Chapter 14: Aftertaste

Quincy

I should’ve known something was wrong the moment the guards called me by name.

And not in the "Hey, stock boy or hedge fund guy, move along" kind of way.

No. This was personal. First-name basis.

“Laurent, come with me.”

My stomach did a double backflip. I was halfway through brushing my teeth with the last of my mint ration, trying to ignore Jordan’s smug humming behind me, when those four words pierced through the metal door and the tension of our cell.

I turned slowly, toothbrush still in hand. “Why, man? What's wrong?”

The guard—Martinez, short guy with arms like fire hydrants—just jerked his head. “Warden wants a word.”

Jordan stopped humming.

Which is how I knew I was screwed.

Now, in case it isn’t clear: when the warden wants to speak to you personally, it’s not about offering a commendation speech to you.

It’s about trouble. The one you've put yourself in. With or without realization.

In my case, well…

Because I may not be a genius in the art of smuggling like the guru I shared a cell with, but I was now an accomplice by snack.

Having to see his way of normalcy slowly crawling back in, his gleeful nature, it's really hard to refuse any of his requests. Especially the absurd ones which he always put out for me like a trap.

I gave Jordan one long, soul-searing glare as I walked past him.

He winked.

The smug bastard.

The guard and I walked down the hallway in silence, side by side. I, in cuffs.

The silence stretched unbreakably, and the walk to Halbrook’s office felt like forever.

We came to a stop in front of a metal panel door. The last on the wing.

The guard on escort uncuffed me, and with a gentle push, I was in Halbrook's office.

*****

Let me tell you something about his office—it’s colder than the rest of the building.

Scratch the Underground Cell off. This place is freaking cold

And no. I don't mean temperature.

I mean in the atmosphere. It’s all hard chairs, ticking clocks, and the faint scent of coffee and rage.

The warden sat behind his desk like a man who slept standing up and dreamed about spreadsheets.

He didn’t ask me to sit.

He just leaned forward and placed The Fault in Our Stars on the table like it was evidence in a murder trial.

“So,” he said, voice smooth as cut glass. “You like tragic love stories, Laurent?”

I swallowed. “Sir?”

He flipped the book open. Revealed the hollowed-out core. The candy bars. The powdered cheese. A crumpled noodle packet that still smelled like sodium and sin.

“You checked this out from the chapel return shelf yesterday. You tellin’ me this was accidental?”

I didn’t speak.

Because what could I say? “Sorry, my cellmate’s a snack smuggler with a PhD in manipulation”?

“I didn’t know,” I said finally. It came out hoarse. “I swear to God, sir, I thought it was just a book.”

The warden raised a brow.

“I read, sir.”

He let that sit in the air. Then he leaned back slowly, laced his fingers over his gut.

“That’s what makes this interesting,” he said. “You’ve been on a clean streak. No fights. No contraband. No notes from staff. And now this?”

He looked me over like I was a puzzle that had betrayed him.

“I think you’re smarter than this,” he said.

And for some stupid reason, that hurt.

“I am,” I whispered.

“Then explain why you’re caught up in Jordan Vex’s circus.”

I didn’t answer.

Because how do you explain a human hurricane?

How do you explain a guy who tears your nerves apart by day and then makes your cell feel like home by night?

You don’t.

You just swallow.

The warden let out a sigh. Then, mercifully, he didn’t send me to the hole.

Instead, I was slapped with two weeks of restricted privileges—no commissary, no library, no letters. And a warning: one more stunt like this, and I’d be moved to the Ice Cells for "special reflection."

I walked out of there numb.

*****

Back in the cell…

Jordan was lying on the bottom bunk like royalty, hands behind his head, legs crossed, eating my last granola bar.

I stopped in the doorway.

“I’m going to kill you,” I said calmly.

“Did you get a cavity searched?” he asked, way too casually.

“I got two weeks of restricted privileges.”

“Yikes.” He chewed slowly. “Sooo... no candy for a while?”

I lunged.

He laughed, of course—dodging as I tried to snatch the granola bar from his smug fingers. I didn’t land a punch. He didn’t fight back. He just let me flail while he grinned like a damn hyena.

“You used me,” I snapped, finally giving up and collapsing on the top bunk. “You made me a mule.”

“Relax. You’re like the best-looking mule this prison’s ever seen.”

“Don’t fucking play with me.”

“I’m not.” He paused, dramatically gasping, hands on his chest. “I mean, unless it’s working. I love your use of language, pretty boy. You've got no idea what that shit does to me.”

I groaned, turning away. I don't to hear his voice, or the other trash he's yapping about.

But later that night, when the lights went out, I couldn’t sleep.

Because it wasn’t just about the snacks.

It was about the look the warden gave me—the disappointment in it.

The way I’d almost expected Jordan to fix it somehow. To smooth things over. To care.

Instead, I got candy bars and chaos.

And yet… there was a strange part of me that didn’t regret it.

Because for the first time in months, I wasn’t floating in my own little lonely bubble.

I was pissed. Alive. Present.

Jordan brought a storm with him, but in the middle of it, I wasn’t just existing anymore.

I was… reacting.

I hated that realization.

And I hated how, two hours later, I still wasn’t sure if I’d do it all differently.

*****

The next morning,

Jordan handed me the last Baby Ruth like a peace offering.

I stared at it.

He looked… not guilty. But maybe a little sheepish. In his own Jordan way.

“No strings,” he said. “Just chocolate.”

I took it.

“I’m still mad.”

“I expect nothing less.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes.

Then he muttered, “For what it’s worth… you did great. Almost had me worried you’d rat me out.”

I glanced at him.

“I didn’t do it for you,” I said.

“Sure,” he nodded. “You did it for justice.”

I rolled my eyes.

But part of me smiled.

A very small, stupid part.

Because he was right about one thing:

I did great.

Even if I hated it.