Prescott

Another day of nothingness eats at my soul.

Another day of trying to figure out how to break away or how to break Beat. Both will grant me my wish—freedom.

Like everything else, this is a numbers game. What are the odds of me running away without his help? Right now, with no weapon, slim. And what are the odds of him cracking for me? Perhaps they will get better tonight, with a little push from Mother Nature.

Time moves too slow and too fast, as it does in desperate situations. Sometimes, when I fall asleep on the cold floor, I wake up with a sharp inhale. My hair is slick with sweat and my throat burns after his hourglasses haunt me in my dreams. Hourglasses. I can’t bear them anymore. I once slammed my fist into the new TV in my living room because I saw the opening to Days of Our Lives. Spent the night in the ER.

Time.

I’m running out of it.

Today I’ve decided that since I’m not blindfolded and tied anymore, I should go treasure hunting in the carton boxes under the table. There are some old clothes and family albums from one of the guys, but I don’t know which, and they’re so dated, the people in the photos are either too old or too young to be recognized.

Shoving my hand again into the damp box, I retrieve a simple-looking red book. When I open it, warmth flutters in my chest, taking over, making my heart beat faster.

THIS DIARY BELONGS TO

NATE THOMAS VELA

INMATE #21593

SAN DIMAS STATE PRISON, CALIFORNIA

No. Way.

There’s no question it belongs to Beat and not to Ink. I’ll bet anything I have that Ink barely knows how to spell his own name. Beat, on the other hand. . .the first time I saw him, he had a paperback rolled into his back pocket.

His nickname is homage to the literature movement.

I flip a page and read the first entry, my back pressed to the boarded windows, slivers of light licking at the yellow, crusty paper.

OCTOBER 23RD, 2010

IF YOU’RE GOING THROUGH HELL – KEEP GOING (WINSTON CHURCHILL)

Cafeteria. Red-rimmed eyes. Prepackaged meal. Still untouched.

“Took your time, but you’ve made it, boy.” A squeeze on my shoulder throws me back to reality and I snap out of zombie-mode. Twisting my head in surprise, I see my old neighbor, Frank. As a kid, I spent a lot of time in his backyard helping him build shit from all the damaged stuff he had collected from street corners. Broken bikes and TVs were his favorites. I loved his willingness to fix broken things. I also loved his black eye patch. Thought he was a pirate. Or maybe a brave soldier who got injured in Vietnam.

He was neither.

Someone took his eye out with a swizzle stick in a bar fight.

I knew he was serving time here for drug trafficking because moments after the police dragged his ass out of his house five years ago kicking and swearing, his meth lab exploded and formed an atomic bomb-like mushroom cloud above our neighborhood. Took two weeks to get rid of that black shit.

I hunch the shoulder he’s clutching in a shrug.

“Not much to do outside, huh?” He slides next to me with his tray and rips into his four bangers like it’s Burger King. “Here, at least you don’t have to pay rent.”

I avert my gaze from him back to the cafeteria crowd, my eyes landing on the sea of bald, tattooed heads in front of me, lined up in layered, horizontal rows.

“Whaddidya’ do, Nathaniel?”

“I killed him.” I roll my tongue over my teeth.

He nods. “Finally.”

Yeah. My dad left impressions everywhere. He was special like that.

“Plea deal?” He stabs something that vaguely resembles beef and smells like mothballs with his fork.

“Fifteen for manslaughter, parole in four.” The judge said no man should so effortlessly and brutally kill someone else. If it was purely self-defense, Judge Chester argued—then why did I smirk as the cops read me my rights?

“How old will you be when you get out?”

“Twenty-six.”

This awards me with a satisfied nod. Ha. My neighbor thinks I’m redeemable.

Think again, old man.

I came here with plenty of holes in my shoes and plenty of nothing in my belly. Life felt like I was sipping it through a narrow straw. I always gasped for more.

I have the whole sob story written in its predictability all over my resume. Bad school, bad neighborhood, bad family.

My only moment of deep breath was when I smashed a vase into Nathaniel Vela Senior’s head. Between working as a janitor at the local mall and trying to stop my father from beating the shit out of my mother, there wasn’t much room for chasing opportunities or grabbing life by the throat.

