would be worse to lie to the killer.

“I’m new here—” Izz gestures to his orange shirt, like that isn’t obvious without pointing it out. “—I haven’t tried all the foods the prison cooks.”

And I hope to not be in the kitchen long enough to learn how each meal is made.

“Whichever you think would be best.”

The killer’s eyes bore into Izz’s soul. Surprisingly though, he doesn’t feel afraid. He feels as if the killer is silently checking if he’s okay. Which is weird. He has to be imagining it . . . ?

Maybe he is as pale as he feels and the killer is expecting him to pass out into the pasta. That would be an embarrassing incident he would never live down. He’d take himself to The Hole indefinitely so he wouldn’t have to look the killer in the eyes ever again.

“Alright . . . But if it tastes like shit, just letting you know, I warned you. I also didn’t cook it, so there’s that too.”

Izz hears a sharp intake of breath down from him—guess that server was part of the pasta cooking team. He has to say, he is not sorry for throwing any of them under the bus. None of them did shit when Levis was putting his disgusting hands all over him. The multiple times that asshole has done it.

Screw them.

He flicks his eyes over to the inmate beside him—who had made the small distressed noise. One of those who deliberately turned away when he was being groped.

He sends the inmate a smirked paybacks-a-bitch and is deeply satisfied when the other man pales somewhat. He has to bite his lip to stop the laugh from escaping his throat.

He decides on the Bolognese type pasta—it’s the one he would go with, the nicest looking of the dishes—and delicately places it down on the killer’s tray. Extra careful not to splash a drop of food anywhere out of its little section. He does not want to flick pasta sauce off the tray in fear of hitting the killer.

How did Izz die? Well he flicked Bolognese sauce on a serial killer.

Izz bites his cheek to suppress the laugh he almost let loose. He is not yet a crazy person. He has to hold his composure as long as possible. Laughing at his own mind’s ramblings is not a good look on a sane person. Not when you want to stay out of the Psych-Wing.

“Would you like a drink or cookie?”

Okay, offering a cookie to a serial killer is laughable. And nothing Izz ever thought he would do in his lifetime, but here he is. Offering a cookie to a killer. Oh, how his life has changed drastically.

“Chocolate. And a water.”

Again with that deep voice, sending sparks through Izz’s body. He is so out of whack he can’t determine what the sensations means.

It has to be a fear response. Right?

“Perfect,” Izz cringes as soon as the word leaves his lips, spinning away swiftly to prevent the killer from glimpsing the involuntary shift in his expression.

Perfect? Seriously? That’s your reply? Moron.

He wanders over to the end of the food bar to collect the cookies and drink. He picks out three chocolate chip cookies for the killer, because why not? No one’s going to say anything. And he’s going to be running off straight after he finishes serving, so he’s not going to be needing any with his meal. A meal he won’t be having, not when it potentially risks him running into Levis.

The killer nods at Izz, before prowling off to the far back corner to consume the meal. Izz has to force his eyes away or he’ll be frozen in place, gawking at the killer instead of continuing to serve meals.

He accepts the killer’s nod as a thank you. And the lack of a knife in his face, as a sign he had done well with his newly acquired serving skills.

Struggling to suppress a grin, Izz drifts back to the queue once more, floating over to serve the next person. A cloud of content cushioning his steps.

All things considered, he thinks that interaction went pretty smoothly—

Izz scoffs. Mentally scolding himself for trying to act cool and impress the male. He is a serial killer, for Christ’s sake.

