Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

31

The yard is surprisingly nice today. The Gang’s laid back on the soft grass, enjoying the calming peace. Erik is practically asleep curled up by Phelix’s side. No cold wind or bitter rains to disturb them. And the sun isn’t scorching, merely a warm comforting embrace.

It has been raining on and off the past couple days—and the few days before that it was as hot as shit—not that it matters too much in here. The rain that is—they have to spend most of their days indoors anyway. And the prison is surprisingly well acclimatised. The day’s heat, or the cold winds, you would never know until you walk outside.

Downside, the yard is only open to the inmates for a small window of time after breakfast and during the work period. Although there are the rare occasions it’s closed off for the entire day. The changes aren’t common. And he’s not entirely sure why they occur.

He finds it strange that they open the yard during the work period. As the vast majority of inmates have jobs—he supposes it makes sense for the inmates who work the kitchen, after all, they work three shifts a day for an entire week. Gives them time away from the rest of the criminal elements in here when the kitchen staff have their week off—when it switches to the second set of kitchen working inmates. So they can chill outside without the hassle of the rest of the prison filling the yard.

Although Levis had been running a contraband gig out of the kitchen, so they wouldn’t truly be away from the criminal elements. And they are criminals too.

Wonder who took over the business after Levis died?

Even under the whirlpool of strange prison thoughts, Izz’s relaxed. Comfortable. A Zen warrior about to embark on some hippy ritual of peace of mind— inner peace? Is it called inner peace? Or is that from a movie he’d watched with his sister . . . ? It sounds familiar.

His calm composure has little to do with the weather, and more to do with the fact that he and Sin are officially a couple. No, Sin hasn’t called him boyfriend or held his hand and confessed his undying love. Nothing has really changed with Sin’s behaviour.

In Izz’s mind, however, it is official. They hang out all the time. They talk about random stuff. They kiss and make out. They do intimate things together—

Izz scoffs at himself, “ intimate things. ” He mumbles under his breath, “say it like it is, Izz, you had sex.”

—it’s official in the way they’d fucked—well, sort of. Does it count if you haven’t been filled with their entire length or you stop after a few penetrations?

“What’s up with your neck, man?” Zidie helps himself to grabbing Izz’s shirt collar, pulling it down to reveal more bruising.

Izz shoves his friend off, rearranging his shirt to cover the marks—watching Zid throw out a hand onto the ground, to catch himself, a grin splitting his cupcake face in two.

“Nothing,” Izz bites out.

He likes being bitten, so sue him. Doesn’t mean he wants to talk to Zid about it.

“Doesn’t look like nothing. Looks like you’re auditioning to become a canvas for some CSI show.” Zidie throws a handful of grass in Izz’s vague direction—payback for the shove.

Trust Zid to turn it into a big issue. It’s not bad. It looks worse than it feels. And Izz relishes them. He wouldn’t take any of it back for anything.

“Nothing to it,” Izz mutters, his best friend pegging him with an I’m-not-buying-it expression. So Izz reluctantly adds, “it was consensual.”

He watches Zidie’s face light up like a Christmas tree—with a bunch of presents under it waiting to be unwrapped. Izz needs to cut that train of questioning off before they’re set free. “No. I am not talking about it.”

“Don’t be a buzz kill, Izz. Not like there’s much else to talk about in here. Spill.”

He would rather talk about a million other things which don’t involve his newly discovered kinks. Like the grass, and how long it’s not grown, it is literally the same length as when he arrived in prison. And he’s never seen anyone mowing it. Is this grass even real? It presents as real and feels pretty real. Maybe they have a night shift of prisoners who came out with a pair of scissors and a ruler, to trim the stuff—

You’re surely not thinking about grass to avoid the question?

Maybe he can change the subject—except, knowing Zidie a subject change won’t work. The man is tenacious and ruthless when he wants to pry into someone’s business.

“Yeahhhhh, Izzy, my man,” Sinj bellows from across the yard as he saunters over to The Gang. Arriving late as usual, “look at them battle scars.”

Sinj holds his fist out to Izz, waggling his eyebrows. Izz grumbles under his breath as he reaches up to pound his knuckles with the red-head. Why is Sinj so mellow about these things? Whereas the rest of The Gang are liable to pop a haemorrhage over it.

Sinj’s nonchalantly open with everything sexual. Including giving it up for items or protection. He’s always bragging about blowing someone for expensive Commissary products or contraband. And he’s completely on board with Izz and Sin’s relationship dynamics. In fact, he encourages it. Telling Izz it’s a good deal, ‘ why bother protecting yourself when someone else is willing to do it for you’ .

“Well well well,” the soft voice cutting in is God-sent, giving Izz a reason to avoid Zidie’s inevitable torrent of questions.

