Attest (Centrifuge Duet Book 2)(7)
It was a case of integrate or die.
And, I wasn’t quite ready to die.
I’m a six-foot-two, decently educated, white man. Joining the white supremacists was my only shot at survival. I don’t regret it. Not one bit.
Bloody hell, if it wasn’t for them, I’d be the unwilling bed partner of the big, tattooed guy whose cell door faces mine. He’d made his interest known the day I arrived with puckered lips that blew promising kisses in my direction. Of course, the two assholes escorting me to my new home had made it clear that he could have me if their price was met. Thankfully, a chance encounter with the local Aryan Circle members in the dining hall had put an end to that arrangement since even the guards abide by the rules of engagement set down by the various factions that make up the prison population. I was now under Aryan protection and not for public consumption unless they agreed.
“You gonna finish that?” Mark-Lee, the leader of the gang I integrated into when I arrived, slides on the seat next to me. I stare at my tray with unseeing eyes, not sure what he’s talking about. He quickly lets me know, swiping the previously reference bread roll from my tray, and biting down on it before I’ve answered him.
“Hear you had a little visitor today?” Bread crumbs fly out of his mouth. They hit me on the chin and chest, spraying across the edge of the table and landing in what’s left of the gruel on my tray. “A hot, blonde number in a tight skirt with a set of titties that’d make a grown man weep. Did you tap it or was she here to make you an offer you can’t refuse?”
Fuck me drunk.
I hadn’t even thought about B’s visit becoming common knowledge around the prison. Now I’m left scrambling, needing to decide in a split second how I’m going to play this without pissing off the only person who stands between me and a painful reminder of how alone I am in this establishment.
“I’d rather stick my dick in Sasquatch.” I point at the black guy who sits at a table across the room. He is all brawn and little brains, any ongoing joke to those who aren’t a part of his gang. His effeminate mannerisms are at odds with his beefy appearance. To his left is seated the leader of the Black Guerrilla Family—the Aryan Circle’s most hated enemy. As the main muscle of that group, Sasquatch is as gay as they come, and more than a little dangerous to us.
Mark-Lee guffaws. More bread crumbs soar free. He bangs his fist on the metal table then throws his head back to laugh even louder. The other members of the Circle join him, even though it’s unlikely they even know what’s tickled his humour. It takes everything I have to keep the disdain I’m feeling from showing on my face as their spectacle draws the attention of everyone in the room—from guards to food servers to rival factions.
While I’d love to shrink down until I’m under the table and out of eyesight, I sit proudly beside my leader and eyeball those who stare at us for too long. On the outside, I’m a good little white supremacist—unafraid to share my self-purported superiority. All the while the long-healed tattoo that I received once I’d finished my initiation burns like a brand on my shoulder, and I pray like fuck that no one decides that Mark-Lee’s ongoing antics are reason enough to start a dining hall brawl.
As quickly as it began, the laughter stops, and I find myself on the receiving end of a look I know well. Mark-Lee has smelled a rat and he thinks the stench is coming from my direction.
“Well, since you say you didn’t fuck her, tell me about the offer she made?”
The guy’s paranoia is well-known and extremely warranted. Every now and then, the authorities will pick someone they think is an easy target and offer them a deal to out the Aryan Circle. It never ends well—for the one offered the deal or the authorities.
Mark-Lee makes sure of that.
Knowing this, I decide that honesty is the best policy. “It’s to do with my parole. She’s offering me early release in exchange for my assistance in murdering her enemies. I haven’t decided how I’m going to play it yet.”
He slaps my shoulder, breaking back into laughter that’s louder than before. The response is confusing. Why the fuck does he think this is so fucking funny? I sit there with fear clawing at my gut while he tries to regain his ability to speak.
Once he’s calmed down a bit, Mark-Lee slaps me on the shoulder once again. He leans close enough for me to smell the remnants of our stewed dinner on his breath and reminds me with clear intentions why the authorities are so keen to get their hands on him.
“Now, lying to me is a quick way to get dead.”
I nod when he pauses. Everyone knows this.
“I’m—”
“I get why you might be slow to admit that you’re fucking her.” My protest is cut off and I’m caught off guard by his change of tact. “Milo said she looked like she had a stick up her fancy ass and I know from experience that, while those rich bitches who like to fuck with prisoners on the down-low can pay well, they’re also a hoity-toity fucking nuisance. My advice is to just keep your eye on the prize and make sure you don’t speak out of school.”
The new course this conversation is taking starts a dozen questions hammering around my skull, but I manage to nod when he stops and stares at me, waiting for my agreement.
“Good,” Mark-Lee continues. He stands, and the rest of the gang stands with him. A dozen Aryan Circle members stand tall, glaring down at me with matching promises of retribution in their expressions. “I’d hate to find out that you’re a rat. I despise rats, they’re only good for one thing and that’s stomping.”