Why does he become starry-eyed around the dangerous mohawked inmate?

~~~

Serving is finishing, the inmates already dispersing from the cafeteria to go off and do their prison life things. He is handing over a bottle of apple juice to his last ‘ customer’ , the last two in line are being taken care of by other servers.

Finished with the tedious task of serving, Izz collects two empty trays and lugs them back into the kitchen for whichever inmate is in charge of washing up today. He can’t see their face as they’re already bent over scrubbing away at one of the giant cooking pots, leaning bodily inside to reach the bottom. Not that he would have known who it is anyway. He doesn’t know anyone’s name in here except for Levis. He doesn’t want to learn any of their names, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to be anywhere near the one he does know.

Clanking the trays down, he back peddles through the kitchen to ensure he doesn’t run into Levis. The one inmate in here he truly wants to avoid. The rest sat back and didn’t help him, but at least they don’t grab at him.

He groans when the inmate he detests steps out from behind one of the cooking benches. Effectively blocking Izz’s path to the exit.

Life is never simple, not in this cage.

The only inmates loitering within the kitchen are the pot scrubber in the back and the two out front finishing serving, the rest are long gone. The cafeteria is near empty, not that any of those inmates can see all the way back here.

Izz’s alone against the creep who thinks he’s entitled to feel people up without permission. All based on a delusion that someone being nice to you means they want you to touch them. That giving the person extra food in meals means you have the right to touch them.

What is wrong with this man—

Wait . . .

Extra food . . .

What was it Levis said . . . ‘after all I’ve done for you. I think it’s time you start reciprocating’.

‘All I’ve done’.

All he’s done.

No.

No no no. The food. The food left in his cell. Was it Levis’s doing? The mattress too?

It has to be. And like a fool, Izz had taken it, eaten it, slept on it. He can’t pay back the money. He hadn’t asked for it. And he wouldn’t have been starving if he’d been able to eat the prison meals like everyone else. And not have a creep in his face wanting—no, demanding, Izz pay everything back.

What else could it mean? It has to be that. Levis can’t possibly only be referring to the little bit of extra food at mealtimes. Levis can’t be so deluded as to think giving an inmate a bit of extra food entitled him to sexual favours?

Then again, you shouldn’t think a mattress and snacks left in a cell entitles you to whatever you want from a person either. If you voluntarily give someone a gift, you aren’t entitled to receive whatever you want as compensation.

And to think, Izz used to believe Levis was nice. How naive he’d been . . .

“You thought about my offer?” Levis grins, squishing into Izz’s personal space.

“No. Thank you. I’m fine.” Izz sidesteps in an attempt to weave past the kitchen boss—

Things go south, real fast. Before Izz can raise a hand in his defence, he is grabbed and manhandled backwards. His back hitting the pantry doors as he’s shoved right through them.

Out of sight.

Utterly alone.

Not that anyone in the kitchen has shown any sign they will do anything to help. Even if they were all huddled inside the pantry, they wouldn’t raise a hand to help him.

“Let me go. I’m done with this place,” Izz yells at Levis’s face, thrashing in the tight grip squeezing his upper arms. “I’m leaving this shitty job, and I don’t care if it lands me in The Hole for the rest of my stay.”

Okay, so he’s bluffing. He does not want to be stuck in a room alone for years, but at this particular moment he is too pissed off to care.

“I said. LET. GO.” Izz bellows, throwing all his strength into his attempt to dislodge Levis’s hold.

“Nah, Sugar. I’m not going to do that,” Levis’s calm voice holds no indication he is straining to restrain Izz.

His back hits one of the huge barrels—containing flour or perhaps rice—

He’s aware his mind is trying to distract him, it doesn’t matter what is contained within the barrels, only that his mind can channel that thought to draw him out of the situation he is being forced into.

This freak is touching, touching what he was not given permission to touch and is not backing down.

Fight or flight .

He’s trapped, he can’t run. He’s stuck between a creep and a heavy immovable barrel.

Defence. Defence it is. But how is he going to defend himself? He’s overpowered, the perv’s packing twice—if not more—muscle mass than Izz could ever dream of possessing.

