Page 137 of Sweet Sin

You can tell a lot by how a man walks. Especially on the inside.

A lot of new prisoners come in with a hunched posture, which doesn’t bode well for them. Those who can come in while walking upright with a straight back are trying to look brave so they won’t be a target.

They walk briskly, swinging their arms freely. They look straight ahead, while not making eye contact with anyone.

If they’re good at this act, they won’t see a lot of trouble in prison.

These are the guys that fly under the radar, are left alone.

The ones who look at the ground, shoulders slumped—those are the targets. The ones whose screams I try to ignore at night. The ones for whom prison is a whole different experience.

But then there are those like Zion.

Those who come in walking upright, a slow even gait, and they look everyone—everyone—in the eye.

The kind that assesses everyone with a single glance. Separating the strong from the weak. Ready to assert dominance over the situation, whatever it may be.

That was Zion.

He walked past Bruno, eyeing him. And then past Fletcher, who is bigger than I am.

Until he got to me.

He looks me up and down, his gaze taking in everything about me. Judging me. Sizing me up as a competitor. I curl my hands into fists, my gaze never wavering from his.

I look at him in the eye. Always in the eye. These criminals only take about a millisecond to respond to that split-second you take your attention away from them.

I don’t speak to him.

I don’t speak to anyone until they speak to me. It’s kind of my calling card.

But he sizes me up, cocking his head.

He’s waiting for me to say something.

He’ll be waiting a long time.

Finally, he speaks. “How’s the fucking food here?”

“We just hired a new gourmet chef. He used to work at a Michelin three-star place,” I say with sarcasm.

He raises an eyebrow. Interesting. Not everyone can do that. But I can. However, I keep my eyebrows right where they are.

“What are you in for?”

“Killed a motherfucker.”

The lie I’ve learned to tell. I’m innocent, but innocence on the inside is a sign of weakness. Plus I don’t mention that it was manslaughter. I let them think it was fucking murder.

He waits for me to ask why he’s here.

I don’t.

Larkin stands on one side of me, Tommy Ortiz on the other.

Zion gestures to Tommy. “He yours?”

“He is. Hands off.”

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