Page 8 of Caged In

Erik is the shortest at the table, skinny enough for his clothes to look baggy. Long brown hair cascading down to the small of his back. No tattoos, at least, none that Izz can see. He gives off a stoner-druggy vibe.

At least this time Izz can safely say he’s not basing Erik’s appearance out of movies. He has seen his fair share of druggies’ around his family home . . . if you could call that run-down apartment a home.

“And that’s Isco,” Reni points out the last unknown inmate at their table.

The man occupying the space to Izz’s left narrows his eyes at Izz, an inquisitive expression passing over his face which is littered with scars.

I wonder what happened . . . ?

A deep scar runs a curved path down Isco’s chin, brushing against his throat, tearing through the previously unblemishedskin. Two smaller scars slicing across his right eye, falling above and below the miraculously unscathed eye. A close call to losing the eye or being blinded. Three lengthy scars circling the right side of his neck, trailing under his ear and onto his collarbone to integrate with the tattoos peeking out from his collar.

If Phelix’s vibe represents the cartel boss-man, than Isco’s vibe screams hitman, readily able to do the boss’s bidding.

Sucked into his little guess-the-crime game, his eyes shift down to Isco’s hands. The need to confirm his theory of this inmate beating people to death is too strong for him to resist.

The hands attached to thick wrist on the intimidating inmate are what Izz expects. Roughened hands with boxy black letters engraved into each knuckle, matching the crude ink etched into the backs of both hands.

Isco is a man Izz knows is capable of murder. He knows it within his bones. Why? Because despite what people say, he’s judging this book by its cover. And this book’s cover terrifies him.

As if sensing his unease—or to mock him, who knows—Isco cracks his knuckles, snapping Izz’s gaze away to his face, a smirk lifting his scarred cheeks.

Izz gulps, nervously digging into his food, he isn’t intimidated often, but this man is daunting—okay, so he usually isn’t intimidated. Except in here. Everything is new and strange, and all the people in here are unpredictable. Due to the fact that he has no clue why any of them are locked away. Has no idea who can be trusted and who can’t.

Scooping the sticky mess of pasta into his mouth, he tastes the cheap cheese flavour. Sticking to his teeth and the roof of his mouth. Even with it fighting back he still enjoys the pasta. It’s not as terrible as he was dreading the prison food to be.

Surveying the tables he can see, Izz studies the numerous clusters of inmates. Nothing beyond what he can observewithout turning his head, trying not to be too obvious about his spying.

They’re all outcasts—groups who are not part of the gangs. One table in particular has several inmates spread over it, alone, not interacting with one another.

Loners?

The inmate seated closest to him is sporting a black eye, busted lip and bruising down his arm, Izz can’t see the other arm but is willing to bet he has more bruises under his clothes.

The bruised inmate’s heavy-lidded eyes drag towards Izz, like he senses the gaze on him.

Izz darts his eyes away, not wanting to start anything. He doesn’t know why they’re covered in injuries, and has no intention to find out. For all he knows, the guy is a lunatic who gets into fights with anyone who so much as looks at him.

“We also got Sinj in The Hole,” Zidie cuts in, dragging Izz’s gaze over to him. “That’s S-i-n-j not S-i-n-g-e even though they sound the same. Another weird name to join our midst. Ay, Izz.” He squeezes into the space between Izz and Isco, unceremoniously shoving them to the sides.

Izz rolls his eyes at Cupcake. There are plenty of empty spaces on the bench for Zidie to plant his ass on, shoving between them is entirely unnecessary. Isco doesn’t appear to care, unflinching, like the scarred inmate is accustomed to this type of behaviour.

An overgrown puppy.Is what comes to mind to describe Zidie. A giant, friendly, over-excited puppy who doesn’t grasp the concept of personal space—

Colourful, intricately designed artwork flashes Izz, as Zidie’s decorated arm rests on the table by his tray. A multi-coloured, full sleeve, of ocean creatures, swishing and swimming around each other to create a beautiful 3D picture. Whoever he went to,to get his work done, Izz wants their number. Their artwork is stunning.

“The Hole?” Izz questions, to double check his guess earlier was a correct assumption—when Reni mentioned it in their cell. It has to be some sort of solitary confinement—

“Solitary confinement,” Reni answers for Zidie who’s shoving food into his mouth. “But The Hole’s what we call it.”

Izz hums in understanding, snagging his small bottle to swish down the sticky cheesy pasta. He’s not a fan of the room temperature flavourless liquid, but it’s better than nothing.

I’m going to miss ice cold water . . .

Blake settles in next to Izz, laughing at something Reni said, Izz missed whatever it was. Others at the table are grinning and chuckling along with Reni, who throws back his head and lets out a deep rumbling laugh.

A flicker of movement seizes Izz’s attention. Over Reni’s shoulder, a subtle flash of red guides his eyes to a lone figure sitting at the furthest table. He can’t make out who it is . . . the cafeteria’s artificial fluorescent lighting is avoiding the inmate, curling away from the male, leaving him encased in shadow. As though it’s too scared to touch—

Wait . . .

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