San Dimas was an upgrade, as far as I could see.

But I’m not like them, the young inmates.

Hungry and angry and boiling with barely restrained ire. I’m at peace with where I am. Hell, it’s probably exactly where I should be.

“Plenty of jobs for you when you get out.”

I throw him a condescending smirk and wipe my utensils with the sleeve of my orange uniform.

But Frank is not the type to be deterred by silence. He nudges me and laughs, spitting crumbs of minced meat on the table. His good eye is dry and rarely blinks. Probably for a good reason, ‘round here.

“You still writing poetry, Nathaniel?” He hoots, choking on his food. I used to write under his oak tree as a kid. His place was quiet, mine—chaotic.

I don’t indulge him.

“Might wanna keep your little hobby for yourself here. You’re too pretty to walk those halls without guard escort as it is.”

Taking a slow sip of my water, I stare ahead.

“Don’t worry, boy. I got your back.”

I’m not worried. Because in order to be worried, you need to care.

And I don’t.

Peaceful, yet completely apathetic.

That was my state of mind before I got here.

And that’s how I will most likely leave.

I’m running my bloody finger over the wall—for the third time since I got here—when he arrives with his Guy Fawkes mask and a brown paper bag. I sit straight and watch him intently. Nate. It’s difficult to admit that he’s my sunray in the rain, but that’s exactly what he is. Weird, freaky, elusive. . .and comforting all the same.

“Soap, shampoo, Tampax, couple of clean shirts. . .”—he starts listing what he brought for me as he takes the items out of the bag, placing them in a neat row on the small wooden table, not even sparing me a glance—“. . .two bottles of water, three bags of chips, chalk so you’ll stop smearing blood all over the walls, I’d like my deposit back, believe it or not, a stress ball, a book. . .”

“What book?” I cut into his words, lolling my bloody finger inside my mouth, sucking it clean. His head twists. He wasn’t ready for my question.

“Something I had upstairs.”

I jump on my feet and pace toward him. The eyes behind the mask remain blank. He doesn’t scan my body. He doesn’t find me attractive, or if he does, he’s extremely good at hiding it. My heart dives down with disappointment. It’s going to be difficult to seduce him into making an epic mistake that’d grant me my freedom. Taking the stress ball from his hand and squeezing it fast and hard makes me feel instantly better, like I’m pumping some of the storm out of my body. It’s been overflowing for days.

“Dreams from Bunker Hill?” I pick up the coffee-stained paperback with my free hand, brushing his tattooed knuckles, and not by accident. Each finger is inked with a cartoonish doodle. Ink was either drunk or is extremely untalented to have given him these horrible tats. My shoulder purposely bumps into his chest. He takes a step back, staring at me like I grew a pair of wings and a third green eye.

“I read it when I was fifteen.” My tone is lenient. Nostalgic.

“Sucks for you. I’m not a library.”

“You know what this is?” I brush the wrinkled spine of the book, still warm from its owner’s touch. He folds his arms over his massive chest, staring at me through the mask. “This is you telling me that’s why you called yourself Beat. Admit it. You want to talk to me, you want me to listen.” I lick my lips, clutching onto the novel like I can squeeze Beat’s heart’s desires and secrets with it.

“You seem to know a lot about a nameless man in a mask you hang out with a few minutes a day,” he grunts.

“Have dinner with me here.”

“No,” he says. “Your fifteen minutes of shitting, showering and washing your clothes have officially started. Move it.”

Reluctantly, I drag my feet upstairs with my new toiletries in tow and watch as he pads into the bathroom, locking the door behind us.

“How come Ink is never around?” I take off my clothes.

“He works nightshifts.”

That explains why we spoke freely last night.

“He’s here tonight, though,” Nate adds.

“So how come he hasn’t checked on me even once?”

I swear he blushes under that mask.

I don’t want him to think that I have a problem with the current arrangement, so I reassure him, by adding, “I’m not complaining. I like you better, for the record.”

“Duly noted, now get your ass in the shower.” He gives me a light nudge. I turn my back to him—showing him that I trust him and start humming under the stream of hot water, swaying my hips to a bad pop song. I love pop songs, because the Archers hate them.

Nate washes my dress again, even though there’s no need. Maybe it soothes him to do something while he’s here.

