On Best Behavior (C3) (11 page)

He chuckled. “That’s right,
loser
. Hope you cook faster than you swim.”

“Ouch.” She stood and went to the tiny kitchen. “Better watch out, or I’ll spit in your food, sore winner.”

He came over to sit at the bar as she rummaged through the cabinets. Her head peered around the cabinet door. “Pasta?”

“Sure.”

She set a glass of water in front of him, along with some pretzels and peanut butter. “To tide you over until dinner’s ready.”

“Awesome. How’d you know I was starved?”

She smiled. “I used to be a swimmer, remember?” Grabbing a pretzel, she scooped some peanut butter and popped it in her mouth. Then she set a pot of water on the stove to boil and a skillet with olive oil heating up on another burner. “Grant wanted me to tell you he’s sorry he couldn’t make it today.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yes.”
I hope.
“He’ll call you when he can, but I’m supposed to give you the heads up he won’t be around for a while.”

“Why not?” He spoke with his mouth full.

She paused her rummaging in the fridge. “How much do you know about his job?”

“The singing? He sings at Capone’s.”

“Anything else?”

He munched on a pretzel. “Oh, yeah! The FBI thing. That black dude wanted him to work for them.”

“That’s right,” she said. “Grant’s still singing, but he’s also working undercover now.”

“That shit sounds serious.”

She grinned as a few crumbs spewed from his mouth. “It is. So for now you can’t come over and visit. Grant shouldn’t be seen with you, just in case they’re tailing him.”

“Whoa. Who
are
they?”

“I’m not supposed to say.” She halted her tomato chopping. “It could be dangerous for you.”

“C’mon. Why would it matter if I knew? I won’t be near Uncle Grant.”

“Grant said I shouldn’t tell anyone.”

“But I’m not just
anyone!
Now you’re stressing me out. It’s not people my dad associated with, is it?”

She looked up into his worried eyes. “Uh-uh. I’m not going down this road again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last time we had a little chat while I cooked, it turned out to be a disaster.”

His gaze lowered. “I won’t run away again, I promise. Dr. Hunter says you can’t just run away from your problems.”

He looked so cute. She wanted to give him a hug.

“I was really upset,” he admitted. “But now, to tell you the truth, I’m kind of glad I know about you and my dad.”

She studied him. “Why is that?”

“It’s good he had someone to talk to, before he died. I bet you were…nice to him.”

She felt tears prick the back of her eyes. “I’m really grateful I met your father, Ben. He was a good man.” Tomato chopping resumed. “Did you get to see him, um, before…before he died?”

“Yeah. We got in an argument.”

“That’s rough. Do you want to talk about it?”

A quick headshake. “So, me knowing about you and my dad didn’t turn out so bad. You sure you can’t tell me about who Uncle Grant’s working with?”

“The truth shall set you free, huh?” She turned to the stove. “They’re all the way over in West Town, so it shouldn’t affect us much.” Garlic sizzled in olive oil. “Don’t worry about it. Grant assured me he’d be okay.”

“Why does he have to do this?” His voice trembled.

She sighed. “I asked him the same thing. He said he’s got to make up for what his family has done, for the hurt they’ve caused. I don’t really get it, but Hunter told me to get on board because I can’t change Grant.”

“That sucks.”

She nodded.

He was quiet for a moment as she sautéed some fresh spinach in the oil. “Too bad Grant didn’t get to see our race. You better tell him the truth about your epic fail.”

“Of course I’ll tell the truth.”

“And I’ll have to let Dr. Hunter know his strategy worked.”

She spun around from the stove. “What do you mean?”

He smirked. “Hunter told me you were nervous, and he said to act super-confident to try to psych you out.”

A rosy blush heated her face.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“That’s it. We’re
definitely
having a rematch.”

***

Ricker Mullens watched Tank from across the changing room adjoining the showers. Despite the other cons milling about in various states of undress, his gaze zeroed in on Tank’s massive chest as he toweled off, then moved to his crotch as the tall hunk of meat pulled on his worn, navy blue prison pants. Tank seemed on edge—his eyes darted around the changing room—and his vulnerability made Ricker want him even more. The only block to taking Tank right there was the stern CO leaning against the wall.

One of his blond minions, Steven, sidled up and followed his gaze to Tank’s chiseled body.

“Whatcha waiting for, sir?”

“For the fucking CO to leave,” he growled. “Don’t want to screw up anything with my exit from this hellhole.”

Steven grinned. “How many more days you got in here?”

He glared at him, stepping closer. “None of your business.”

Steven dropped his head, turned, and crept away.

Ricker’s eyes tapered into slits. He’d punish the boy for his insolence later. For now, he had to figure out how to tap Tank’s bulbous, muscular ass in the next two weeks, before the DOC gave him his sweet release.

The CO stared at a part of the room blocked from Ricker’s view and gave a curt nod, seeming to communicate with somebody hidden behind the wall. “
Move
it, girls!” he bellowed.

