Chapter Nine

The shower room was not only filled with the sounds of water hitting tile but also the low growls and snarls of angry conversations between inmates. The air was thick with tension, and Milo could feel the predatory gazes of other prisoners as they strutted around naked.

Milo stood under the lukewarm spray of the prison shower, trying to focus on the water. But he couldn’t really tear his attention away from Torres, standing a foot away. The proximity of him made Milo’s pulse race and his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

Torres, naked and unabashed in the communal showers, was a vision of raw masculinity that Milo couldn’t ignore. Water droplets clung to his olive skin, glistening like diamond. His broad, sensuous mouth curved into a small smile as if in answer to some private joke. It was infuriatingly attractive and intimidating all at once.

As if he sensed Milo’s attention, Torres turned to look at him. His dark eyes were intense, drinking Milo in. Milo’s pulse raced as Torres stepped closer, the distance between them rapidly shrinking. Without a word, Torres backed Milo against the cold, wet tiles, their bodies just inches apart. A familiar wave of exhilaration washed over Milo. Torres had done this before, it was almost routine in fact. But this time, there was something in Torres’s eyes that made Milo’s instincts flare.

Despite the sense of powerlessness that gripped him, he was drawn to Torres’s strong, protective presence. The intensity in Torres’s eyes left Milo feeling exposed, like Torres could see right through to the core of his desires.

As Torres’s body pressed closer, Milo’s face flushed with embarrassment. Under the lukewarm spray of the shower, he felt Torres’s hands on his skin. They traced the contours of Milo’s body. It wasn’t quite washing, it was more of an exploration. Different to the one he’d made last night or the night before that. Almost casual by comparison.

God, Milo was getting hard. He wondered if Torres knew, if anyone else could see. But no, Torres was blocking their view. Still, Milo felt an undercurrent of anxiety—what if someone saw? What if they were caught?

The eroticism of the secret touches intensified Milo’s arousal, his breath coming in shallow pants as his body responded against his will.

Torres didn’t utter a single word, but Milo could feel the power behind his actions, the unspoken dominance in it. He was showing everyone that he owned Milo. Every, including Milo himself.

Milo’s body trembled with anxiety and, yes, desire. He felt hot, hotter than the water, as Torres slipped his hand down Milo’s back, grabbing hold of his ass cheeks in a firm, possessive grip. The unexpected grope made Milo shudder.

Fuck, Milo thought, where is this going?

Torres remained silent, watching Milo intently. His fingers roamed over Milo’s ass, squeezing his cheeks, pulling them apart, massaging them in his palms. Milo felt his cock throb. He knew if Torres looked down, he would see it, right there. But Torres didn’t look down. He looked only into Milo’s eyes, as if searching for something.

His fingers slid between Milo’s cheeks. One fingertip eased down, down, and then brushed lightly over Milo’s entrance.

Milo gasped, his hips jerking forward in an involuntary flinch. He saw Torres’s gaze intensify. And then Torres pressed his finger in purposefully, circling Milo’s tight hole.

Milo couldn’t help it. He moaned, his lips parting, breath coming short and shallow. Torres’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in the air between them, some intense connection.

He’s going to finger me, right here,Milo thought wildly. His body tensed, anticipating what was to come. Relax, he silently urged himself, trying to breathe through the mixture of emotions coursing through him.

But just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. Torres withdrew, leaving Milo shaking.

What was that?he wondered, his mind reeling. As if nothing happened, Torres turned away and focused on finishing his shower, ignoring Milo as if he didn’t exist.

Did he do that just to tease me? Or was that about control?

There was no obvious answer. Milo could only finish washing and wonder what exactly Torres intended.

***

Milo followed Torres out of the shower block towards the cafeteria for breakfast. Another dull day in this hellhole, he thought bitterly. Every day was the same endless cycle—shower, breakfast, work detail in the laundry, lunch, and so on in a mind-numbing loop of boredom. The only thing that broke the monotony was Torres, and his confusing behavior.