That is, until he turns to the voice and finds a familiar feminine inmate swaggering over.

“If it isn’t my favourite smoking buddy,” the small inmate purrs. Hips swaying with exaggerated movements.

Vince.

Izz celebrated the interruption too soon. Why does it have to be Vince? Of all the inmates or guards who could have jumped on the interrupting train. Why does it have to be this one?

He’s not sure why he’s on edge. Maybe because Vince made it clear he’s into selling his body to get things—except Sinj does that too, and Izz’s not on edge around the red-head.

It could be something to do with Sin? Perhaps Izz doesn’t want word getting back to Sin regarding him talking with the prison . . . prostitute . . . ? Escort? Hooker? What do they call themselves these days?

“Hi,” Izz pulls out his polite self-defence, restraining his urge to snap at the small female-presenting inmate, “haven’t seen you around.”

Can you please fuck off. Izz’s itching to say, holding the words in by his fingertips. It’s hard work being so polite—some days he wonders why he bothers. It’s so much effort. Wouldn’t it be easier to blurt out the truth?

“You haven’t been looking very hard, Sweetness,” Vince purrs, moving too close for Izz’s comfort, standing to hover over Izz. “I’m where I always am.”

Great, another pet name from a random inmate. Why can’t they use ‘Izz’ or even his real name. Which at this point he probably won’t register if someone is talking to him. He hasn’t been called Jasper since the counsellor mentioned it. Everyone calls him Izz—except for those with ulterior motives—and Sin—but Sin doesn’t count. He actually likes it when Sin calls him ‘Beautiful’ or ‘Gorgeous’ .

“You care to have a chat,” Vince smiles, in what he no doubt imagines is seductive—to Izz it screams fake intentions and artificial flirtation.

He’s into one—and only one—inmate in this cage, and it is not this overly feminine cute inmate before him. His is a rough dangerous alluring male, with zero tolerance to anyone near Izz.

Not really, but if it gets rid of you quicker. Izz answers in his head. Deciding against telling Vince outright. He picks a more friendly approach. He doesn’t need to make more enemies.

“Sure. Talk away.”

And then leave. Izz adds silently.

Where is Sin when Izz needs him. If the feared male—who everyone avoids—was around, he wouldn’t have to deal with Vince. No one bothers him when Sin is nearby.

In fact, they studiously make a point to avoid looking anywhere within Izz’s vicinity. Even the guards tiptoe around him. It’s . . . eerie.

“Elsewhere,” Vince flutters his eyes at Zidie—and the rest of The Gang reclining close by—reminding Izz of a bitchy girl in a reality show. All I’m-the-best-one-here-and-I-know-it.

Sucking in the strength to deal with Vince. He begrudgingly rises to his feet, trudging off, separating himself from The Gang. He doesn’t wander far. Out of earshot, not out of sight. He doesn’t trust Vince. And Sin isn’t here to protect him. He knows Zidie and Reni will jump in to help, if he needs it. The way the two of them are outright staring reveals they are already considering it.

Love those two.

“I have someone who’s been in my business. Says I owe him money. I don’t care for it. If you would be so nice as to ask Sinn'ous to deal with him, I would be much obliged.” Vince doesn’t mince his words. Straight to the point as soon as they are out of hearing range. “I know you have sway with him.”

What came out of Vince’s mouth is not what Izz had been expecting. Or prepared for. Standing in front of the feminine inmate, he waits for his mind to catch up. To fully grasp what he’d just been asked.

“You want me to ask Sin to kill someone for you . . .” He’s so caught off guard he accidently uses the pet name he’s given Sinn'ous, in a sentence with a stranger—not sure Sin will appreciate it.

“Yes, Sweetness,” Vince purrs, placing a hand on Izz’s chest, he’s too stunned to react to the contact. “I can owe you a favour . . . Anything you wish . . .”

Vince is really offering—

For a—

What?

“Ahhh.” What is he supposed to say in this situation? His mind is blanking. He’s doubtful he can remember his own name at this point.

What . . .

“I—ah, need to—I have somewhere I need to be . . .” Where? They’re literally locked in the same cage with the same schedules. No one has anywhere they need to be right now.

“Alright Sweetness. Come find me later.”

Ha, yeah. That’s not happening.

Izz watches numbly, filled with confusion, as Vince swaggers his hips off. Deliberately swaying his ass for Izz to gape at.

The only reason he’s watching Vince walk off is because his mind isn’t connecting with his body to tell him to move. He’s glued in place, going nowhere fast.

