Page 11 of Caged In

Isco disappears behind a brick partition, and Izz follows along, ducking around the partition to join Isco and the rest of their group.

The showers are as expected. One big, roughly tiled room, with sandpaper gripping tiles—if you decided to start throwing hands, you would have a marginal amount of grip to stop you falling on your ass. Shower heads plugged into the walls in rows, wrapping around the room. Inmates are spread throughout, taking up their positions below numerous cascades of clear water. Making thorough use of the steaming showers to clean their bodies.

Good to know there will be hot water for his shower, he would become homicidal if the water only ran cold. . . Maybe that’s why it doesn’t. The . . . Warden?—or whoever the random person is running the place—might have figured out that keeping the murderous inmates happy with small luxuries will minimise thekill-othersmood swings.

He sticks close to his . . . what? Friendship group? What do they call themselves again? . . . The Gang?

Izz sighs, this place is a world away from earth. The normal everyday lives on the outside are foreign—an entire planet of differences away, no longer accessible to him and these men. Forone, on the outside, you don’t have to shower with a room full of complete strangers. Trying your hardest to keep your eyes up and not look at anyone.

His peripheral vision is killing him.

Everywhere he turns, strangers’ dangling bits are swinging all over the place. His body is too strung out with dread, and . . . fear—from the incident in the cafeteria—to relax enough to enjoy his shower.

In here, he’s aware he can’t judge people by the way they look. That . . . serial killer. . . looked like the nicest person he has ever met. Or . . . Maybe it’s more that the male’s handsome. Maybe his libido is getting a little carried away, telling him the hot guy is trustworthy.

Ha. Guess again.

He turns his own stream on, scrubbing the square of soap down his chest, rubbing it over his whole body. Keeping his back to the wall. He would rather people check out his package, than leave his ass vulnerable. He does not want to test out those prison shower stories people gossip about in the real world.

Which is why his grip on his soap is strangling, his knuckles white with the effort to hold onto the slippery sucker. If he drops this soap, it’s living on the floor. No way is he picking that shit up. Maybe bending over in here is a sign you want some . . . fun—

Izz shudders. Yes, he likes men. Has always liked males. Ever since he can remember. But liking men is entirely different to being fine with allowing any random stranger to have a go at you. Especially when it’s in a prison, and those random men could very well kill you.

Not that he has anything against escorts or whatever they call themselves nowadays. Hell, if you want random strangers, that’s your business. He has no issues with it. To each their own. Personally, he just isn’t interested. He wants to know someone first, before getting to the physical side of things. He wantssomeone he’s attracted to, and who’s attracted to him. A male who is easy to get along with and he can be himself around, without being ashamed or embarrassed.

He shoves his face into the shower’s spray. Drowning his mind’s ramblings. He needs to stop with his weird shower thoughts on hot guys and sex. Or he is liable to get hard, and that is something he doesn’t want to do at this particular time. Naked—with a bunch of naked strangers.

He’s almost finished scrubbing the suds out of his hair when the last of his group turns their shower head off and strolls over to the door.

Izz hurriedly rinses, like his life depends on it. Anxiety squeezes his heart at how alone he is. Vulnerable—without his friends next to him. Flight is his go to. He’s not a strong fighter, and not willing to put himself into that position. On the first night. In this cage.

He practically flees the showers, scurrying out of the steaming room to get back to his friends—

Izz stops short in his hasty retreat when a solid mass steps out into his path. Effectively blocking the doorway. Another inmate entering the showers to scrub clean.

“Sorry. My fault.” Izz takes the blame, even though it’s not anyone’s fault and he isn’t entirely sure why he’s apologising. It’s not as if he ran into the other man.

Izz steps aside. Glancing up—

Only to freeze when he gets a gander at who’s filling the door frame. He’s patting his subconsciousness on the back for the quick apology now. Grateful for his ingrained manners.

It’s the serial killer . . .

What’s his name again?

Does the name matter?

Serial killers don’t make you say their name when they kill you, do they? Maybe it’s a good thing his mind is blanking on it—or maybe that’s bad, maybe it’s disrespectful? Maybe the lapse in memory will get him killed—

Stop.

His mind needs to stop. Before he passes the fuck out with the amount of adrenaline pumping through his veins—

Where has all the oxygen gone? He can’t breathe. He’s choking in here. It’s too small—is he claustrophobic? He never thought of himself as having any phobias.

You learn something new every day.

Izz swallows hard, his lips parting to try to suck in more air, to cool his lungs down, to—

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