life.
As long as it’s not the first month again, he told himself, rising from the uncomfortable cot that served as his bed. Anything but that…
His body still bore the scars of that month. Between the beatings and the sleep deprivation and the hunger, he’d been broken down to his littlest parts, his smallest self. It had taken a month before his tormenters finally decided that he didn’t have anything to give them, that the confession they wanted wasn’t coming. So he’d been promoted to janitor at the clubhouse. Cleaning vomit and piss and shit from the toilets, scrubbing floors, washing dishes. All while wearing a pink, frilly apron.
This was so far from what he’d intended, it might as well have been an alternate universe.
He’d gone to the Steel Dragons hoping they could help him take down the Volanis brothers. He’d told them about how Cristov ran the gypsy’s marijuana business, dealing their homegrown organics to the locals. If the Steel Dragons came in, took over, wresting the profits away, it might instill doubt about the Volanis’ ability to run the kumpania.
And, for a while, it seemed like it might actually work. Jenner did some things he was less than proud of, but it seemed like the Steel Dragons had the upper hand. Cristov and his brothers were scared and clueless. Caught like mice in a trap.
And then it had all gone to absolute shit. The Steel Dragons had screwed up, kidnapped the wrong girl, and Cristov’s little girlfriend had known just where to find them. Big, burly, macho-man Damon had killed one of the club’s highest-ranking members. Another man had gotten a bullet to his gut, and a third had been caught trying to run from the scene, and ended up talking like a teenage girl at a sleep-over.
And somehow, the Steel Dragons had it in their heads that it was all Jenner’s fault. That he’d set them up. That he had some vendetta against them, or some reason to want them taken down. And they planned to make him pay.
Now, he had his own private room at the club, a scar across his face, and a pink apron. They never let him out of their sight. The door to his room was locked from the outside at all times, and there was no window. They let him out to clean up, and then it was right back in once his day’s work was done. They fed him, gave him water, and let him shower once a week – all under constant surveillance.
He’d done it all because he wanted to be rom baro, the leader. Now, he couldn’t even take a piss without asking someone first.
But he did have one thing. One little thing that kept him tethered to sanity. It lay under his pillow, and when he felt particularly frustrated or hopeless, he would reach beneath it and hold it in his hands.
He’d taken a huge risk in getting it. One night, a young recruit had stumbled into a bathroom while Jenner was cleaning it, drunk as a lord and sick to his stomach. The kid had barely made it to the toilet before he started throwing up, mumbling incoherently all the while. Rock, who’d been supervising Jenner that day, cursed in frustration.
“Fuckin’ wimpy ass little shit,” he said. “This kid’s supposed to be on fuckin’ watch right now. Goddammit…”
Rock glared at Jenner.
“Don’t fuckin’ move, punk,” he warned. “I’ll be back in two fuckin’ seconds, and if you’ve moved a single muscle, I’ll make you lick that toilet bowl clean.”
Jenner nodded, putting his hands up to show he’d obey. Rock glared at him for one long moment, then stepped out of the bathroom. His voice echoed back through the door as he went down the hall, calling for anyone in charge.
Jenner looked at the kid, who was glassy-eyed and staring into the dirty bowl, breathing heavy. A phone, a little grey flip-phone, was sticking out of his back pocket. Jenner’s heart skipped a beat. If he took it and someone found it, he’d be screwed. It’d be more of the first month. More beatings. More hunger. More thirst.
But if he didn’t take
As long as it’s not the first month again, he told himself, rising from the uncomfortable cot that served as his bed. Anything but that…
His body still bore the scars of that month. Between the beatings and the sleep deprivation and the hunger, he’d been broken down to his littlest parts, his smallest self. It had taken a month before his tormenters finally decided that he didn’t have anything to give them, that the confession they wanted wasn’t coming. So he’d been promoted to janitor at the clubhouse. Cleaning vomit and piss and shit from the toilets, scrubbing floors, washing dishes. All while wearing a pink, frilly apron.
This was so far from what he’d intended, it might as well have been an alternate universe.
He’d gone to the Steel Dragons hoping they could help him take down the Volanis brothers. He’d told them about how Cristov ran the gypsy’s marijuana business, dealing their homegrown organics to the locals. If the Steel Dragons came in, took over, wresting the profits away, it might instill doubt about the Volanis’ ability to run the kumpania.
And, for a while, it seemed like it might actually work. Jenner did some things he was less than proud of, but it seemed like the Steel Dragons had the upper hand. Cristov and his brothers were scared and clueless. Caught like mice in a trap.
And then it had all gone to absolute shit. The Steel Dragons had screwed up, kidnapped the wrong girl, and Cristov’s little girlfriend had known just where to find them. Big, burly, macho-man Damon had killed one of the club’s highest-ranking members. Another man had gotten a bullet to his gut, and a third had been caught trying to run from the scene, and ended up talking like a teenage girl at a sleep-over.
And somehow, the Steel Dragons had it in their heads that it was all Jenner’s fault. That he’d set them up. That he had some vendetta against them, or some reason to want them taken down. And they planned to make him pay.
Now, he had his own private room at the club, a scar across his face, and a pink apron. They never let him out of their sight. The door to his room was locked from the outside at all times, and there was no window. They let him out to clean up, and then it was right back in once his day’s work was done. They fed him, gave him water, and let him shower once a week – all under constant surveillance.
He’d done it all because he wanted to be rom baro, the leader. Now, he couldn’t even take a piss without asking someone first.
But he did have one thing. One little thing that kept him tethered to sanity. It lay under his pillow, and when he felt particularly frustrated or hopeless, he would reach beneath it and hold it in his hands.
He’d taken a huge risk in getting it. One night, a young recruit had stumbled into a bathroom while Jenner was cleaning it, drunk as a lord and sick to his stomach. The kid had barely made it to the toilet before he started throwing up, mumbling incoherently all the while. Rock, who’d been supervising Jenner that day, cursed in frustration.
“Fuckin’ wimpy ass little shit,” he said. “This kid’s supposed to be on fuckin’ watch right now. Goddammit…”
Rock glared at Jenner.
“Don’t fuckin’ move, punk,” he warned. “I’ll be back in two fuckin’ seconds, and if you’ve moved a single muscle, I’ll make you lick that toilet bowl clean.”
Jenner nodded, putting his hands up to show he’d obey. Rock glared at him for one long moment, then stepped out of the bathroom. His voice echoed back through the door as he went down the hall, calling for anyone in charge.
Jenner looked at the kid, who was glassy-eyed and staring into the dirty bowl, breathing heavy. A phone, a little grey flip-phone, was sticking out of his back pocket. Jenner’s heart skipped a beat. If he took it and someone found it, he’d be screwed. It’d be more of the first month. More beatings. More hunger. More thirst.
But if he didn’t take
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