The Reaper (Eastward Prison)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

HANNAH

Her hands still felt dirty.

They weren’t, they looked clean, but she scrubbed them anyway, hard. She could feel grit, something sticky, something gross and disgusting she wanted to wash off.

She swore under her breath and pumped the soap dispenser furiously, getting another large blob of pink, sickly sweet smelling soap into the palm of her hands, and scrubbing herself like she was about to commence open heart surgery.

The fucker. What gave him the right, no, the audacity , to think he could boss her around like that? That made him think any of this was okay? That she would do what he said? She felt bile in the back of her throat and swallowed. But it didn’t clear.

Her phone beeped.

It was him , texting her. She knew it before she even looked. She roughly scrubbed her hands dry on the scratchy recycled paper towel and grabbed her phone from her trouser pocket.

“I know you are working today. I’m in the waiting area.”

She gritted her teeth.

“We need to talk.” He messaged again, seconds later.

Even his text messages were annoying, arrogant, bullying. The last thing she needed was to talk to him .

Anger flared. Her scrubbed red fingertips flew across her phone screen, typing wildly.

“We aren’t together anymore, Paul, I don’t owe you anything.”

He immediately started typing back. She watched as her heart beat slammed in her ears.

“If you don’t, Hannah, your dad’s business? Kiss goodbye to that. I’m sure I can find a law or two that he is breaking.”

“He’s a mechanic, Paul, I doubt it.”

“That Mechanic shop could get really tied up in a whole lot of legislation, and I know your brother mortgaged himself to the hilt for his new family house…”

She knew she was trapped. She knew she had to do it. Her former lover, her ex-boyfriend, Police Constable Paul Roper. So respectable on the outside. Clean cut, a career man. Wined and dined her. They went to the gym together, played squash and then relaxed in the jacuzzi. She introduced him to her friends and family. They all cooed over how she was so lucky to date a man like him. She bitterly let out a small, dark chuckle at how ridiculous that all seemed now. She had felt it was too good to be true.

And then it turned out she had been right.

She felt like a mouse under the claws of a lion. A hungry, mean lion.

And so she was here, feeling dirty, feeling panicky, unsure how she could push back any more.

“I’m not overordering Fentanyl, Paul.”

“Come on, Hannah, you’re a nurse, you could overorder a few boxes, that way, they are in the prison. Throw in some needles and tourniquets, too, and I’ll show you my appreciation.” He ended that sentence with a winking emoji.

She wanted to puke.

“I take my job seriously, I’m not bringing drugs into Eastward Prison. End of...”

“Hannah, I’m asking nicely, I’ll ask you again and that will be not-so-nicely.”

She let out an anguished sigh, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “I could report you, you know, this text message conversation could ruin your career-”

He put a laughing emoji. She couldn’t see anything funny about this situation.

“Be honest with you darling, Bratva got me by the balls. I pulled a few favours for them, they paid me enough for a decent retirement. IF you report it, you’ll get laughed out of the room. Bratva runs deep in the force round here. Got me by the balls and my chief by the windpipe and the Chief Commissioner by the heart string-”

“You are going to do it and you are going to do it by the end of the week, otherwise-”

She stuffed her phone back in her pocket, and pushed through the doors, marching down the corridors, head down, trying to get out. Fucking corruption. Fucking Bratva, what was Paul Roper doing, getting mixed up in the organised crime gang? That is why she enjoyed her job at the prison. There was nothing more honest and raw and real than helping someone in need. A prisoner was still a human being, still someone worthy of medical help; non judgemental, non political help. And she didn't want to be tainted with any organised crime mess.

She needed air. She just wanted to pop out for some air. Easier said than done at Eastward Prison. This was one of the problems with working in a prison.

She needed a miracle.

“Hi Hannah. Wait, you haven’t signed out… you can’t just march out there-”

She gritted her teeth, determined not to cry, determined not to let anyone see how her heart rate was spiking. She just needed to figure this out, she needed to pace about a bit, she needed to buy some time.

How could she avoid Roper and his request? How could she avoid the Bratva? She knew there were many affiliated prisoners here, would she be in danger if she didn’t comply? She knew the answer to that was a big, fat yes. And his threat about her family’s business, she felt sick thinking her brother and father could get hurt. But smuggling drugs into the prison… professional misconduct, hell, criminal, she could end up in serious trouble if she complied with this request. Not to mention she’d never be able to forgive herself, bringing substances into the vulnerable people who were meant to be under her care… no, she felt sick thinking about it.

