Shadowman (Alabaster Penitentiary Book 5), page 24
I taped his knuckles for him… That night.
Dropping his hand fast, I step back, clearing my throat. “Yea, well… Welcome to fucking prison, right? You’re, uh… all set, by the way.”
The way he stares is weighted with curiosity and dazed wonder. Any time his eyes are on me for more than a few seconds, I start to feel all hot and fidgety inside. Thankfully, cheers and roars give me an excuse to turn away and get my bearings.
It’s starting.
Stalking over to the circle, I can sense Trevel scampering after me. “Do you have any advice for me?” he asks over the noise. “I’m really more of a lover than a fighter.”
I gawk at him like he’s insane. “Don’t go in there trying to love these guys to death. You’ll get your ass handed to you. And not in a nice way.”
“Ooh… saucy.” He bites off a grin, and I just shake my head.
He is a bit of an odd duck.
I allow the violence to distract me from the warmth that won’t stop creeping up my neck and into my face any time he’s around.
It’s not him. It must just be the excitement of the fight, that’s all.
It’s normal to feel awkward around such a… compelling new character.
Trevel and I stand side by side, watching two inmates, Valcic and Jermaine, beat the shit out of each other. I can tell this is something Trevel’s never been presented with by the way he’s sort of flinching and wincing every time one of them takes a heavy hit.
He doesn’t seem affected by the blood or the pain they’re inflicting, but more by the senseless violence. Fighting without purpose, I guess.
By the next match-up, he’s leaning in to ask me questions. Often.
“Shouldn’t he have blocked that?”
“Why do they call it an ‘uppercut?’”
“Do you think his nose is broken?”
“Is that a proper stance?”
“What happens if you run away?”
It’s actually kind of funny. He clearly knows nothing about professional fighting while being genuinely interested in my insights. Like I’m a UFC commentator or something—the Joe Rogan of underground prison fights. Honestly, it’s more entertaining than the match after a while.
The blood is flowing, fire being fueled enough that the next time Linetti is calling out, “Who’s next?” I’m stepping forward and cracking my neck.
“I’m in.”
Everyone cheers, I guess because, technically, I’m still undefeated. And the bets start rolling in, cash being tossed at Brenner from all sides.
“Fuck yea!” Linetti claps, looking around for someone to pit me against.
Before he can choose, Humphrey steps into the circle, serving me a look that’s overflowing with something to prove. “Let’s go, champ.”
I narrow my gaze at him. Justin Humphrey is a big guy. Not that it means anything per se, but he’s always done pretty well down here. His last fight was against O’Malley. And he kinda sorta whooped my friend’s ass.
Still, I’m not worried. The dude has no form, and he wears himself out too fast swinging sloppy haymakers.
“Bets in!” Brenner shouts, signaling that we’re about to start.
Rolling my neck in Trevel’s direction, I find his eyes rounded, wide enough that the violet in his irises is visibly shimmering. He’s grinning, but it’s strained. Like maybe he’s… nervous. For me. How sweet.
Or maybe he’s nervous for the other guy. Either way, he’s clearly anxious about me fighting, and it sets the strangest sensation in my chest.
I don’t have time to be perplexed by it, because Linetti is hollering, “Fight!”
And we’re off.
As suspected, Humphrey’s coming at me quick, throwing big, meaty punches like Mike Tyson’s older, fatter cousin. Blocking him is easy, but when he does catch me, the pain lights me the fuck up.
Fuck yea. You want some, old man?!
My body shots are tight, head shots fast and precise. Stick and move, I’m dancing around him like Ali, in my fucking zone. The noise fades away, until all I can hear is my breathing. It’s like I’m underwater. Everything is rippling, slow-motion helping me to anticipate his jabs.
Ducking and dodging, I work on his legs, and his kidneys, kicking and kicking, sprinkling in blows so he doesn’t know what to expect.
Head, body, head.
This is where I feel at peace.
No more stressing, or obsessing…
No more doubting, questioning…
All eyes on me, because this is who the fuck I am.