“Why were you upset last night?” I throw my head back and let the water wash out the shampoo he bought for me. It’s hard to believe that only a few nights ago, I was still living in Danville, with a walk-in shower and four showerheads in my own giant bathroom. My usual shampoo is made of organic coconut and my body lotion probably costs more than his shoes.

“Finish up. I’m gonna hang this in the meantime.” He ignores me and walks away, locking the door behind him. I quickly get out of the shower and resume my search for sharp objects.

Remember, Prescott, it’s a numbers game. Nate’s crack-up percentage is at about 15%, if not less. Camden will be here in twenty-seven days. . .

Time.

Godfrey was right. It slips between your fingers until you’re dead. I need to find a way out of this place, fast. I can’t rely on Nate’s good heart if I have a slight chance to make it on my own.

I place one foot against the wall, grab the towel rack and pull it out with force. I use it to pop the lock on the bathroom door with a loud bang. There’s no way either of them didn’t hear the lock breaking in two.

Time.

I know my countdown starts now.

Ten.

I storm out with nothing but a towel. Once in the narrow, dim corridor, I run straight to the small living room and launch for the main door.

Nine.

It’s locked. I swivel back and look around, eyes frantic, urgently searching for the keys.

Eight.

They should be here somewhere. Beat and Ink can’t lock themselves in from the outside.

Seven.

I hear his heavy footfalls. The hallway is short, too short.

Six.

I spot the keys resting inside a fruit bowl, hidden between a few black bananas. I scoop them and jam the key into the lock with shaky hands. I can’t do it. Dammit, I keep missing the hole!

Five.

Trying once.

Four.

Trying twice.

Three.

Come on. Come on. Come on.

Two.

Taking a deep breath, I jam the key again, twisting it left and right.

Click.

I swing the door open and trip through it, at first heavily, like I’m moving through sticky dough. I still can’t believe my good luck. My pace breaks into a full-on sprint when I get used to the sudden fresh air. I’m out. My bare feet are hitting the dewed grass.

I’m out. I’m out!

I’m running into the pitch-black night, toward the lights, toward Taco Bell, toward freedom. Once I get there, I’ll fall to my knees and beg the cashiers for help. They’ll call 911. I’ll be safe.

All I need is to get to the corner of this sleepy, wide-road boulevard. It merges with El Dorado, one of Stockton’s main streets.

Liberty is at my fingertips, and I can almost brush it. Hell, I can already smell it. Nighttime breeze hits my lungs, the bloom of summer violent with its hopefulness. I gulp it in pleasure, gasping for more.

Stumbling upon shattered beer bottles, I race forward, wincing in pain but never stopping, my muscles straining under the rush of adrenaline.

I’m just about to round the corner into plain sight when a huge body football-tackles me into the grass of a front lawn.

My airway is cut by the attacker, who is pressing against my torso. Intentional? At this point, completely irrelevant, as I’m thrown back to square one. Muscular legs are straddling my body and he’s using one hand to pin my arms above my head, the other to cover my mouth.

Nate.

I’m yelling, biting into his palm with everything I have, knowing that he is too good to hit me, too good to inflict pain upon me—though not too good to let me run away from the hands of those who would destroy me—but all I get is his low voice growling brokenly, “Sorry.”

I pop one eye open, shocked. He’s sorry?

“You’re trying to save your life, I get it. But I’m trying to save mine, all right? We can do this cat and mouse thing, where you’re trying to break free and I impose shitty rules to keep you from escaping. Or you can just accept that this is not going to happen. Next time, you’ll be out of this house, Godfrey and Camden will escort you out.”

I feel my chest trembling with tears. Hatred and terror block my throat, making it impossible to swallow. The possibility of not running away from here crashes into me for the very first time. And to think that I was so close. That I’m still close. Outside in the open, straddled by a huge masked man.

But this is a quiet side street in Stockton. On the corner of the street, three homeless people with loaded supermarket carts are yelling and throwing junk at each other.

A bum sleeps under a small shed he created for himself down the road, unmoved by our commotion.

There’s a junkie sitting on the steps of a church not too far away, talking animatedly to her fingers.

Beat and I are nothing special here. Even if we were, no one is going to pick a fight with a guy so big and muscular. Not for me, anyway.