“Seriously, did that conversation just take place?” Izz whispers into the wind. No one else is around to hear or answer him, and the wind doesn’t seem interested in answering either.

~~~

Izz’s in a weird mindset for the rest of the day. He ran through his laundry duties on autopilot. He barely remembers any conversation he had with Zidie or the rest of The Gang.

He’s unsure if he’s weirded out by the conversation with Vince or worried about what Sin will do if he finds out.

He decides to skip dinner and wait in the Satanic cell for Sin to return from the cafeteria. He perches on the edge of the thickly cushioned bunk. His thoughts are too erratic to consider eating. He’s way too anxious to try, he may throw up if he does.

“You didn’t show up to eat,” Sin’s voice demands answers without the need to ask.

Does Sin already know? Or is this a greeting to be polite and enquire why he isn’t eating?

Is he reading more into it? And freaking himself out, when Sin doesn’t know anything . . .

Should he breeze over the implied demand or pretend he hasn’t noticed it? Which will be worse? Feigning ignorance or telling the truth. If Sin doesn’t know, he could get away with the lie. But if Sin does know, will the serial killer be angry enough to hurt him?

No, Sin will never hurt me.

Be honest. Lies never stay hidden anyway. It will be worse if Sin finds out from someone else.

“I . . . Um. I have something to tell you . . .”

Where did all the air go?

Sin is a dangerous statue filling the cell’s entrance. Unmoving, save for each deep breath.

Is Sin tense? Sin is tense, isn’t he? He must already know.

Stay calm, you’re panicking over nothing. You don’t know if Sin knows anything.

Izz takes a deep breath and jumps off the cliff, “Vince offered himself in exchange for me asking you a favour.”

Izz’s anxiety spikes when Sin doesn’t react to the news. Does it mean he already knows? Or he doesn’t care?

The overwhelming need to fill the silence has Izz opening his mouth to explain further, “he has an inmate who he owes money to . . . he wanted you to . . . k-kill them. Asked me to ask you . . .”

Izz fiddles with the prison sheets under him. Twisting the material between his fingers, he’s too nervous to continue holding Sin’s gaze. Using the lapse in conversation to study the surprisingly clean floor—considering no one vacuums it.

“What did you say.” Sin’s voice is cold. Devoid of any emotion.

Izz’s sure Sin heard him correctly and doesn’t actually want him to repeat it. Is more astonished someone would brazenly ask this of Izz. He assumes. He can’t read anything from Sin’s voice and he can’t bring himself to look at Sin’s face.

“I didn’t really answer him. I wasn’t expecting to be asked such a thing. It caught me off guard.” Not like he isn’t caught off guard all the time. When is he ever ready for the crazy things this Hell-hole throws at him.

“He touched you,” Sin’s voice is dark, riddled with dangerous intent. Sucking the air right out of the cramped cell.

Izz’s terrible at reading people, and even he can tell Sin is fuming. Pissed enough to indicate he probably hadn’t known about this incident until five seconds ago.

Might have been better to keep quiet and not divulge this titbit of information.

“No—Well. Yes. But it wasn’t—”

Sin strides off. Disappearing out of sight down the second-floor platform. Izz can hear his heavy footfalls clunking on the bare metal platform.

“Wait,” Izz bellows after Sin, “where are you going?” He jumps up to rush after him—

Only for his feet to tangle in the sheets, taking him down to the cell’s hard floor. His knees erupting in a pained protest to the harsh landing. He’s going to have bruises over the entire expanse of his knees. Zidie will find a million reasons to tease him for it.

Using his hands as leverage he kicks his legs around. Little noises of frustration escaping his throat as he tries to fight free of the twisted sheets.

How did my legs get so tangled?

With a final shake, he breaks free. Scrambling up to chase after Sin—

There is no one on the second-floor platform. Clapping his hands on the railing, he leans over the side, checking out the level below. He can’t see Sin down there either. No inmates with red and black hair, a sea of colours, but not the one he is looking for.

Sin is gone.

This is bad. This is really, really bad.

Stumbling down the stairs, Izz runs through the grey sea—the other inmates moving out of his way. With no destination in mind, he sprints down the first corridor he reaches. He has to find Sin before something terrible happens. His stomach is knotting with dread the longer he runs with no sign of Sin.

Throwing his body around another bend in another corridor, he spots Zidie further down the other end. A relief.

Izz cups his hands around his mouth to help his words travel—not that the echoing empty corridor needs the extra support. Bellowing to Zid, “have you seen Sin—Sinn'ous?”

Zidie indicates the corridor off to the side. “C-Wing. He looked pissed. What’s going on?”