A fucking warrior.
Sweet, simmering fury personified.
Humphrey is exhausted in mere minutes, wobbling and bleeding from his mouth. That’s when I make my move.
I launch my palm at his nose to disorient, get his eyes watering up nice. Then I hit him with my signature combo… Uppercut to the chin, followed by a spin-kick to finish him. He goes down like a sack of shit.
Boom. KO.
The crowd erupts, guards and prisoners bellowing as Lucas calls it. And not that I believe in this shit, but I make the cross motion over my chest. For O’Malley.
“No mercy.” I spit blood onto the floor where Humphrey is lying. “No fuckin’ surrender, baby.”
Rest In Peace, Shamrockstar.
Stomping out of the circle, I’m refreshed. My head is clearer than it’s been in months. I’ve got dudes slapping me on the back left and right, calling things out. And I won’t lie, it feels good, the recognition. But I don’t do it for that. I don’t crave attention or validation when I fight. I’m sure I would feel just as satisfied if I’d lost.
Because it’s the fight itself that settles me. The pain, the adrenaline… Hell, even the fear. They remind me that I’m still alive when, in here, it’s so easy to forget.
Striding past Trevel, the illumination on his face has me smirking.
“Byron! Fucking hell… That was amazing!” He breathes a laugh, following me over to the water bucket. “I’ve never seen anything like that!”
I give him a skeptical side-eye. “You’ve really never seen any boxing? UFC?”
He shrugs. “I told you; I’m a lover, not a fighter. Plus, that was obviously different from what’s on television…”
Perplexed by how good his praise feels, I ignore it with a huff, focusing on cleaning myself up. But when Trevel grabs the wet cloth from my hand, I freeze.
Standing stock still, I watch in bemused unease as he brings it up to my face, dabbing my brow. I might’ve stopped breathing; a Byron statue, gaping up at the stranger who’s gently cleaning blood off of my face.
Why is he doing this? Why am I letting him do this?
It’s… weird. Isn’t it? A weirdly intimate thing to do for someone you hardly know… While shirtless and… sweaty.
“I can’t believe you can fight like that,” Trevel murmurs, all of his attention on what he’s doing while I just stare. “Do you pretend that bloke hurt your family or something? Imagine he killed your puppy or slashed your tires…? I think I’d have to do that. I’d need some motivation, or—”
“Motivation can be more than just revenge,” I cut off his rambling, my voice extra raspy.
His purple eyes meet mine. “What’s yours?”
Swallowing, I consider what I could share with him. If I could tell him things… About me. My life.
Ultimately, I decide against it. This guy has already pulled more words out of me than most others can. I don’t understand how he does it.
Ducking away from his touch, I take the cloth back, because now it just seems like he’s fussing over me, and I don’t need that. I’m barely even swelling. There isn’t much blood.
And I think I felt his fingers on my lower back…
Shut it down.
“So vengeance is, like, your thing?” I ask my own question, remembering what he said to me the other day in the cafeteria.
“You might like the taste of revenge…”
“Bit of an odd thing to have, I suppose.” He grins. “Look, I’m no Batman, roaming the streets, seeking to avenge the deaths of my parents. It’s just… Well, the only times I’ve felt the blinding need to inflict pain on someone were instances where they deserved it. They wronged me, or someone I cared for. And because of that, they had to die.”
His words give me chills.
Hmm… So he has killed people.
This is my first insight into why he’s here, and just like everything else about him, it’s intriguing as hell. I’d like to know more…
But there is a golden rule of prison—you don’t ask people what they’ve done. You wait for them to volunteer the information themselves.
Or you snoop around and find out.
I’m sure Trevel will tell me his story eventually. He’s been blathering to me nonstop, odd since he’s barely said a word to anyone else. But I think I like talking to him too.
How is it that two quiet loners have been gabbing away all night, like a couple of chatty Kathys? It’s bizarre.
And yet…
Maybe I could do it…
Tell him… why I’m here.
