Page 9 of Caged In

Izz sucks in a breath, it’s that same inmate. The one who skipped the queue. With the spiked red and black mohawk. The one nobody objected to, for cutting the line. As if they are all scared . . .

His eyes eat up every detail of the mohawked male’s face and body while he’s shrouded in semi darkness in the corner of the room. Izz fails to perceive how both tables closest to the male are a barren empty wasteland. He’s too busy studying the enticing male’s frame.

He’s so engrossed in his examination, he doesn’t notice when the eyes of his obsession flick over. Not until their gazes’ clash, the male’s hard eyes boring into Izz’s soul—

He swallows the lump forming in his throat, a hot flush slapping a red blush onto his cheeks. Heating up his body, a furnace inside his clothes on full blast. He’s a schoolgirl, caught staring at the hottest guy in class. Blushing up a storm.

Whoa . . . He is hot as fuck.

Too entranced to pull his gaze away, Izz gives in to his impulses, allowing his eyes to roam . . .

The inmate has red tattoos, bleeding out from both sleeves, flowing down his forearms to pool at his elbows. Izz’s unable to make out any details from this distance. But the rich red is easily seen, closely resembling blood . . . sliding and dripping down well-defined, toned arms.

He stares openly, fixated on the male—and the inmate stares right back.

Maybe I should introduce myself?

He doesn’t know the etiquette in the prison cafeteria. Had he been at a bar—or somewhere else on the outside—he would have already approached the male—

An inmate scoots past their table, cutting off his view for a moment. Long enough to draw his concentration away from those intoxicating eyes. The reason for his fixation being broken so readily is the inmate’s clothing. They aren’t wearing grey like the vast majority are. This inmate, sideling past their table, is wearing blue.

Izz’s thoughts rapidly change course, from his eye fucking, to a question that had crossed his mind upon arrival.

Izz quizzically turns to Reni, “What’s with the different coloured prison clothes?”

His cellmate misses the question, too busy slingshotting something off his spoon in a failed attempt to hit Erik who is sticking his tongue out at the former.

“Different colours for different meanings,” Blake is the one to answer the question, tearing off a slice of his bread. Speaking around it as he chews.

“Like?” Izz enquires when Blake doesn’t finish explaining.

Reni jumps in, an amused scowl firmly in place from his earlier antics with Erik, apparently on board with the whole conversation. “Blue is for inmates with medical problems, like oldies or epilepsy, seizure prone—or whatever—people. Purple is for I-Wing. Black is for lifers or those doing hard time—multiple repeats of long stints. Grey is for us normal folks, and orange is for the fresh meat, obviously.” He gestures to Izz on the last part.

He does not like being referred to as fresh meat. A cow to the slaughter comes to mind. He lets the subject drop, it won’t be soon enough to have his grey prison clothes. He hates the orange. Why do they dress the new inmates in orange? Making them stand out, like the guards want to put a target on the new arrival’s backs—

A weird noise at Erik’s end of the table has the whole table turning. A noise like a choked gasp of dread, or maybe anticipation—

The table falls silent, like a well-clogged machine, with all its parts seizing in a rehearsed stop—

Standing at the end. Right next to Erik. Is another inmate. And this inmate is massive with a hard-pressed face. Clipped short hair. Eyes narrowed and piercing, scrutinising everyone on the table. And he’s covered in tattoos. Izz’s starting to realise it’s more shocking to see someone here without tattoos on display than to see men completely covered in ink.

“Erik,” the newcomer flicks his chin to the side—indicating one of the twin flapping doors that leads out of the cafeteria—before the guy walks off, disappearing out the doors.

Izz raises a brow at the tension throughout the table after the inmate’s departure. Watching as Erik’s face drops, he stands and empties his tray in the trash bin, depositing it on top, and briskly following the departed inmate.

Izz must have been making a face, because Reni fills him in, “his dealer.”

Oh, that explains why Erik’s so skinny. Doesn’t explain why he looked hollow and nervous before going off with his dealer. You would think an addict would be thrilled to see their dealer? Unless he owes money? Izz hopes he’s going to be okay, and doesn’t get beaten for late payments or something.

Letting out a breath, he pulls his eyes away from the door. The mohawked inmate in the corner is still watching him. And he finds he can’t look away when their eyes lock once more. Drawn in by a strange allure. The male has an intense aura, a dark aura? Yet Izz doesn’t hear any inner voices screaming warnings at him. He believes the inmate is trustworthy, even without knowing what they did to get thrown in here. Perhaps he should find out—

“Who’s that?” Izz blurts abruptly to the table, before his common sense can stop him.

When the group’s hot gazes lock on him—fixated eyes heating his body into one of wary unease—he points his chin towards the red and black haired inmate—to indicate who he’s addressing—at the unoccupied table. It’s too late to pretend he hadn’t said anything.

May as well embrace the chaos.

Reni jerks his head over his shoulder to take a gander at who Izz’s referring to. His head yanks back around like he’s burned, a grimace plastered on his face.

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