Chapter 4: Hey, Pretty Boy

Jordan

I think I deserve an award. Most recruited inmate of the decade. Not to brag, but I know every guard by their names. They've got name tags on their shirts, STILL.

I've got few as allies—the few sensible ones.

Yet, these motherfuckers paid me no accolade, instead, they hauled me up from the fucking Van like I was some banshee. Blackbridge Correctional Facility, alias, Jordan's personal play center. The gothic style fits just right. The tall wired fence—a reminder that my fun in here wouldn't be over until the judge says it will, which will be…anyways, y'all should kiss my tattooed ass. No, no, that's theoretical. I've got no tats on my bum.

The cuffs bit into my wrists tighter than usual. I didn’t complain. That always made them pull harder. It didn't end there. The shortest mushroom amongst the mycelium shoved me in the back, not hard, but hard enough to make me grin and think of many ways I could hammer his head to the ground.

“Careful,” I said, sauntering forward, “I bruised easily. Like a peach.”

“Shut up, Vex,” one of the guards muttered.

I spun around mid-step, walking backward now, hands cuffed in front like I was on a damn runway. “That’s not what your wife said.”

The taller guard groaned. “For the love of—can we get him to the cell before I lose my pension?”

Yeah, I fucking get off on pissing Mr shitface off. The visible veins popping out of his temple was my award.

We passed the common area—two guys were arm-wrestling while another cheered like it was the Super Bowl. A guy called “Teeth” threw me a wink. I sure did return it with a blown kiss.

“Fan club’s still alive,” I said proudly. Coming back to where I'm both hated and loved was something one couldn't get on a normal day.

“Not for long if you keep talking,” the second guard muttered.

“Y’all act like this place ain’t boring as shit. I’m just here to liven things up.” I shrugged.

We stopped in front of a heavy iron door. Cell C29. One of the guards typed in a code, the other sighed like he aged ten years just walking Jordan over.

“You’re gonna be in here with Laurent. Try not to get us sued.”

“Laurent?” I blinked. “As in I get to meet the legendary Laurent? Richie Rich?”

“No, fool. It's his son.” The guard just opened the door, uncuffed me and shoved me through. Along side my duffel bag. “Now get in there, and play nice, Vex.”

I stumbled slightly, mostly for drama. I straightened up and looked around.

It was your typical Blackbridge suite—one toilet, one bunk, one wall that somehow always had a stain on it. But it smelled… clean? Like soap and citrus? Weird.

Then I saw him.

The guy was lying on his back, arms behind his head, like prison was just a long-ass nap. His white shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat, and his jaw tightened when he noticed me.

Blue-green eyes. Clear, cold. Rich-boy kind of cold. The kind that said: I own everything in the room. Including you if I feel like it.

Cute, though.

If you like polished and pissed off.

"Don't touch my stuff," he said before I even dropped my bag. He straightened out, blue-green eyes peeling the outer layer of my fucking skin. I have a thing for intense gaze.

I tilted my head, cocked a brow. Oh, we had a talker.

“And who the fuck are you supposed to be?” I asked, tossing my duffel on the floor and cracking my neck.

“Someone who wants to make it out of here without you screwing it up,” he said, sitting up now. His muscles flexed like he knew I was watching. Pretty, but sharp-tongued. Dangerous in a different way.

I grinned. “Relax, sweetheart. I don’t snore. Much.”

He gave me a look like I’d pissed in his drink.

His eyes zeroed and narrowed on me. His jaw clenched like someone had just told him Starbucks stopped making oat milk.

Oh yeah. This was going to be fun.

“Well, shit,” I said, grinning at the fine piece of hot cake I was gonna be devouring—soon. “They really do send the pretty ones to jail now.”

The youngie didn’t respond. Just slowly blinked at me like I was a slow Wi-Fi connection.

I strolled in like I owned the place—hell yeah, I think I do. I tossed my duffel bag onto the bottom bunk, and flopped down with a satisfied groan.

“Mmm. Nothing like springs digging into your spine to remind you you're alive.”

After a second or third—I wasn't counting—the pretty boy spoke. “You. Are. On the wrong bunk.” His voice sounded light, but calculating. I wouldn't be surprised if he was judging my looks in that brain of his. Not like I care.

I folded my hands behind my head. “Am I? Must be fate.”

“That’s my bunk, and I've dressed it already.”

“And I give a shit because…?” I asked, looking around our confinement.

Pretty boy slid off the top slowly, like he was trying very hard not to punch someone. “Because that’s the one thing in this godforsaken cell I claimed first.”

“Call the cops,” I said, flashing him a smirk everyone, including my late father, hated . “Oh wait…”

Pretty boy exhaled sharply and muttered something that sounded like “unbelievable.”

Good. What will be my gain if no one is pissed at me?

I kicked off my boots, one thudding to the floor dramatically. “So, pretty boy. You like jazz? Or are you more of a 'complain quietly and repress all emotion' kind of guy?”

He glared. “Don’t call me Pretty boy.”

“Got it. Pretty. Boy. Princess of Cellblock C. We’ll find your vibe eventually.”

He turned away and began reorganizing his things—again. He was indeed pretty, in a very masculine way. I doubt he wasn't already having a hard time with the rest of the prisoners. Oh, the things I've seen them do to guys this attractive as him…well, lucky him, he should be grateful fate made us cross paths. Now we're roomies, I will shield him from the starving gazes of the inmates. Also, I noticed he had actual labeled bags. A stack of books. Color-coded.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, pointing. “Are those—dividers? In prison? What is this, Martha Stewart’s revenge arc?”

He shot me a look so sharp I felt it in my fucking kidneys.

Those blue-green eyes just made me grin wider. “Okay, okay. I’ll be good. Let’s start over. I’m Jordan. Jordan Vex. Tattoos, bad attitude, probably a cautionary tale. You?”

He didn’t answer, but he did after a while. “I don't see any tattoos.”

I chuckled, “I could take my shirt off so you can see them.”

“No,” he blurted, turning all shades of pink while he averted his gaze. I stopped midway on my buttons, staring at him through my tendrils. “You know,” I said, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees, “I used to think white-collar guys were all boring as hell. But you—you're a special kind of uptight. Like, if you clenched your ass any harder, I think time would reverse.”

Pretty turned his gaze back to me slowly, calmly, and said, “I will smother you in your sleep with that pillow. And I’ll smile doing it.”

My face lit up. “There he is! Roomie bonding, baby!”

From outside, the guards walked by again. One of them peeked in, saw me still alive, and muttered, “God help Laurent.”

I winked at them. “He’s already in heaven.”

Pretty boy went on to pick up a book, muttering something that sounded like “I need bleach.”

I laid back with my hands behind my head.

God, I'm really gonna enjoy cracking this guy open like a safe.

“I didn't get your name, cell princess?” I asked, smirking as I stretched.

He didn’t answer. Just went back to pretending I didn’t exist.

I liked that. I really did.

Because the silent ones always cracked the loudest.

“Name's Quincy.” He mumbled over his shoulder, drawing patterns on a page with a finger. Just for the fun of it, I sat up, my hand behind my ear as I leaned forward. “Sorry, I didn't catch that, Pretty boy. Say what?”

“I said, my name is Quincy. Do not fucking call me Pretty boy!”

Ohh, the rich boy could swear. His voice grew louder with every word. His face flushed upon realizing his outburst. I couldn't help the laughter that was burbling at the pit of my stomach, so I burst out laughing.

Right there is a loud crack.