Page 4 of White Rabbit

ELIJAH

My first night in prison went exactly as expected, which means I slept like shit because my crappy pallet bed felt like it had been stuffed with rocks. The only glimmer of light in this whole thing was the teacher I’d spotted on my way to my cell yesterday.

The escorting officers wouldn’t tell me much, but it was fine. I would have nothing but time on my hands in the coming days. While I tossed and turned on my lumpy as fuck bed, I may have even dreamed of hazel eyes and freckles.

“Morning!” a cheery voice calls from the top bunk.

Reason number two for my less than restful sleep.

My new cellmate and apparently ‘new best friend’ was a small-time drug dealer named Benny Tucker, who went by the name of ‘Beans’.

In the early hours of the morning, when the motherfucker was still chattering away, I realized why. He talked in his sleep too, like a wind-up toy that just never ran out of energy.

Eyes half closed, I eye him wearily as he clambers down from his bed and starts stretching. He was on the smaller and scrawnier side, maybe around five foot six, with tufty ginger hair. He looks like I could snap him in half with barely any effort, but sampling your own product often enough would do that to you. His face looked gaunt and sunken, but his eyes were sharp and bright, like a meerkat.

“You're just full of beans this morning ain't you, Beans,” I say sarcastically, pulling on my new orange uniform. They issued me with a jumpsuit and a two-piece set, along with some jumpers and sweatpants for working out. Hardly the designer suits I was used to. Heck, even my jeans came with a label that would make your eyes water. I didn’t always have nice things in this life. I’d earned them through the blood and sweat I’d shed for The Family.

Beans laughs as he drops down and starts doing push-ups. “That's what my mama used to say.”

I’d be willing to bet Beans was a child who fell through the cracks. He’s too eager to please. His eyes are too weary and assessing, almost as if he’s waiting for me to hit him or lose my shit. I am not my father. When I hit someone, I’m in full control.

He sits on his ass, arms wrapping around his knees as he catches his breath. Pale skin is flushed as the corner of his mouth twitches, clearly desperate to start talking again.

They always tell you to watch the quiet ones, but I find the loudest ones are often more ruthless. They’re the ones who will slit your throat before they've even finished their sentence. No pause. No lull. No warning. The talkative ones were rash.

You would never see the switch coming. They would stab you mid-sentence with no effort at all and then go back to talking about their kids. At least the silent ones thought about you, they planned it out carefully and killed you when the time was right. They pictured how they’d take you apart again and again before they even started planning it. That could buy you valuable time.

Rosie was talkative and rash, and while I enjoyed our friendly competition, I was more careful. Calculating. That’s why I know I shouldn’t be here.

Rubbing my face with both hands, I get out of bed and stretch just like Beans had, which seems to put the young dealer at rest a little as he grins at me and gets dressed.

“Hey Beans, how do I sign up for the art class here?” I ask casually, switching from push-ups to sit-ups and he hovers near my feet as if he wants to count for me.

People often underestimate drug dealers, writing them off as useless and unreliable—which they can be. But they were also fonts of knowledge, which in prison, was priceless in the right hands.

“You paint or something?” His mouth twists into a coy grin and both his eyebrows shoot up.

Raising a brow in return, I smile. “I might be persuaded to paint…”

The woman with hair the color of roasted coffee, swirled through with melted chocolate warranted a closer look. Especially if I was going to be stuck here for the foreseeable future.

A voice outside yells, “Chowtime!”

As we head down to the dining hall, I make a note of the security cameras in the hall and where the guards are stationed.

Beans seems to think I’m a safe bet as he sticks to my side like glue. We join the queue for breakfast, and I use the time to assess just who I’m trapped in here with. A few Cartel members glare my way, as I spot a couple of men I recognize as working for the Volkov family and a few low lives I had personally ejected from Newtown. I was going to have to watch my back and establish myself pretty quickly in here or else I was going to be taking some pretty risky showers. Which was non-negotiable. I hated feeling dirty. My father had always been strict on proper hygiene, something that is so ingrained in me, it might as well be part of my DNA.

Beans hands me a tray and we’re offered a choice of lukewarm oatmeal, cold toast or some less than fresh looking fruit cups. Great. Not only was my mattress shit, but now the food was dire too. Fucking prison. The sooner my lawyer was allowed to contact me, the better.

“Officer Bishop’s art class is always fully booked.” Beans leans in closer to me as this huge motherfucker, covered in tattoos, walks past. Even the man’s eyeball was inked. Bold.

“I’m sure there must be space.” I was going to see her again. That was not up for debate. Officer Bishop. Hmmmm, even her name invited me to think sinful things about those plump pink lips of hers. It hadn’t escaped my notice how her mouth had dropped open, lips parting slightly when she saw me walk past her room.

“Dude, that class is like full-full. There won't be an opening for months…Well, unless someone drops out and even then, there’s probably a waiting list.” He explains as he places an orange juice down on my tray.

Noticing him side eyeing me discreetly, I repressed a snort. He knows he’s onto something with me and I can see him trying to work out how it will benefit him, but he’s still too green, too young to be less obvious. I allow Beans to lead me over to a table in the corner of the hall, aware of several sets of eyes burning into my flesh. I hadn’t been approached yet, but it was only a matter of time. I needed to strike first. I couldn't leave myself vulnerable in here.

“And why is that?” I ask as I slide my tray down onto a table, before dropping into the tiny seat. Being big, over six foot four and broad was always a pain with things like communal seating and I feel like my knees are practically pushed up to my chest as we sit at the small tables.

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