Chapter 13: The Smuggler's Game

Jordan

Tik.

Tok.

Tik…

The sound of the cellmate brushing his goddamn teeth was dissolved into the background, making the ticking of the watch in my hand only audible. Because that was the only sound I wanted to hear.

The mornings are getting dull…. since the Underground Cell. The last time I felt unguarded, unshielded, was the time I my fist plunged into Roach's face.

Feeling his bones crack under my knuckles.

The way his face distorts after every blow delivered.

The way his blood stained my face as I reformed him.

Fuck.

Shit like that gets me rock hard faster than my cellmate in tight briefs.

Shh, you didn't hear me say that.

Yep, so back to the reason I held the watch in my hands, an idea spiralled in my head and I thought of playing out.

I'm back to the normal me, not the one Quincy will look like and feel he's gonna snap as I dried stick will.

In the case of putting my thoughts…plans, rather, into action, I was gonna make use of Mr goodie to shoes.

For the record, Quincy Laurent is one of the most unintentionally useful people I’ve ever met. Both in Blackbridge and outside.

He’s also painfully naïve.

Like, baby-deer-on-ice levels of clueless when it comes to the underworld that thrives in a place like Blackbridge. He reads actual books, folds his underwear like he’s still in boarding school, and once asked me—me—if the food here had gluten.

I should’ve decked him on sight.

But instead, I decided to put him to good use.

Why? Because while I might be dangerous, loud, and, according to several reports, a menace to prison society—I’m also resourceful. And a guy’s gotta eat. Not that tasteless mush they serve us at chow. I’m talking real food typeshit. Candy bars. Noodles. Powdered cheese with enough sodium to give God a heart attack.

Contraband.

Sweet, glorious, overpriced contraband.

When I eat them, I sometimes forget that I'm behind bars. The reason being because I eat them outside as well.

And since the last guy who ran the commissary train got transferred for trying to stuff his stash into a guard’s shoe locker, the yard’s been drier than a preacher’s jokes.

Until now.

Until I had Quincy.

Or as I would like to call him: My Unsuspecting Little Mule.

It started one morning during yard time. Quincy was lifting weights like he had something to prove to his dead ancestors. I was doing pushups and planning how to avoid solitary and get cheddar jalapeño chips by nightfall.

Then I saw him.

Ray Ray.

Our resident dealmaker.

Ray Ray could sneak a pack of gum through a strip search if given twenty minutes and a good distraction. He once sold a guy a toothbrush with Bluetooth. Don’t ask.

I jogged over mid-set. “Ray.”

“Vex,” he grinned. “Looking for candy or chaos?”

“A bit of both,” I smirked. “You still got that inside connection?”

He glanced around, then nodded once. “C.O. Evans is on snack rotation. You got the cash?”

“Tch, do I look broke, man?”

Ray Ray eyed me, “This nigga,” he said, laughing. “Your guys from outside really got your back, y'know? It's quite different with some of the inmates. Once they're locked up, they've got nothing on them plates.”

“Yeah,” I heaved a breath. “My folks come through ten times more than Elle will, y'know?”

I rubbed the back of my head as the memory of our last call flooded in, I'm doing my best to not dwell much thoughts on my fucking sister and I have been doing really good at it.

“Yeahh, dawg…” Ray Ray rubbed his goatee like a load of thoughts swarming through his mind.

I know that face.

“It's been a while since I saw Pretty face Elle.” His brows creased as his next line of words flooded in, “Yo, don't tell me she still fuckin' funky ass motherfucker.”

I held my breath, saying, “I don't know, man.” Fixing my balled fist into my pocket. “I've got a niece. A spun of the funky ass.”

“What in the flipping fuck…”

“Hey, man.” I wove my hands in the air, bringing his cussing to a halt. “I don't wanna get worked up about that stuff. Digress, shall we?”

He kissed his teeth, giving off a shallow anger. He had always had a thing for Elle since they were teens. The oaf knows better than to tell me that to my face. I'll degut him.