Izz doesn’t answer. He sprints down the corridor Zidie pointed towards. Hoping it leads straight through to C-Wing. He doesn’t know his way around well enough to find C-Wing in time if he becomes lost. There isn’t time to be thrown off course. And in his panicked state he is very likely to run aimlessly in circles.

If he doesn’t make it in time, Vince will die. He doesn’t want anyone else to join the list of inmates to die because of him. To die because Sin killed them in his possessive territorial claim on Izz.

“My Izz isn’t interested in your scams, little con artist,” Izz can hear Sin’s growling voice down the corridor.

Izz’s so close, relief flooding him, followed by a constricting sense of doom.

I’m nearly there. Sin has to be around this next bend.

Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.

“I-I-I w-wasn’t—”

He skids, nearly colliding with the wall as he overshoots the corner. His eyes locking on the scene before him—as he braces his hand on the wall to steel himself—his lungs and legs threatening to give out.

Vince is pinned against the bars of one of the cells in a suspiciously empty C-Wing, his feet dangling off the floor. Sin holding him aloft by the throat, gripping his neck tightly. Vince’s eyes are bulging from their sockets and his face is bright red, and deepening in colour by the second.

“Save it. We all know you were. I don’t kill for hire—I don’t kill, at all. There is no evidence. No proof. And there never will be.”

Izz’s frozen.

As he watches Vince struggling to free himself. Watches the inmate desperately pushing at Sin. His pathetic attempts to break free becoming weaker and weaker. All Izz can do is stand there, his eyes wide, praying for Sin to let the other inmate go. Incapable of voicing it, his throat too dry to form the words he desperately wants to say.

“Keep away from Izz,” Sin snarls, leaning closer to Vince’s face, “and you and I won’t have a problem that needs . . . solving . . . Understood.”

Through his choking and whimpering, Vince drops his head slightly, nodding. Unable to utter a verbal reply. His lips are changing colour, growing an unnatural blue tint.

Sin steps back, and Vince hits the floor. Gasping and wheezing. Choking on air. His face a deep red to match his equally red neck.

Izz still can’t speak, he wants to do something—anything. But he’s stuck. Unable to move. Trapped in his own body . . . Frozen. This would get him killed—if he was an animal, seizing up in the face of danger.

Sinn'ous doesn’t look Izz’s way. He doesn’t acknowledge Izz in the slightest. Merely saunters off in the opposite direction. His head held high, his shoulders rolling with every step.

Sinn'ous doesn’t look back.

Before Izz has a chance to find his voice and call out, Sinn'ous is disappearing behind the far row of cells. And Vince is staggering to his feet, using the cell’s bars—catching Izz’s attention.

“Are you okay?” Stupid question to ask someone who was almost asphyxiated by a serial killer.

Vince holds his hand out, as if he wants to fend Izz off. “Leave—”

Another violent coughing fit engulfs Vince. The feminine inmate sliding back down to the floor, gripping the bars for dear life as he hunches over on the ground.

Izz reaches forward to try to assist Vince. “Let me help—”

The cute inmate shies away. Keeping out of reach, avoiding Izz’s hands. “Leave.”

“But I—”

“Please,” Vince’s voice is straining to form the words. His rasping tone cut off with wheezing noises.

Izz hugs his arms around his middle. All he wants is to help. To tell Vince he’s sorry. Instead, he swivels away. Sprinting from the man he almost got killed. So he won’t cry in front of them. His eyes prickling with unshed tears.

He hadn’t meant to cause anyone to be hurt. He never wanted Vince to be attacked. Or any of the others . . .

Why is this place filled with so much violence?

So much death . . .

Izz doesn’t stop running until he finds himself back in Sinn'ous’s cell. He hadn’t consciously thought about coming here and his legs are too weak to carry him anywhere else—he lets them collapse. Falling onto the empty bunk. Hugging the pillow to his chest.

Where did Sinn'ous go? Why isn’t he here?

Is he angry at me?

Is it me? Am I so broken I bring death to everyone?

All he’s done since he arrived is make a mess out of everything. Get his friends thrown in The Hole. Get people killed. . . And . . . He’d murdered too . . . A guard who will never go home to their family . . .

He’s worse than everyone in here. His body count is growing with every passing day. He should be locked up for the rest of his life. They should throw away the key. Never let him out. How can he live normally in the outside world when he has done so many bad things in here?

He will never be the same.

He thought he enjoyed being around people, but in this cage it always results in violence. In fighting. In death . . .

His friends punished for something they shouldn’t have been involved in. People dead who had years left to live. Families who’ve lost loved ones. All because of him.

He is a curse to them. Maybe he should go to The Hole. It would protect everyone else from him.

And worst of all, Sinn'ous hadn’t looked at him. Had walked off and left him behind. If not even a serial killer will have him, there must be something wrong with him.

I’m broken.