Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

28

Izz chooses to work alone, away from everyone else. He wants to clean and eat and not have to worry about being in any conversations. He especially wants to be as far away from David as possible, he doesn’t want to overhear another blow up about his ‘protection ’. Not that David has the guts to talk directly to him—only talks about him to others.

He starts his work on the other side of the laundry room, loading machine after machine. Snacking on chocolates between each bundle of clothing.

Izz’s joyous mood is holding strong against the unruly tangle of sheets he’s manhandling into an empty machine—the load not giving up without a fight. It’s as if it has a deep-seated phobia of being clean. He concentrates on the task at hand, ignoring the inmate he can sense approaching.

His wishful thinking if-I-don’t-acknowledge-you-you’ll-leave is sucked down the shitter when they open their mouth. “I’m sorry.” A voice Izz recognises, not one that’s usually directed to him personally.

He really doesn’t want to say anything, he grits his teeth and reluctantly faces David.

Why is David here? Can he not tell Izz doesn’t like him?

David shuffles his feet, blurting out, “you were right. I was being an asshole. You hadn’t given me any reason to say those things about you. I shouldn’t have said anything. So I’m here to apologise and hopefully hit a restart on us.”

Fool me once . . .

Izz’s not convinced, “I’m not interested. You said what you did. Put out how you feel about me, without knowing shit about me. That’s on you. I’m not interested in having anything to do with you.”

Why would he stoop so low as to befriend someone who clearly hates him and judges people without knowing them. He’s open minded about making friends with all types of people, but a person who blatantly pokes fun at others, bullies, spreads around made-up shit . . .

Nah, he’s good. He’d rather befriend this pile of wet clothing he’s about to manhandle out of one of the old machines—which is beeping its demands to be empty, the urgency unnecessary—it’s not going to explode if it isn’t emptied immediately. Whoever invented this machine should have known how annoying it is to beep louder the longer you ignore it.

Demanding machine and its high pitch whining.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay.”

Why is he still talking? It’s not as though I hedged around my answer, the message should be clear.

Izz ignores David. Stuffing his hands into the machine’s belly to heft out the wet load, ready to switch it into a dryer and finish the process. Other inmates will do the folding after it’s dried and load the trolleys to do the deliveries to all the cells.

They run shifts, for who’s on what, changing each day. But because he’s new, he winds up with the harder job of loading machines. It’s heavy as fuck when it’s wet. Though he’s not complaining, it’s the only form of exercise he gets now.

“Can we just restart—”

“He told you to fuck off,” a deep voice interrupts their little conversation.

Izz jumps out of his skin. Dropping the bundle in his hands. The pile slopping wetly onto the floor at his feet. Both he and David spin around.Neither had heard him prowl up on them—

Sinn'ous has materialised out of nowhere, his menacing presence sucking the air right out of the room. Izz recognises the death glare Sinn'ous is sending David. Last time he saw Sinn'ous look at someone like that, it was Levis . . . and the server had been killed not long after.

Izz steps over to a very pale David. Holding his hand out—yeah, he knows, no handshaking. But this is a unique circumstance.

David looks at Izz, and back at Sinn'ous briefly before accepting Izz’s hand.

“We’re cool. But it doesn’t mean I’m going to be your friend anytime soon.” Izz drops the hand and turns away.

Watching out the corner of his eye as David flattens himself against the machines, to squeeze past Sinn'ous, without so much as touching the serial killer with the ripples in the air from his movements. The entire time Sinn'ous’s narrowed eyes are following him, burning holes in his skull, until he’s retreating to the other side of the laundry room.

“Don’t even think about it,” Izz scolds, scooping the wet mass off the floor, to move it to the dryer. If it’s dirty, it’s dirty, he’s not rewashing it.

“About what?” Sinn'ous’s edgy tone suggesting he knows exactly what Izz’s referring to.

“You know what,” Izz pegs Sinn'ous with a knowing stare. Rolling his eyes when the male smirks, a spark in those predatory eyes at odds with what one should see when murder is on the table.

Izz had shaken David’s hand for the sole purpose of the inmate not becoming the next victim. He doesn’t need more bodies of inmates who are linked to him. Dead because they cross him—and the possessive serial killer obsessed with him kills them.

Supposedly, you don’t actually know. Izz’s little voice denies, refusing to see Sinn'ous in any form of bad lighting.

“What are you even doing here? I thought you didn’t work.”

“Got bored. Thought I’d come help you out,” Sinn'ous leans back against the dryer Izz’s loading. Eyes scanning the room as he studies Izz clicking the controls.

Izz doesn’t buy that excuse for one second. But he doesn’t complain. Work will be a lot more enjoyable with Sinn'ous to keep him company. Help him pass the time. And it will keep the rest of the laundry room occupants from talking shit about him. None will dare with Sinn'ous in the room. In fact, it is exceedingly quiet in here, the only noise is the soft whirring of machines.

~~~

Sinn'ous’s helping out is more along the lines of reclining against the dryer, arms folded as he watches Izz work. Occasionally copping a feel when Izz wanders within arm’s reach—Izz may have deliberately started walking closer to Sinn'ous after that.

He is aware he’s crushing. A love-struck idiot is the term coming to mind when he peeks under his eyelashes at the male who is hovering over him.

He knows he’s in trouble. Developing feelings for someone who is incapable of love is a dangerous game—

Can serial killers love?