Page 6 of From Best To Bested

“No, not really.” Levi scrunched his face with obvious discomfort since he hated being rude, then he inched around Ezra and made for the door. Roman found Levi’s large jock buildpaired with the awkward mousy nerd stature humorous most days, but now it did them a disservice.

“Stay.” Warden Sadler blocked his path. “I’m not filling out a second change-of-room request form. I’m sure you’ll like this boyfriend as much as your last one.”

And with that, Roman had everything stripped away from the bulk of his possessions to his best friend. No title. No respect. No power.

He trudged through the cellblocks, following a guard from one locked-down area to the next, ignoring the jeers from inmates who mocked his situation, delighted in Roman’s comeuppance.

When he finally reached his new cell, Roman miserably went to work settling in.

“Roman,” a taunting voice called out to him as he entered the cellblock. “Roman, Roman, Roman, wherefore art thou Roman-O? More importantly, where is Roman’s hole?”

Jake “the Snake” Finnegan. Roman glowered as contempt and disgust both fought for equal footing on Roman’s face.

If there were a mascot for sadistic sociopaths who preyed on the vulnerable and fucked their way through victims like most people ate their way through a bag of potato chips, then it’d be a full-page banner of Jake Finnegan.

“Get the fuck away from me before I break your arms,” Roman said slowly, firmly, and filled with rage. “Again.”

Jake raised his hands in surrender, then brushed them through his short blond hair. He hung at the doorway as Roman unpacked what little of his possessions he’d been allowed to keep.

“I’m just being neighborly.” Jake smirked, the lines on his face accentuated the scars that framed his face in the most bizarre way.

Something about Jake’s injuries appeared self-inflicted to Roman. Even with their jagged cuts, they seemed so perfectly drawn out, highlighting his features. That made Roman recoil more since Jake didn’t fear pain of any measure when it came to pursuing his desires.

Making Roman a conquest always ran high on Jake’s goals. Now that Roman wasn’t champion, he’d have to remind the Irish mob psycho that just because he didn’t hold the title, it didn’t mean his skills had lessened any.

“If you need help settling in, feel free to ask me anything,” Jake said. “I’m only a few rooms down and be more than willing to help you adjust to this new position.”

“Pass.”

“Oh? You just wanna go in fast and rough?” Jake’s smirk grew bigger. “I can respect that.”

“Fuck off.”

“I most certainly will.” Jake turned around quite dramatically and walked away with a soldier’s flair. “Be seeing you around, Roman-O.”

The rest of the inmates in Roman’s new cellblock weren’t much better than Jake himself, who thankfully kept his distance. No, he was a true snake, so Roman understood even far away and seemingly disinterested with Roman’s arrival, Jake plotted like a hungry viper. He’d strike when Roman least suspected, and with no one at his back, Roman worried the poison would overwhelm him.

It didn’t help that half the men on this block were part of Jake’s crew. The warden had dropped Roman in the most dangerous place ever. It made sleeping damn near impossible, afraid he’d wake up tied down to someone who jammed their door before light’s out and popped the lock on Roman’s cell.

He hadn’t seen that done since his time in jail, back when he was on trial, awaiting sentencing, but popping the lock on acell door was common practice there and allowed inmates bold enough to walk around without guard supervision, complete access to the block. They were the most dangerous sort. They’d find their way into some unwitting guy’s room, and the screams and shock were unlike anything Roman had heard before. It still haunted his thoughts as he feared what Jake might do if Roman closed his eyes for a little too long. Would he sound like a dying animal? A broken beast? A desperate and pleading shell of a person? All sounds Roman couldn’t get out of his head, sounds he’d hoped to never hear again.

Each day presented a new threat that Roman had forgotten all about from his early days of arriving. No, Roman had never faced this level of scrutiny before. Before, he was just some no-name twenty-year-old guy, but now, he was the cocky champion who’d fallen from grace. Now, he dealt with verbal taunting and threats everywhere he went. Twice now, he’d been alone when confronted by men bold enough to pick a fight without an audience. And by no audience, Roman quickly realized that included the guards who turned away and busied themselves elsewhere while Roman defended himself.

As the champion, no one threatened him. Most accepted the beatdown he gave them, accepted the title he held, and stayed the fuck away. Now, no ranking meant no authority. The guards treated Roman like any other inmate, maybe a bit worse since they resented the hold he had over them. Warden Sadler might’ve hated Roman, but if he caught word that one of his guards wasn’t giving the champion proper treatment, then that guard wouldn’t be long for this world.

Did Roman exploit his authority? Abso-fucking-lutely. Did he use his powers for good? Meh. Debatable. Did he deserve to look over his shoulder every second of every day on the off chance someone would beat him, stab him, kill him, or worse?No one deserved to feel that way; no one deserved to live that way.

Roman couldn’t find a way out unless he won back his title, won back some shred of respect.

His commissary funds ran dry after a few days, and his private funds as champion had magically disappeared after he lost his title. It meant Roman had to rely more heavily on the sustenance from the cafeteria to get by. If anyone could possibly mistake the slop they served for nutritious. Each meal cost about $0.35 to produce, which meant bulk supplies, half-rotten produce, flavorless bites, and expired meat—if they were lucky.

Roman stared at his plate, ignoring the jokes at his expense, the bold taunting from tables he walked past, the occasional threats from men who clearly hadn’t watched Roman fight regularly. He might’ve lost one fight, but he wasn’t some pushover. Part of him wanted to beat the shit out of every guy running their mouths, but even Roman knew he couldn’t fight every single person here. What Roman needed was to remind these inmates of everything he could do. Without the arena, he needed a new venue to put on a show.

As he reached a near-empty table, Roman saw a guy shooting him daggers, so Roman took a chance and winked. He couldn’t muster a cocky smile, but it turned out he didn’t need one. The guy was up and over at Roman’s table before he could take his seat.

“Sup, bitch.” The man slapped Roman’s tray out of his hands.

Roman had gotten used to the boldness, the arrogance, but knocking away his tray was a step too far. He really needed to do something about the brazen attitudes in Marlow Penitentiary before people deluded themselves into thinking they could walk all over him.

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