Misfit(197)

Christopher could beat him to within an inch of his fucking life, but motherfuckers like him would keep coming back for him. Exterminate the enemy was a rule of the street and a rule of prison.

Motherfucker slid to the floor, his blood mingling with the water. Blood smeared the area the shower couldn’t reach. Breathing heavily, Christopher looked at the body, noticing a slight rise and fall of motherfucker’s chest.

Troll-motherfucker and Gargoyle had left. Not fucking good. They’d probably gone for fucking backup. Christopher would be locked away for life.

As that realization hit him, Doogie gasped. Taking no chances, he grabbed the blade meant to kill him, kicked the motherfucker over and plunged the knife in his neck, to the hilt. Waiting a moment, he pulled it out and threw it aside, watching impassively as the blood drained out of his attacker.

He stood under the shower to wash the blood from his hands and stepped over the body. A towel lay on the floor, next to Doogie’s discarded clothes.

Christopher picked it up and hurriedly dried himself, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder. He placed the damp towel over the cut to staunch the blood. He’d need this stitched. Wondering how the fuck he'd explain the wound, he hurried back into his jumpsuit. If anybody came in, he could play it off. If his wet hair and his lopsided shoulder wasn’t observed too closely.

Weary, he headed for the corridor and crashed to a halt immediately, seeing Gargoyle and Troll-motherfucker talking to a suited up fuckhead. All three of them turned to him.

Suit broke off and came to Christopher. “Christopher Caldwell?”

“Yeah?”

He glanced at the two guards, then back at Christopher. “I’m Warden Embers. There’s been a mistake that I’m here to rectify.”

Christopher didn’t trust the innocent sounding words. He didn't trust any of the three motherfuckers in front of him. One reason he kept his fucking mouth shut about the cut.

“We’re moving you to a private cell.”

Private? What the fuck was a private goddamn cell? “Solitary?”

“For your own protection.” He cleared his throat. “You’re welcomed to wear your colors.”

“My colors,” he echoed like a stupid motherfucker. But he’d gone from being forced to fuck a motherfucker up to being offered a private cell and his cut. This was past fucking surreal. Especially since the body of the motherfucker he’d fucking killed was still in the shower.

Christopher looked between them, expecting one of them to accuse him of murder. Not a motherfucker spoke. Gargoyle and Troll-motherfucker wasn’t fucking ratting him out. Doogie would stay in the shower, until a fuckhead found him by accident, and everybody would look the other way, going on with their lives.

Drawing his eyebrows together, Christopher looked at Troll-motherfucker and Gargoyle. Both of them motherfuckers seemed a little fucking green around the gills, two fucking undercover Cesars, overseeing gladiators. Of course, it would be Christopher’s word against theirs.

“Follow me,” Embers said into the silence.

“I fuckin’ heard that shit before,” Christopher muttered, having no choice but to do as he was told.





Sitting in a chair in a private room in the hospital, Fee pressed the ‘up’ button on the hospital remote, surfing through the channels on the TV. Though grateful to be alive, she couldn’t believe how gullible she’d been with Noah. She’d known his affiliation with the Torpedoes, had even questioned if he knew Counts…She clenched her teeth.

He must’ve had a good laugh over her asking if he knew Counts when all along he was the man. How could she have been so blind?

She sighed, dropping the remote in her lap and glancing out of the window. From where she sat, she only saw the gray skies. Fitting. The dreariness matched her mood.

What had she done? In her quest to forge a life for herself and get over Cash and Stretch, she’d probably caused a war that could get them killed. Not only them, but Christopher, Johnnie, and the men they called brothers. She couldn’t blame any of them for being angry with her, and forgetting she existed. She should’ve followed someone’s council, since her own had always been so questionable. As fond as she was of referring to herself as an adult who could take care of herself, she’d always done a piss-poor job.

Too late to feel sorry for herself. She hadn’t listened to Cash, when he asked to keep their relationship private. She hadn’t thought of Stretch, when she’d pushed for more. She hadn’t considered Christopher’s rules, when she wanted her way.

After being in and out of consciousness for days, this was the second day she had full lucidity. Vaguely, she recalled people, lots of people. She even remembered seeing Charlotte Redding. Had she imagined that? She couldn’t be sure what or who was real.