No one is coming to get me.

I open my mouth, intending to protest, maybe even beg—I’m not above begging at this point—when I feel him subtly grinding against me. At first, I think it might be by accident. But no. He’s circling his hips against mine. I lift my ass on an instinct, wanting him to go crazy for me.

I’m going to smash your balls, Mr. Vela.

His cold zipper hits my bare lower stomach—just where the towel slits open. He’s hard. Very hard. And I may be mistaken, but he’s also as thick as Godfrey’s cockney accent.

Beat moves lower, his swollen cock pressed against my sensitive flesh.

The hand that’s clasping my mouth shut is now moving downward, the back of it brushing my erected nipple, going south, grabbing my ass roughly with a squeeze. I sigh, rolling my head against the concrete, wanting to submit to him but knowing I’m about to knee his balls and try to run again. . .

Then his head drops, his forehead meeting mine. I can smell the cheap plastic of his mask and the sweet scent of his masculine sweat. And that peachy mouth, the one I haven’t even seen yet. He lets out a frustrated grunt.

“Let’s go, Pea.”

Nate scoops me up and helps me to my feet before I manage to damage his boys. We walk back to his house—I have no other option I’m completely imprisoned, clasped by this real-life gladiator. But when we walk in, something dawns on me.

He is attracted to me.

He is fighting this for Godfrey. For his life. But if I convince him that I can offer him a way out. . .game on.

There’s a flicker of passion in him. . .and I’m about to set it to flames. Flames that’d burn every single plan Godfrey has for me.

Nate shoves me into the basement and locks me in.

“Last warning. If you don’t want to end up blindfolded and tied again, you’ll behave.”

I sit on a blanket he brought down for me and wait until I hear his body sinking against his mattress, the cheap springs wincing under his weight. Taking out his diary from where I’d hidden it, I read another entry.

NOVEMBER 12TH, 2010

“GOING TO PRISON IS LIKE DYING WITH YOUR EYES OPEN” (BERNARD KERIK)

Losing yourself in repetition is easy, and that’s what prison life gives you.

A structure so neat and linear, days mesh into weeks, then into months—and before you know it—even into years.

I miss Chow Time at 6:00 a.m. every day because I’d rather chew on my cellmate’s leg than eat the breakfast they serve. And Pedro? His leg has seen some pretty rough shit, along with the rest of his crack-addicted body.

I’m a welder at the prison’s general maintenance shop. At 32 cents an hour, I won’t get rich, but at least I’ll be able to afford some Ramen noodles from the canteen.

I work alongside an old English wiseguy named Godfrey. They nicknamed him God in here for a reason. With a distinctive limp that promises a good story behind it, he spends most of his time listening to classical music or hanging out with Seb— another British inmate who I think’s gay by the way he looks at me. Ninety percent of the people here want to fuck me, but Seb? He looks like he wants to take my butthole on a dinner date and buy it flowers. Maybe even a piece of nice jewelry.

Frank told me that I shouldn’t mess with Godfrey.

Beware of God, for he is very powerful and can seal your faith.

I fly low and work out. Read even more. Four or five hours of reading, every day. Skip the college classes and other bullshit programs they offer, as if you’ll walk outta here into the open arms of society. If life gave you the San Dimas card, a full house is not in your future. Hell, you’d be lucky to have a roof over your head when it’s all over.

But I go to the self-help class because they make you sign up for this crap, and because what else is there to do in this shithole? My options are limited, my time—boundless.

At dinner, I hang out with Frank and his Stockton crew.

San Dimas is known for county gangs. Forget about the blacks, the Latinos, the whites. Sure, there are jump offs between races every now and again. Mostly, though, we keep things civilized.

Other than the Aryan Brotherhood. They’re a pain in everyone’s ass.

Literally.

I walk into my cell today to see a guy I don’t recognize. He’s big, fat, with a homemade swastika tattoo adorning his meaty neck and the face of every illiterate hillbilly from the flicks. Bald, of course. Prison sucks the youth outta you.

“Can I help you?” I grunt.

“Na. But I can help you. Seen you around.” He leans his shoulder on the wall, one hand tucked in his pants. His eyes zero in on my crotch. “You need protection.”