The thought takes me by surprise. Even my best friends don’t know the real reason. I’ve given them a version of the story, watered-down and embellished. A PG, cookie-cutter, Lifetime movie adaptation of what really happened.
No substance. No marrow.
No Michelangelo.
The truth is still mine. My secrets are only mine.
I couldn’t just hand them over to the captivating stranger with the purple eyes… Could I?
“I like the feeling.” I speak softly, offering him a raspy confession, though I still can’t be sure why. “That’s my motivation. It’s like a high, I think.”
Something shifts on his face, almost like a realization dawning.
He nods subtly. “Oh, well… That I can certainly understand.”
This conversation, just like the one we had the other day about fucking Skittles, is twisting me up in a very puzzling way. Once again, it seems like we’re talking about something deeper than the actual words we’re using.
Roars and shouts snap us both out of it, and we glance back at the circle. Fuller and Redman are in there. And as it tends to, the fights are getting dirtier, the crowd growing rowdier as the night wears on.
“This is the type of shit O’Malley liked,” I tell Trevel, cringing when Fuller jams his thumb into Redman’s eye.
“Your friend?” he asks. “The one who was killed by…”
“The Carver… yea. He was a real scrappy motherfucker. No fucking mercy.”
“But that’s not how you fight…” I think it was supposed to be a question, but it comes out more like a statement.
“I couldn’t.” I shake my head. “Not with my background. I respect the art of it too much.”
“I like that.” Trevel grins, looking me up and down. His eyes gloss over my exposed torso, and it feels constricting. Easing in closer, his tone grows rumbly, like a tiger’s purr. “You’re quite the deep fellow… Aren’t you, Byron?”
I swallow over a sudden lump in my throat, peering at him. “Um… maybe?”
His smirk widens, and he bites his lip. “I’d like to find out just how deep you go…” His breath melts into humming interest that slips into my ear from how close I hadn’t even noticed we were standing.
There’s palpable heat coming off of his tall frame. Or maybe it’s coming from me? We’re both shirtless, flesh sort of close… Either way, it’s unnerving me to my core. I’m not sure if he’s flirting with me, or if this is just the way he is.
Seems a lot like flirting… But then I have an overly sexual friend who flirts like it’s breathing.
Maybe Trevel is… like Ren.
That thought just confuses me more.
Would it be a bad thing? If he were flirting with me…?
Blinking up at him, I consider my recent predicament. Sexuality hangups aside, I have needs. And I’m stuck in here, meaning my options are limited.
It’s nothing more than a physical release, anyway…
Trevel is good-looking. I mean, he’s actually really fucking pretty. Masculine at the forefront, but with these sharp angles that could certainly lure in a straight guy with ambiguous tastes.
Shifting from side to side, I wring my hands while my eyes flit around the room, searching for anything other than him to focus on because this shit is tripping me up. I don’t know this guy. We’re not friends, and I’m certainly not crushing on him or whatever. Yet I can’t seem to stop eyeing him subtly, all kinds of whacky things piling up in my head.
Am I really that sexually frustrated??
My inner turmoil is disrupted when Linetti barks, “New guy! You’re up.”
Shit. I was so invested in my creepy obsessing, I hadn’t even noticed the fight was over.
Trevel is wearing a deer-in-headlights expression as he gawks at Linetti, then at me. He swallows visibly, but that’s really the only hesitation before he kicks into movement, weaving through bodies toward the center of the circle. Like a reflex, my hand almost juts out to stop him, because I don’t think he should be doing this.
Is he really gonna do this??
“Who else needs to go?” Linetti looks around. “Bren, who do you want?”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Brenner rumbles, counting his money. “I think they’ve all gone…”
“Alright, then. Virgin’s choice.” Linetti aims a smug smirk at Trevel. “Pick your poison, 102.”
Trevel appears deep in concentration, for all of five seconds. And then his violet eyes land on me, lips quirking as he chirps, “I’ll take Mr. Undefeated Champion, please.”
