Shadowman (Alabaster Penitentiary Book 5), page 5
Breathe. Advance. Swing, left, swing right. Kick.
“That’s excellent! Look at you go!” I hear the familiar voice of my grandfather in my brain, his deep voice sounding almost regal with the accent. “You’ll be Master material, yet. My grandson, the warrior.”
In his hayday, my grandfather studied Tae Kwon Do under one of the most famous Grandmasters in the world. When I was coming up, a confused pre-teen, raging inside and searching for an outlet, it was him who got me into a program. And he stuck by me the whole time. Unlike my father…
Rafe Byron Jr. was my mother’s father, and he was my favorite person in the world. Born and raised in London, his work as a very successful journalist brought him to New York, where he spent the remaining years of his life. When I was two, he got sick, and my family moved from South Korea to be closer to him.
Rafe battled cancer for years. He was a tough son of a bitch, and I’m a hundred percent certain that he made me the man I am today—flaws, secrets, and all.
I used to call him Master Splinter—like from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Sure, he didn’t teach me Tae Kwon Do, but he was my master. Caring and patient, smart and cunning. He was an all-out awesome fucking guy, and he raised my mother to be the same way. Which is why I’ll never understand how she chose someone like my father to marry.
“Headstrong isn’t a very good quality, adeul,” my father said to me, shortly after Grandfather died. “When you are difficult, you are a project… You will not find a career or a wife behaving this way.”
Yea. Great way to encourage a boy on the cusp of becoming a man, grieving over the loss of the only supportive person in his life while struggling to figure himself out.
No wonder I spent so much of my life after that lurking in the shadows…
“Come at me, bro!” Joy huffs, out of breath, because I’ve been playing her defensively. Wearing her out. It’s a tactic of mine.
She launches a few more hits at my face, and I block every single one. We’ve been going at this for a bit, and I can tell she’s getting tired. That’s when I make my move.
Kick, kick, jab jab jab, then spin and wham! Kick to the head!
And she’s down!
Of course, we’re not beating the shit out of each other or anything. It’s not about that. But we also agreed when we started doing this to never hold back. It’s not in either of our natures.
Once she’s on the ground, I pin her down, breathing heavily with a triumphant grin on my lips. I’m man enough to admit she beats me more than I beat her. But that just makes moments like these all the more satisfying.
“I win, jagiya,” I murmur, hovering over her.
We’re both panting, chests jumping up and down, exposed skin flushed and a little sweaty. It becomes painfully obvious in a split second that my dick is jamming into her, and not that it’s rock solid or anything, but it’s certainly alive.
Joy’s pupils dilate, and she licks her lip, glancing across the room at the guys, who are still messing around with their own activities. “Get off me, inmate.”
Her raspy little growl gives my dick a stir. I lean in closer. “Or what?”
She arches up. “Meet me around the corner in two minutes.”
That’s all I needed to hear.
Rolling off of her, I watch as she hops to her feet, removing the tape while skipping toward the locker room off the main area. I sit up, head spinning, checking on the guys myself.
It’s not news that Joy and I hook up from time to time. It usually happens down here, too, because she’s not one to let her sexual escapades be known to the rest of the prison, especially when it comes to fooling around with an inmate.
The guards hook up with the inmates here. It’s just a fact. Some do it more than others, but the thing is that they’re all men. Joy is the only female, so naturally, there’s extreme interest in getting at her, knowing she’s literally the only option for sex without crossing over into gay territory.
But unfortunately for every straight prisoner other than me, Joy Jameson is off-limits. She pointedly does not hook up with inmates. I’m the one and only exception to that rule, which makes me feel even more pretty and special.
If I were to guess why, I’d think it’s because she knows I’m well-versed in the premises of both keeping it strictly physical and keeping my mouth shut—when it’s not feasting on her pussy, I mean. Even Joy’s other half—her partner in crime and her ex, John Chevelle—hasn’t so much as shot me an evil look pertaining to me messing around with his Cherry. Of course, he knows. It’s widely understood that Joy and Velle pretty much share a brain. But I also think Velle, more than anyone on this island, treats sex like the ultimate show of power.