If Milo hadn’t agreed to it, hadn’t asked for it, then it would be harassment. Assault, even. But Milo had chosen Torres over anyone else in this place. And so far Torres hadn’t done anything too terrible to him.

He almost fingered you in the shower, Milo protest to himself. But then, the traitorous thought came in answer, Yeah, and you liked it, didn’t you?

He bit his lip. Had he? God, he had.

As they entered the cafeteria, the usual cacophony of inmates shouting and banging trays assaulted Milo’s senses. He grabbed a tray and followed Torres to their usual table with the other Latino inmates. Just as Milo was about to dig into what was apparently supposed to be oatmeal, a commotion erupted across the room.

A large Latino man had risen from his seat, shoving his tray aside and squaring up to a wiry Aryan punk. “Say that again, bitch!” the Latino roared, fists clenched.

The Aryan sneered. “I said your mama’s a whore who spreads for anything with a dick!”

With a guttural yell, the Latino launched himself over the table, grabbing the Aryan by his shaved head and slamming his face down onto the metal surface with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed from the punk’s shattered nose as he howled in agony.

Instantly, chaos erupted all around them. Inmates from both factions leapt to their feet, trays and chairs flying. Milo shrank back in terror. Everywhere he looked, inmates were pummeling each other with savage fury. It was as if they’d been waiting for this excuse, and now they were going to make the most of it.

Milo’s heart hammered as he cowered against the wall, trying to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible. He flinched as a chair sailed past his head and shattered against the concrete, sending jagged splinters flying. Oh God, he thought desperately, I’m going to die in here.

A burly Aryan with a shaved head and a swastika tattoo on his neck lunged towards Milo, his eyes blazing with malice. Milo froze, paralyzed with terror as the man’s hands reached out, fingers clawed.

Suddenly, Torres was there, slamming into the Aryan like a freight train. The two men crashed to the ground, smashing a chair to bits as they fell. Milo screamed, his heart in his throat. But then Torres was on top. Milo watched in mute horror as Torres pounded the man with ruthless efficiency, his knuckles splitting open from the force of the blows.

Another Aryan bore down on him. Milo screamed again— “Torres, look out!”

If Torres heard him, he gave no sign, but he twisted, ducking under the second Aryan’s swinging fist, and came up to drive his elbow into the man’s gut. Milo watched in horror as the violence unfolded, his only consolation that Torres didn’t seem to need any help. The man was like a killing machine.

Is this who he really is?

Milo’s heart jumped as the piercing wail of the guards’ whistles cut through the din of the brawl. He watched with wide, fearful eyes as a phalanx of heavily armored guards waded into the fray, swinging their batons with brutal efficiency. Inmates crumpled to the ground as the guards beat them into submission.

For a moment, Milo felt a surge of relief wash over him. The guards would put an end to this madness, and he would be safe. But then his gaze fell on Torres, straddling an unconscious Aryan, his fists dripping with blood.

Two guards grabbed Torres by the arms, wrenching him off the man and slamming him face-first into the ground. Milo watched in horror as they yanked Torres’s arms behind his back and cuffed him.

“You’re going to the hole for this, you piece of shit,” one of the guards snarled, his face contorted with contempt.

“No!” Milo cried out, stumbling forward on shaking legs. “He didn’t start it! He was just—”

The guard whirled on Milo, his eyes blazing with fury. “Shut your fucking mouth!” he roared, backhanding Milo across the face with a meaty fist.

Pain exploded in Milo’s mouth as he staggered back, tears springing to his eyes. He clutched at his face, feeling the hot sting of the guard’s blow throbbing beneath his fingers.

Through blurred vision, Milo watched helplessly as the guards hauled Torres to his feet, dragging him towards the exit. Torres’s face was a mask of stoic defiance, but Milo could see the tension in his jaw, the wild light in his eyes.

As Torres disappeared through the doorway, Milo felt a crushing sense of despair settle over him. Without Torres to protect him, he was utterly alone in this hellish place. The thought of facing the daily horrors of prison life without his cellmate to protect him filled Milo with a sickening dread.

He was going to die, or worse. And Torres? Might not be coming back to save him.