Maybe she just needed some time. Time to figure out what to do. To weigh up her options properly and figure out who best to tell, how to proceed… she felt lost, alone. Scared. Trapped.

Finally, she was out in the sunlight. The quickest route to light had been out through the kitchen, she was by the dumpsters, the big rubbish bins that got collected weekly. So it stunk. But it matched her mood. She just needed a moment to-

She froze.

She heard a noise.

Through the maelstrom in her head, and the quiet clatter of prison life, she heard a strange noise.

She swallowed loudly, and listened.

There. She heard it again. A groaning sound.

A person, groaning. In pain.

She snapped out of her mire and her medical training took over.

There. Behind one of the dumpsters. A pair of legs, lying prone on the floor.

A pair of male legs. She rushed over, rounding the dumpster. A man. Tattered white shirt and some sort of dark trousers and covered in dried blood. An icy grip tightened her chest. She crouched down immediately, her eyes sweeping him up and down. Assessing the damage. Triaging.

From what she saw, she became instantly aware of three key facts.

Firstly, he was beaten up, badly.

Secondly, he had a tattoo on his wrist. She could see it, past the dried blood. A grim reaper. She knew what that meant. A member of the local outlaw motorcycle club, The Reapers. A shiver of fear shot down her spine. You stayed away from the Reapers. You let them get on with their own concerns. She occasionally saw small groups of them in town, riding side by side on the road, their bikes so ridiculously loud. She didn’t mix in their circles. For a member of the Reapers to have been worked over this well… you didn’t mess with the Reapers. But the Reapers were a rival of the Bratva.

She narrowed her eyes.

But thirdly, he was good looking. Under the crusted blood, and the bruises and swelling and ripped clothes. Excluding the mess he was in… he was tall, muscular, clear, tanned skin and dark hair. Tattoos everywhere. About her age.

She swallowed.

He had a white dress shirt on, but it was dusty, covered in blood, ripped. It was all rucked up, as if he’d been picked up by it, thrown about. His arms were cut, bloodied, his knuckles split. He’d tried to fight back. A leather bracelet around his wrist had a name plate on it. Jack. She looked at his face. One eye swollen shut, broken nose, bent at a strange angle, face bashed, split lips. Dried blood everywhere. Left for dead round the back of the prison.

“Oh my-”

He groaned again, he was in pain and close to passing out. In fact, she thought he had been unconscious and had only just come round.

“Can you hear me? You need to come with me, you need some medical attention…” She felt stupid for stating the obvious.

“Fuck… who…?” he stuttered. A deep, gruff voice, pinched by pain.

“Don’t worry, I’m Hannah, I’m a nurse here, we need to get you inside and-”

He groaned, his eyelids fluttered closed, caked in scabs of dried blood.

She dared to put her hands on him, examining for stab wounds, feeling for broken bones.

“No I… fuck…” he stuttered, his breath too shallow to do more than let out a whisper. She bent closer to him, looking into his eyes. Dark brown, desperate eyes. “”Who am I?” he finally uttered.

Hannah blinked down at him. And the way he looked up at her, it was exactly how she felt, too. An instant warmth of recognition washed over her. He was just as trapped, just as helpless as she felt.

A handsome, strong, motorcycle club member. With amnesia.

She had seconds to act. Micro-seconds. She had to make a decision, right then and there.

“You are mine, my new beginning.” She uttered.

The door to the yard clattered open behind her. “Hannah, you know protocol, you have to sign out, you shouldn’t be-”

She had seconds to act. Micro-seconds. She had to make a decision, right then and there.

She looked down into the man’s eyes.

“What the hell… Quick! Call it in, medical emergency, Hannah, stay with him, we’ll get a stretcher and a trauma kit… Who is he?” Words echoed in the background as her brain whirred.

She made up her mind. She blinked and swallowed and didn’t break eye contact.

“He’s my… he’s my… boyfriend, he’s… mine.”

The others paused. There was a silence. Something in the universe clicked into place. She watched him with bated breath. He nodded, his eyes roving over her face, searching for truth, for familiarity. His glare was almost shy, almost angry, almost intimate. It was a heady combination for her, it evoked that feeling within her, she wanted to fill him with hope, she wanted more for him. She wanted to be his. She wanted him to be hers. It was impulsive and greedy and delicious all at the same time. He seemed to nod, and sigh, satisfied with her answer, and then he slipped out of consciousness and slumped in her arms.

He was hers. That was the thought that she silently screamed in her head as his pupils bottomed out and his eyelids shut as he lost consciousness; She wanted to be his. She wanted him to be hers.