Joy throwing me a bone, on her terms, makes me less of a threat.
I’m not exactly sure that’s true, but at the end of the day, I’d never do anything to fuck Joy over. She’s another one of my closest friends, like Luthor, Ren, and O’Malley. I trust her implicitly.
Moseying over to the locker room doorway, I’m trying to be as subtle as possible, whistling like I’m not doing anything sneaky. Just casually walking into this private area, following the sounds of running water. Nothing to see here…
Joy is already in one of the showers, and I have to pause and gulp because she’s naked and dripping wet… And her body is insane.
We’ve fucked before, but we don’t usually have sex. Her rule is that if I beat her, I eat her. You’d think it’d be the other way around, but no. Eating her out is my prize, because I never get to do it anymore.
I’m surrounded by dick. Dick dick dick, everywhere. Dick and ass. That’s it.
Spending some time with tits and pussy is a welcome treat.
In seconds, I’m naked too, joining her in the shower. It’s a bit dirtier down here than the showers upstairs, so you have to be careful where you step, but no matter. Right now, I’m more focused on getting us both off; making this good, but more importantly, making it quick. She can’t exactly leave the others alone for long. Though, I’m sure Velle knows every inch of what’s happening down here and is more than prepared to crack skulls if anything goes sideways.
I start out kissing Joy’s mouth and neck, licking up her sweat mixed with the cool water, because it tastes good. Next, I’m at her tits, savoring them because, goddamn, it’s been way too long. And lastly, the main course; her sweet little pussy.
There are many sensations flooding my body when I do this, things I never thought I’d feel while eating a girl out. It’s crazy to me how different it starts to feel, because of how rare it is… It’s like the whole time is spent hurdling through all the ways this is different from the other sex I have here. The other details I hold close to my chest.
Maybe that’s why I enjoy hooking up with Joy so much. There’s no risk of getting swept up in memories, like there is with Ren. With Joy, I can be the old Byron again.
It reminds me of simpler times.
Only five minutes with my tongue putting in mad work, and she’s clenching her thighs around my head, yanking my hair so hard it hurts. I like it.
When she’s done coming, and all gushy, I hold her up against the wall with her legs around my waist and rub my dick up and down through her wetness.
“Where should I come?” I whisper out fast and hoarse, fisting my cock and beating it rough.
“Come on my tits,” she breathes.
“Fuck yea,” I growl, succumbing to the sensation. Stroking faster and faster.
Closing my eyes… Seeing tear-stained cheeks and a waiting mouth.
Shit…
I force my eyes open. Shit shit shit…
And then I’m coming, shooting all over her perky tits, biting my lip to keep the desperate hums in.
“That was awesome,” Joy sighs as I put her down, immediately washing up.
“Mhm…” I gulp.
Yea, it was. It felt great, because orgasms always do. And it was hot. Duh.
It’s… comforting with Joy. Like being a musician on a comeback tour. There’s something satisfying about going back to your roots.
Fooling around with females is my original repertoire.
Shaking off the weird feelings bogging me down, I get redressed, then follow Joy back into the rec room. If the guys noticed us disappearing together for ten minutes, they know better than to comment on it. Especially in front of Joy.
I’m certain she’d give them a nice bonk with her billy club.
“Alright, maggots.” She claps her hands together, austerity shifted carefully back into place. “Time to go. Chop chop.”
I hang back just enough, lingering by the mats where I stashed the cellphone. Tugging it out quickly, I check the screen. It has full service down here, which is a minor miracle. Without another moment of thought, I stuff it back where it was, scurrying after the others. Keeping it hidden down here seems much safer than carrying it around with me or keeping it in my cell.
As we make the long-ass journey back up to general population, I get a shove in the side from my cellmate.
