Page 626 of The Tempted

Chapter Thirty-three

I scrambled off my cot, taking three steps towards the metal toilet and dropped to my knees. I’ve been here nearly a week, one fucking week with no junk to shoot, snort, or swallow. I was denied bail and charged with attempted manslaughter but if the fuck dies the D.A. will change it to murder.

I was wishing for death.

That’s why I’m not cooperating with the club’s lawyer too much. After, sitting down with him when I was held at the police station he told me he was going to use Lace to testify. I decided to just let it all be. Whatever happens, happens. I’m not putting this shit on her, she didn’t ask that fuck to touch her…just let it be. Let it be over for her.

Brantley thinks he won, that I’m threatened by the chargemurder in the first degree.

Bring it, cocksucker.

I’ve got nothing on the outside.

These walls and these bars are it for me. That’s okay because when I’m not violently throwing up from not having my drugs, I relive the memories of my life.

The good.

The bad.

The ugly.

Then I think of her.

And I momentarily wish for the kid to live, for a way out of here or a goddamn miracle. Then reality sets in and I’m stuck in the memories because it’s all I’ve got and all I’ll ever have.

I’m not just Satan’s Knight, I’m his fucking predecessor, here on earth.

And this is my hell.

I started going through withdrawals the morning of my arraignment. I hadn’t snorted or taken anything since the bar and I was feeling it. After I broke things off with Lacey for good, I stopped going to the clinic and getting my dose of methadone. I replaced the fake heroin with the pills, crushing and snorting them to get my fix but, after I was shipped here they started me on the program again.

The C.O.’s bring me to the medical building every morning, I get my dose; they check my vitals, and send me back to my fucking cell to rot in hell.

It’s not enough.

Never enough.

But as long as I have a pulse, they don’t give a fuck because their job is to keep me alive so I can pay for my sins. Every inmate sent here, the government pays for, actually the taxpayers pay for. So, you over there with the fat check and nine-to-five job, you’re the one paying for the methadone in my bloodstream right now and the ham and cheese sandwich I’ll eat for dinner but won’t manage to keep down.

I’m close to caving and finding a way to get the drugs I need. People think a man gets locked up, and he’s at the mercy of the state, you become their property…what a fucking joke. You may lose your name and get a number when you get locked up but you can score whatever the fuck you need in jail. The correction officers here are more corrupt than the streets they pulled me from. As long as you give them a cut, you can sell, trade, or steal whatever the fuck you want.

And right now I want a fucking needle and the shittiest heroin I could get my hands on. While I may be able to score drugs, it ain’t the pure shit like I’ve been used to. It’s the bottom of the barrel shit, that’s been cut down to basically nothing but beggars can’t be fucking choosey.

“Petra, on your feet!” The C.O. patrolling my cell block shouted as he rattled his keys, trying to find the one to unlock the bars that confine me. I leaned back on my haunches, swipe my mouth clean with the sleeve of my shirt before standing on my wobbly legs.

“It fucking stinks in here,” he commented as he stepped inside my cell.

I wish I didn’t throw everything up into the toilet, I’d love to fucking bless this prick and his smug face.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“You’ve got a visitor,” he said, twirling his key ring around his finger.

I peered at him, running my fingers through my hair, pushing it out of my eyes and away from my face.

“Let’s go,” he said, leading me out of my cell and down the cell block.

Jack and Wolf showed up at my arraignment but I didn’t pay my brother’s any mind. I wasn’t ready to talk to Jack about business or more importantly what had happened that landed my ass in this mess. I didn’t trust myself with him.

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