His scrawny ass is going to lose this fight. He can’t afford to lose. Not with what the stakes are. This inmate isn’t going to kill him, they’re going to do something far worse—

The world spins. Izz’s vision swirling as he’s repositioned. Shoved belly first over the barrel. A large disgusting hand pinning the back of his neck. Holding him down with little effort on Levis’s part. The man isn’t even breathing heavily. It makes Izz’s skin crawl—all he wants to do is run to the shower and scrub his skin raw.

Frantically trying to pull away, his breathing increasing to erratic hyperventilating gasps. Levis’s grasp is too powerful, he is terrified and weak, his feeble attempts are getting him nowhere. All he manages to do is scratch his knees on the barrel’s rough exterior.

His legs are shaking, his palms sweating, he cannot believe this thing is happening to him. He’d never in a thousand years thought it would ever happen to him—

This is something that happened to women. To women in horror stories people don’t want to think too closely about, too horrific for anyone to believe it could happen to them.

Izz hisses when Levis’s other hand drops down between him and the barrel, gripping his waistband and tugging down the only form of protective barrier between him and his attacker.

He’s too stunned to cry out. Too shocked to think clearly. His brain screaming full blast at him but he can’t understand what he is supposed to do to save himself. The hand clutching his neck is iron hard, rooted in place. Digging into his flesh.

“Let go,” Izz breathes out, trying to portray strength. To demand he be taken seriously. His voice is barely above a whispered plea, “you don’t have to do this.”

He wants to say ‘please’ . To beg. A little voice inside tells him it’s a bad idea. If this creep is willing to force someone, him begging them to stop would result in turning them on. Wouldn’t it?

Izz blinks rapidly, he can’t cry. He won’t give this monster the satisfaction. Blinking to clear his vision, clears his sight to the crumbs scattering the lid by his face. Little grains, safe from harm. He’d give anything to be a crumb. To disappear into the barrel and never return.

“I don’t, but I want to,” Levis mocks.

The dank stench wafting off Levis is making Izz nauseous. He wants to vomit. But he’s terrified at the anger it will provoke. Will he die? If he pukes, will Levis beat him to death?

“If you’d taken my offer this could have gone a less painful route.”

The sneered remark sends shivers down Izz’s spine, tears pricking his eyes, threatening to break free. He’s going to be one of those horror stories. One no-one completely takes in, too afraid of the pain it would cause—

A clattered noise from beyond the pantry doors draws his attacker’s attention. A jingling noise following soon after. He can’t concentrate on the sound long enough to figure out what it is. He’s heard it before, he knows it’s familiar—

Izz’s pants are yanked back up. And he’s released from the crushing hold—

The pantry door clanks open—with so much force it bounces back off the wall to fly at the person that assaulted it—

Caught in an outstretched hand, of one very pissed-off guard—

The noise had been his keys—the keys every guard carries on their belt—

“We having a picnic in here or what?” The guard demands, his voice cracking off the pantry walls. “Get the fuck out and back to your cells.”

Izz doesn’t hesitate for a second. Scrambling out. Placing as much distance as he can between himself and Levis.

Stumbling out past the food bar, he steps free into the cafeteria—

Stopping dead halfway to the corridor that leads to his Wing—

The black and red mohawked serial killer is leaning back against the cafeteria wall, consumed by shadows. A dark menacing presence.

Why is he here? What . . .

Izz throws a look over his shoulder, watching Levis storm out the side door, the double doors flapping wide. The kitchen boss didn’t notice the serial killer lurking in the cafeteria’s depths. A shark in dark waters.

Izz pulls his gaze back—

Only to find an empty space. The killer is gone. No trace he’d been there. No sounds of his departure.

Is the killer the reason the guard came in? Or pure coincidence?

“Get moving, inmate,” the guard’s voice doesn’t seem as angry this time. More tired and exhausted.

Izz studies the empty shadows one last time, as though he’ll find the answers he seeks if he stares long enough. He has so many unanswered questions . . .

“Thank you,” Izz breathes out under his breath. Not sure if he’s thanking the guard or the serial killer. Perhaps a little of both.