“Where’d yeh put it?” O’Malley asks. I lift a brow, and he gives me a look. “You know…” He holds his hand up to his face, making the international gesture for talking on the phone.
Eyes on Joy, I whisper, “I left it down there. Tucked between those old mats up against the back wall.”
He nods, but says nothing.
I’m not too worried about it. O’Malley’s a freaking nutjob, but he’s still one of my best friends in this place. I trust him.
That might be a loaded statement, but we’ll see how things play out.
My grandfather used to say, “Our secrets are just as significant a part of who we are as anything else. The role we allow them to play in our lives is entirely up to us.”
I always found that interesting.
From a young age, we’re taught not to keep secrets. That it’s harmful and hurtful, and that keeping a secret is essentially holding on to our inner shame. But as I got older—the more truths I began to keep to myself—the more I discovered that secrets don’t automatically equal guilt. At least, they don’t have to.
Everyone keeps secrets. If you say you don’t, you’re a liar. Not a single one of us has shared every single aspect of our lives with someone else. Think about it. There have to be at least one or two things you’ve never told anyone before.
Why be ashamed of that? It’s our right as human beings to keep things to ourselves. Whether it’s a thought, or something you did, or something about yourself you choose not to divulge…
Imagine how crazy it would be if our minds were on permanent display, like an episode of Black Mirror. It would be a violation of our inherent privacy.
Not to mention, secret doesn’t have to mean something only you know. Sometimes you can come together with your fellow man to keep a secret from someone else. Might sound fucked up, but in a way, it’s a form of bonding.
Remember, I Know What You Did Last Summer?
Sorta like that.
That’s the kind of secret that Quiet Night is.
Quiet Night was the name given to a weekly meeting of guards and prisoners in the basement rec room. Long story short, it’s like a cockfight, only with prisoners. Organized by a few of the guards and kept heavily hidden from everyone else on the island.
Sounds like a secret society within an already mystery-shrouded prison, right? Sort of… Except that we’re not equal, because the guards oversee it and they place bets, make money, and threaten to kill us if we ever tell anyone. Like a more intense version of Fight Club.
The inmates who fight get a say in whether we want to participate, but let’s not act like saying no, backing out, or giving off even the slightest whiff of judgement won’t put a giant bullseye on your back. Still, for the most part, us Night Fighters agree to do it because we’re bored, angry, and we enjoy the act of both fucking people up and getting fucked up in return.
O’Malley and I are part of it, though I only choose to go down every so often. When I need it. O’Malley, on the other hand, would be down there every damn night if he could.
The dude loves fighting, and not in the same professional way that I do. Never in my life have I seen someone take on dudes three times his size, and get his ass beat with such masochistic glee… He’s like a schizophrenic Chihuahua.
It’s actually pretty alarming. But then I like to fight, myself, so who am I to say anything?
Yes, O’Malley has more issues than Time magazine, and yes, he should probably be on serious medication and constant surveillance from some kind of medical professional. But in Alabaster Penitentiary, things like that don’t matter. His obvious problems aren’t seen as a liability, but rather something to exploit for personal gain.
That might be the one truly honest thing about this place… We’re all fucked the hell up. At least in here, we’re celebrated for our issues, rather than condemned for them.
Unless, of course, we’re talking about the East Wing. But that’s a whole other side to this sentence I don’t want to think about right now.
A select few of the guards got together and started Quiet Night. It’s never been confirmed, but if I were to guess, I’d say they call it that because when we’re down in the basement, pummeling each other in the face, Gen-pop gets much quieter. That and the guards use it as a code phrase of sorts to let us know when it’s on.
“We’re gonna have a quiet night tonight, got it?”
“Let’s make it a quiet night for once, inmate.”
That sorta thing.
Truth be told, I’m not even sure if Velle knows; that’s how hush-hush the whole thing is. Part of me assumes Velle knows about literally everything that happens within these walls, because he is the Warden’s top dog; his henchman, his eternally loyal second in command. It’s his job to have eyes everywhere, just like the Warden does.
So he must know… Right?
