All Chapters of Cellblock Heat : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

Jordan I knew something was wrong the moment the gate clanked. Cellblock C is never quiet at night. Most guys snore loudly, whisper, some steal that opportunity to snuff their coke and shit. But tonight, there was an extra sound that all inmates found disturbing…and intruding, of course. This was the sound of the Cellblock's gate. The heavy iron cough of a gate unlocking travels differently. In the hush of the night, the piercing sounds roared through the entire Cellblock like a warning. That was only the beginning of the wonderment as the sound of boots—a dozen, maybe more, hammered down the hallway. It didn't sound like a lazy patrol. This is a fucking raid. From where my cell is, it's hard to see much. These aren’t movie bars; they’re solid metal doors with a four-inch slit cut at eye level, like a gun slot in a bunker. Even though I chose to lean toward to take a view of the hallway, all I would catch is a flicker of harsh fluorescent light and shadows moving too fast to r

Jordan Bill’s office was, as usual, a pile of paperwork. It had that smell of old coffee and lemon polish—a mix that could either calm you down or make you gag, depending on how guilty you felt walking in. I wasn’t guilty of Malik’s murder, but I sure wasn’t innocent of wanting him dead.A guard had escorted me straight from the corridor chaos. Now he shut the door behind me like a bank vault sealing up. Bill sat behind his desk, one arm resting on a mountain of files, the other nursing a Styrofoam cup. He had that look cops get when they’ve been up all night—eyebrows heavy, mouth set, brain grinding like a cement mixer.He waved me into the chair opposite. “Sit, Vex. Relax. You’re not under arrest.”“Right,” I muttered, lowering myself into the chair like it might be wired. “Because being cuffed and dragged here at midnight screams spa day."Bill gave a small snort. “Stop trying to be funny, boy. We've got a serious problem to deal with.”I raised an amused brow. “We?” I asked, scof

Quincy I stormed out of Anaba’s office like a demon casted during an exorcism. A daze of lust flickered in her eyes as I jerked out of the chair. I didn't feel an ounce of guilt when I left her kneeling on the floor of her serenity office, her hands hovering in the air like she couldn’t decide whether to reach for me or the nearest weapon. My zipper was still half-open; my pulse was still hammering with a kind of rage I hadn’t felt in years. I was so eager to take flight before she would be able to guess what my dysfunctionality was. I didn’t wait for her to say anything. I just pulled my pants straight, opened the door, and stepped back into the white hallway. No one looked at me as I passed—thank goodness. If they had, they’d have seen a man who’d just failed. Failed to feel anything. Failed to get hard from a woman's mere seduction. They'll read my fuck ups like they were written boldy on my forehead. Actually, it wouldn't happen that way. If they found out this inmate-docto

Quincy The yard is electric. Even from the bench, I feel the air pulsing with each bounce of the ball on the concrete floor, with every sneaker gritting and every shout that echoes off the walls. Rows of inmates and guards fill the bleachers, their voices colliding into a single roar. It’s so loud I can’t hear myself think, which is a relief. For the first time since yesterday’s blood on the concrete, people are leaning forward, laughing, and living. Pretending they’re just fans.I’m benched, a clipboard under my arm and a towel around my neck. The coach said it was “for my own good since I wasn't completely fit to jump around the yard,” but I know what that means. It is literally optics after a murder. Optics after whispers. But I do not care. Right now, I’ve got the best seat in the house to watch Jordan move.He did say he was good. And yes, he's out there proving himself.Jordan in his faded jersey, charging up and down the court like he owns the paint. His body is a weapon and a

Quincy. The sound of my own heartbeat is the loudest thing in the room. It’s not supposed to be. It's supposed to be just the hum of the light, the scrubbing of sneakers from the yard, the clatter of a cart in the hall. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds. But there’s nothing ordinary about all that Jordan said. ‘All point to you.’ ‘I don’t think’. ‘I know.’ Those words hung between us like a noose and a lifeline all at once. I want to laugh. I want to deny everything and tell him he’s out of his fucking mind. But my throat won’t work. My tongue feels like it’s made of dry paper. I can only stare at him, at the joy in his eyes as he unveils what no one else knew. He circled me and found his spot on the wall, leaning against it. He limped all the way through. His wrapped ankle was the least of his concern. Cracking me open was. “The two times you met with Anaba—the day you came back with your face draped with her cunt and a few hours earlier,” he says, voice low but clean enough