Murmurs are immediate, everyone else mirroring my surprise while I gape at this oddball motherfucker…
The dude I’ve been chatting with all night like we’re besties now wants me to kick the shit out of him??
My mouth hangs open for too long, until Linetti snaps, “You heard Harry Styles! Get in there, 62!”
The crowd is cheering. Trevel is waiting, and I’m hesitating. Me. The warrior.
How the hell am I supposed to fuck this dude up without feeling like an asshole?? He literally just said he doesn’t like to fight!
Stumbling into the circle, I lock eyes with Trevel. He doesn’t appear worried in the slightest, which is working up even more tension in my muscles. He knows what I can do… He just watched me take down someone twice his size.
Why doesn’t he look scared??
He must really be psychotic.
“Don’t hold back, mate.” He winks at me.
My brows zip, disturbed as Linetti yells, “Fight!”
Okay, I guess we’re doing this…
Trevel and I instantly begin orbiting one another. For someone who claims to be a lover, his form isn’t terrible. He actually looks like he knows what he’s doing, which I wouldn’t have guessed from the way he was prying me for details before. Our gazes are magnetized while we circle and circle, both of us refusing to make the first move.
It goes on long enough that the crowd is growing impatient, so I move in closer and start needling him. Tossing him little taps and shoves, trying to get him to hit me first.
I refuse to hit him first. This is his fault. He wanted this…
“I know what you’re doing,” Trevel rumbles under his breath.
“What am I doing?” I keep going, tapping him with my knuckles, advancing just enough, though he’s not even backing up.
In a flash, we’re up close. Close enough that I can hear him breathing. His height advantage doesn’t worry me, but it does make it feel like he’s enveloping me with his proximity.
Goading him with more light shots, I jab him in the chest, then on his abs. They’re extremely firm… Not sure what I expected, but the feel of it throws me off for some reason.
“Come now, Byron,” he says calmly, blocking my hits to his torso. “They won’t let us stop until you do it. Just hit me.”
“Why don’t you hit me?” I grumble.
“I told you.” He gets up in my face, crowding me until we’re practically zipped. My heartbeat is popping off much faster than it should be, but I think I can feel his doing the same. “I’m not a fighter.”
“Oh, right… You’re a lover,” I taunt, shoving him away.
But he comes right back. “Mhm… But we’re not loving right now, are we?” He smirks, and I want to punch it. At least… I think that’s what I want to do to it… “No, we’re fighting. So fight.”
I shake my head, the nerves, the tension, and the thrill all working up together, coating my muscles. “Fuck off…”
“You think I can’t handle it?” he breathes out.
“I know you can’t,” I growl, my hands on his waist.
We’re chest to chest, fluttering into one another. The shouts and chants, our panting in tandem… His low, gravelly voice. It’s all becoming heady music, a background to this dance we’re doing.
“I promise I can take it,” he rasps, almost pleading. “Hit me.”
He… wants it?
I’m in limbo, burning hotter with every lash of his firm body and smooth skin against mine. I know I need to make a move, but I’m afraid…
Afraid of how good it might feel.
“Come, love,” Trevel whispers over my lips. “No mercy… I want your wrath.”
And then he grabs my throat.
Instinct kicks in, and I shove him back, hard, launching my fist at his jaw. It was a default reaction, but still, I’m struggling to keep it easy. I don’t think I want to hurt him…
I’m confused. This is confusing me.
Hard, hot body pressing into mine, sweat and dried blood in the air, mingling with the scent of him—sweet and fresh and masculine.
Fuck, I’m high on it all. It’s frying my wires.
“Harder,” Trevel snarls, coming for me again, grabbing my neck. “Like a good boy.”
Ding.
It’s as if a timer went off in my brain. Some bizarre Pavlovian bell.
I think I actually moan for a second, but I cover it up with a roar as I lunge at him, tackling him to the floor. I’m throwing fast punches into his sides and his face. He’s able to block some of them, but still, the red is overtaking me.
This fury… It’s oh-so-sweet.