Still, I can’t be absolutely certain. Velle’s never shown his face in the rec room for a Quiet Night, and the guards who organize it seem to go to great lengths to keep any mention of it away from him. But just because he doesn’t participate, doesn’t mean he’s not aware of what’s going on. Same goes for The Ivory…
I’m positive the Warden knows about Quiet Night. But he’s not going to say anything, because that’s the name of his game. To let us think we’re getting away with things… Meanwhile, he’s standing over us all, pulling the strings, goddamn puppet master that he is.
First rule of Quiet Night is you never, ever talk about it.
See what I mean?
It must be around three o’clock in the morning, though I’d have no idea. I haven’t looked at a clock in ages. But despite the haphazard schedule and lack of windows in this place, your body’s internal clock adjusts. And after a while, you start to work off of that.
We’re in the basement—a group of deranged criminals and the equally feral men in charge—where we have been for hours. And I just kicked the shit out of Nieves, on a mat, surrounded by a circle of cheering guards and prisoners.
It was a decent fight. He got a few licks in, and I can feel my right eye swelling already. My knees are wobbly, skin raw, various sore muscles. But I won.
Linetti and Brenner, two of the guards who host Quiet Night, are counting their winnings on the side, while one prisoner, Cooper, drags Nieves off the mat, leaving a trail of blood as he goes.
He’ll be fine.
“Ayo, walk it off, papi,” grumbles Lucas, a guard who lost money.
Serves him right for betting against me. I’m undefeated, bitch.
“Rub some dirt on it. You’ll live,” Brenner adds, unsurprisingly unsympathetic. “Who’s up next?”
Linetti checks the writing on his hand. “Uh, let’s see… We got Hammond up against… Oh, shit.” He chuckles. “O’Malley. Good luck, sport.” He shoots Hammond a look, who understandably appears worried.
O’Malley isn’t undefeated per se, but even his losses feel like a win, because of how brutal and fucking crazy he is.
I’m swiping blood away from my eyebrow as O’Malley slaps me on the side. I wince from the tenderness after being punched there probably a dozen times.
“No mercy,” he says to me, grinning and sticking out his tongue.
“No surrender.” I grab him roughly by the shoulders, shoving him toward the circle.
He jogs onto the mat like a psychopathic Connor McGregor, beating his chest and yelling out nonsense, threatening everyone who boos him.
Hammond has a good foot on O’Malley in height—the dude is barely five-six—and probably at least fifty pounds in muscle. He’s a big guy. But size doesn’t mean dick in fighting, especially under prison rules.
Anything goes.
No holds fucking barred.
The shouts, whistles, and taunts are amplified when Brenner calls out, “Fight!”
I’m often surprised no one can hear us down here. For as huge as this place is, and all the thick concrete everywhere, the noise still really travels.
Running fingers from my brow, over my eye and onto my cheekbone, I shiver at the sensation of pain; the throbbing ache with its own heartbeat.
I like it. I don’t know why, but I do.
I’m not a total masochist. At least I don’t think I am… But ever since I was thrown into Alabaster Pen without an ounce of warning, I’ve become more and more invested in pain. Really anything that allows me to feel, whether it’s sex, or fighting… Shallow acts for my body to endure, to remind me I’m not just an empty husk.
The thing is, it wasn’t Alabaster Penitentiary that made me this way…
I’ve felt invisible for as long as I can remember. Since I was a child standing in the corner.
I don’t like to complain about my childhood, because I know some people have it so much worse than me, but still, I don’t remember ever being happy with anyone other than my grandfather. Certainly not my father.
Tae Jin Kang is the epitome of a hard ass. Stone-cold, reserved and perpetually indifferent. I suppose he loves us… my mother, my sister, and me. Because he has to. But he never truly cared for my grandfather, or New York; that much was clear. As far as he was concerned, he came to America as an obligation, and as soon as my grandfather was dead, he could pack up and head back to Seoul—after collecting my mother’s hefty inheritance, of course.