“Alright, man. What we saying?”

“My usuals. I need food.” I rubbed my hands together like I was freezing in winter.

He grinned, flashed three fingers. “Three items. Choose wisely.”

I did. Quick and easy. Noodles. Candy bars. Powdered cheese.

Now came the real trick—getting it inside.

See, after the Roach Incident™️, the guards were watching me like hawks. Not just the guards being stupidly watchful, Quincy had made it his duty to poke his nose in my business.

He's always so close, I can feel the heat radiating from his pale skin. He's so close, I can see the lining of his slightly above average cock.

What the fuck.

And then when I ask him why he's that close, he’ll wave it off by saying I had brought it upon myself the moment I chose to register a blow to an inmate.

If only he knows how badly he torture me with his fuckin’ presence.

Quincy's by the way.

Blackbridge guards have even started searching my towel for shanks I didn’t hide there. Paranoia was at an all-time high.

So now, for this plan to work effectively, I would need a clean mule.

And what’s cleaner than Mr. "I-Dry-My-Hands-With-Honor" himself?

Time for the plan.

*****

Back in the cell:

Quincy was brushing his teeth, humming some slow indie trash that made me want to commit a second-degree felony just to break the silence.

“Yo,” I called, flipping a playing card against the wall. “You got library duty today, right?”

He spat into the sink. “Yeah, why?”

“Cool. I need you to pass a message for me.”

He raised a brow. “What kind of message?”

“The innocent kind.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why does it sound like I’m already in trouble?”

I stood up, stretched, let my shirt ride up just enough to distract him. (Don’t judge me. I know my weapons.)

I see him sneak peeks at me on several occasions, when I'm done with my push ups, and I'm all sweaty.

This time, he snuck a peek at my abs in milli-seconds, after failing to hold my gaze.

“Look, pretty boy,” I said. “You’re the least suspicious face in this hellhole. You could smuggle plutonium past the warden if you looked stressed enough.”

“Wait—smuggle what?”

“Nothing. Bad metaphor.” I patted his back. “All you gotta do is pick up a book from the return cart by the chapel door. It’s a donation. Look for “The Fault in Our Stars.”

He blinked. “The one with the crying teenagers?”

“Yeah, that one.”

He eyed me. “There better not be a weapon inside it.”

I grinned. “Of course not. Just feelings and sodium.”

*****

An hour later:

Quincy returns to the cell holding the book like it’s been dipped in acid.

He drops it on my bed. “There. You and your teen angst.”

“Much appreciated,” I say sweetly, peeling back the cover and revealing my treasures tucked into a carved-out hole in the pages.

Two instant noodle packs. Three Baby Ruth bars. And one shiny, glorious cheese powder sachet.

I damn near cried.

“You carved out the book?” he asked, incredulous.

“Relax. The kids already cried in it. Might as well make it useful.”

He stared at me, mouth open. “You made me traffic snacks.”

“Technically, literature-enhanced goods.”

“You used me.”

“Technically, I recruited you.”

He paced the cell. “Do you know how much trouble I could’ve gotten into?”

“No,” I said, slurping the air and pretending to eat noodles. “Because you didn’t.”

“Jordan!”

“What?”

He pointed. “You’re unbelievable.”

I licked a finger and tapped my temple. “I’m creative.”

“You’re a felon.”

“And you’re a sidekick now.”

His eyes bulged. “I am NOT—”

I tossed him a candy bar mid-rant. He caught it, stared at it, then at me.

“…This doesn’t mean I’m okay with this.”

“Noted,” I said, ripping open a noodle pack.

He sat down on the floor across from me, still muttering.

But he unwrapped the candy bar.

And took a bite.

Silence settled in for a moment.

Then he said, mouth full: “You’re gonna make me complicit in your crimes, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

He sighed. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

And just like that, the taste of rebellion was shared between bunkmates—him, reluctantly. Me, triumphantly.

Because in Blackbridge, survival was an art.

And I was a damn Picasso.