Page 6 of Summer's Edge

I’m not even gonna grace that jibe with an answer. He knows full well I moved to LA in part just to get away from all that peace and quiet back home. And all those pretty birds singing in the redwood trees, which still have a lot more freedom than I’ll clearly ever have.

TWO

Edge

Getting shot is no picnic. But taking a bullet for the president of your MC is an honor and also has its perks. Especially when that president is Cross, and the club is Devil’s Nightmare MC. They always pay their debts.Wealways pay their debts. I’ve been a fully pledged, patched member for the last eight years. Only problem is, I’m in prison and the charges leveled against me are no joke. Grand theft auto, assault and murder. Several times over.

I’ve been hearing a lot about how I won’t be locked up much longer. But I’m still stuck in a tiny cell, with only a single window right under the ceiling so I can’t even look out.

Everything in my cell is clean and new, even the pale blue walls don’t have much more than a scratch or two on them. The metal bed screwed directly into the wall hardly creaks and the toilet hasn’t had thousands shitting in it yet like the rest of the toilets in this prison. I have it better than most here. I know that.

But all the newness and the pale blueness of my cell are starting to drive me insane.

I get an hour in the yard, half an hour in the morning and half an hour in the evening. The only guys outside with me during those times are white-collar prisoners. We don’t talk. We hardly even look at each other. The small outdoor courtyard has walls so high you can only see the sky when you crane your neck all the way back and even then, the view is ruined by the thick, sharp razor wire on top of them. Sometimes I see a plane fly by. I’ve never yet seen a bird.

The rest of the time I’m in my cell. Alone. Doing everything and anything I can think of to not go crazy. At least my wound is now healed enough for things like pushups, sit-ups and jumping jacks. If I didn’t have that, I’d probably have strangled myself with my bare hands by now.

I understand I’m in this solitary, new part of the prison for my own protection and that the MC made sure I was put in here and not gen pop. So many MCs have banded together to destroy Devil’s Nightmare MC that I’d probably be dead within an hour of being put into the regular part of this prison.

But I’ve been here for almost two weeks and I’m starting to wonder if maybe I didn’t survive getting shot at all. Like maybe this is some weird version of hell that I’m in.

The lock on my metal door rattles, the bar sliding open. But it’s not time for my evening walk yet. Not time yet to stare and the sky and wish at least a pigeon would fly by just so I’d know there’s still life beyond these walls. I have no watch, but I’ve developed a very keen sense of time since I’ve been brought here. A useless skill, since it hardly fucking matters what time it is in here. Or what day. Or what century for that matter.

“Get dressed,” the guard says. “You have a doctor’s appointment.”

I was lying on my bed in just my boxers, letting my drab, light grey uniform dry from the workout that took care of most of the day.

“I don’t need no doctor,” I snarl, but get up anyway. Anything to break the sameness of days and nights in here is welcome.

“Not my call,” the guy says and then just stands there watching me get dressed.

When I’m done, he leads me down the sterile-looking hallway lined with identical light blue metal doors—the same kind of doors that are on my cell. This place already looks plenty like a hospital as far as I’m concerned. Or an asylum, more like.

He leads me through a bunch of locked doors until we finally stop in a cramped holding area of sorts where two guards are waiting. One of them is holding shackles—the kind that bind your feet and your hands together. I’ve only ever worn those in court.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “I thought you were taking me to the hospital wing.”

The guard that brought me shakes his head. “No. The actual hospital.”

It’s weird because my wound is completely healed, but I don’t ask any more questions. I just let them put the shackles on me. The chance to at least see the world outside is too good to pass up.

Once that’s done, the guard that brought me here unlocks yet another door, this one leading to a loading dock where a prisoner transport van is waiting. He stands aside for us to exit.

One of the guards heads for the driver’s side door, while the other escorts me to the back of the van. He’s standing real close, so close I can feel his hot breath on the back of my neck and smell what he had for lunch. Something with onions. It’s disgusting.

“The key’s in your pocket,” he whispers, the smell of onions intensifying. “Be ready.”

Then he loads me into the back and slams the door behind me before I can even fully process what he said.

I was assured by the MC that I wouldn’t spend a lot of time in jail, but they didn’t tell me anything more than that. I guess this is it. Today’s the day I once again become a free man. Thank fucking God.

Be ready?

I’ve been ready for weeks.

And I gotta say, the smell of onions on someone’s breath might very well be my new favorite smell.

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