Ignoring him, I reach under my thin mattress, tugging out a paperback. He clasps my arm, his hand greasy. “I said,” he grits, “you’re a pretty boy. Bend. Over.”

I wait for him to throw the first punch, but he just jerks me closer. He’s fatter, bigger. I’m lean but strong enough to take him. Then again I don’t have the AB behind me in case shit goes south.

And it will absolutely go south, judging by the hungry look on his face.

But not the kind of south he’d like to stick his dick into.

“Look, man,” I say calmly. “I’ve nothing to lose. Don’t make me kill you. My ass ain’t worth it.”

He thrusts me into the wall with a thump, his nose brushing mine as he gets in my face.

“Eyes like whiskey, hair so soft, lips full like a girl’s. You think people haven’t noticed? Let’s take a trip to the shower, pretty boy.”

I’m about to do something that’d haul me into ad-seg for a long-ass time, when I notice a shard of glass making its way to my skin. The sharp edge travels along my neck before it passes my cheekbone, poking into the Aryan asshole’s chin. Frank’s crumpled-paper face follows the blade as his lips find the tattooed man’s ear.

“Back off, Hefner. Can’t you see he’s just a kid?”

The Aryan guy’s eyes never break contact with mine. I’m still sandwiched between him and the cracked wall when he lets a rotting sneer loose.

“Careful, old man. You’re no shot-caller in here. We are.”

Frank snorts. “Hefner,” he says, digging the shard into the man’s skin. “There’s only one shot-caller, and that’s God.” He refers to Godfrey Archer, not the almighty. “Now, this one’s not for taking. Get out.”

Hefner’s few working brain cells command him to fuck off out of my forty-eight-square-foot cell, and after an impotent stare down, he dissolves back into the murky hallway of our floor.

“I could’ve handled him myself.” I tug my hair up. “But thanks.”

Frank doesn’t acknowledge my appreciation. Just shoves the shard into my hand, curling my fingers around it.

“Keep it safe. Goddamn, Nathaniel. You are too fucking pretty for San Dimas. You better toughen up or your asshole will be wide enough to push a watermelon through by the time you leave.”

With that, my old neighbor turned rape-preventer walks away, leaving me and what’s left of my pride feeling even smaller and less significant than my tiny room.

It’s difficult to hate him when he’s becoming more human with every page.

In fact, I want to show him how human I am, too.

He shut me up yesterday because he was bending, and I want him to break. Back to the master plan. Back to doing what I can to recruit him to my team.

It’s my turn to show him that I’m real.

“The following weekend, I used that first-class ticket to London and paid Camden a visit.”

Nate grunts quietly upstairs and wish I was there with him on a bed I’ve never seen, in a room I’ve never been in. A room that is undoubtedly not much bigger than his San Dimas cell.

“Camden lived in a Victorian building in Marble Arch, right in front of the big Primark, smack in the middle of London.” I smile to myself, hugging my knees. I may hate Camden, but I’ve always loved his apartment.

“I didn’t know what to expect. We didn’t even kiss the first, and last, time we’d met. . .but he wooed me. Big time. That weekend, we went to amazing restaurants and enjoyed the best seats in the West End. And it took him exactly sixteen hours, from the moment I landed in London, to the moment I landed on his bed, where he drilled into me like there was oil at the end of my pussy.”

My lips curve into a smirk. Nate is probably not so hot on hearing about another guy screwing me senseless. But I understand his silence as a green light to continue, so I do.

“By the time she left London, eighteen-year-old Prescott thought she was madly in love with Camden Archer, the flashy, English hot-shot with charming manners and a fine taste in music and films.”

I hear his tender chuckle. “But let me tell you, Beat, it all went downhill from there.”

“Whatever,” he murmurs. The first time he’s acknowledged my story directly.

“Let’s do dinner tomorrow.”

“No.”

“I’ll be good to you. Maybe even bad, if it’s your type of thing,” my raspy voice suggests through a smirk. “We’ll both pretend that we have someone who cares. Everyone needs a friend.”

I roll my stress ball in my hands, squeezing it until my fingers hurt.

I need.

I need my family back, and hugs, and to count my happy places every now and again. I need to be acknowledged and, as much as I hate to admit it, I need him.