Ricker cocked his head as Tank’s frantic fingers laced up his work boots. The thrill of violence electrified the steamy air.
Something is off
. When the CO barked at Ricker to get moving, he stepped into the flow of inmates following the CO toward the cellblock. And when the CO looked away, he left the procession of cons and crouched in a dark corner, hidden from Tank by a table holding towels.

Hustling to join the cattle call, Tank grabbed his thermal shirt and drew it over his head just as Enzo Barberi rounded the corner holding a homemade shank. Ricker’s mouth dropped open as Barberi plunged the knife into Tank’s chest while he was still blinded by his shirt. A smothered cry leaked out from beneath the material.

One of Barberi’s goons—he didn’t know his name—pulled Tank’s arm behind his back while Jewels Monroe yanked the shirt off Tank’s head and brought him face-to-face with Barberi. He felt the heat of fury tighten in his chest as he watched the breach of his territory. Tank was
his
, damn it! But he’d never openly challenge Enzo Barberi. And he couldn’t leave the scene now…The smell of fresh blood pleased him too much.

Tank looked down and must have seen the shank under his collarbone, its handle clutched by Barberi. Now both goons gripped Tank’s shoulders, twisting his wrists behind his back. Tank gasped and fell to his knees, and Ricker guessed Barberi had shoved him with the shank, forcing the behemoth down. He watched Tank struggle, but every thrashing move seemed to get him another inch of blade in his shoulder. He finally stilled.

“Don’t bother to yell,” Barberi hissed, leaning in. “CO’s gone. No one to hear me
cut
you.”

Oooh
. Ricker grinned and wished he had some popcorn for the “Shank Tank” show.

Serene coldness settled across Barberi’s face. “You think you could get away with killing my son?”

Tank’s eyes widened. “I didn’t kill Logan!”

Who’s Logan? That’s not a nickname for Grant, right? Wait, Grant wasn’t
killed
, was he?
His heart hammered.

“Sure you didn’t.” Jewels grinned as he held Tank down. “And I’ll be innocent of your murder too.”

Tank’s voice shook. “I’m no different from Jewels in this scenario. I was just holding him down. Carlo had the knife. I was just following orders!”

Barberi breathed out of his nose, sounding disgusted. “The only orders you follow are mine. And I order you to go to hell.” He thrust the knife in deeper.

Tank groaned. “
Grant
told you I held down Logan, didn’t he?”

His ears perked up, and he felt a stirring below his belt. Baby boy Grant was still alive.

“Why the fuck would you say that?” Barberi demanded. “Grant’s got nothing to do with this. He botched that exchange just as bad as you and Meat did.”

Ricker wondered who this “Meat” person was. He liked his name. But hearing Madsen’s name was what really got his cock talking.

Tank panted.

“Now,” Barberi said. “You tell me where the feds put Meat.”

“Don’t know,” Tank gasped. “I think he sang. Witness protection?”

Tank cried out. Barberi must have twisted the knife. Ricker wondered if the blade had nicked Tank’s heart.

“Meat wouldn’t say a word. Grant’s the one who sang—I know it.” Barberi leaned in closer. “Fucking tell me now where they put Meat. No way the feds put Grant
and
Mario under protection. And my contacts can’t find either in the system.”

“Don’t think Grant ever went down for this. Only me and Meat. Never saw Grant after the bust.”

Barberi seemed to loosen his pressure on the knife, and Tank slumped.

“Grant wasn’t arrested?” Barberi looked up at Jewels, ignoring Tank’s squirms. “Why wouldn’t he be arrested?”

Ricker strained to hear the exchange. He didn’t exactly follow what was going on, but there was a thrumming tension in the air.

“He was
in
on it!” Tank suddenly blurted. He nodded with the excitement of discovery. “Grant was working with the feds.”

Barberi jammed the knife in further, and Tank’s complexion went the color of the peeling white paint on the wall behind him. “You’re accusing my
son
of double crossing me?”

“The numbers,” Tank panted. “Grant called out the apartment numbers we passed in Marina City.” His voice faded. “I wondered why he said the numbers out loud. I bet he was wired.”

Barberi froze for a moment, then began nodding. “Son of a bitch.
Grant’s
the one who led the feds to Jovanovich.”

He yanked the blade out, unleashing a torrent of blood. The shank clattered to the concrete floor. “Take care of this,” Barberi spat as he looked around the room.

Time to go
. As Ricker stole away, his mind whirred with images of Madsen walking around as a free man—his graceful, loping stride and crystal blue, vulnerable eyes…Barberi’s son…Barberi’s betrayer? This information
had
to be of some use when he got to the outside.

He hustled to catch up to the other cons marching back to their cells and looked down to see his cock straining against his pants. A smile spread across his lips. “Release is coming,” he whispered. “Soon.”

7. Pro/Con

“S
O
, F
OR
H
ER
P
RACTICE
S
TART
, Sophie dives waaay down, like, scraping the bottom.” Ben snickered, remembering her amateur form.

Dr. Hunter smiled. “Hey, cut her some slack. She’s out of shape, right?”

“Whatever.” He held up his hand. “Her dad started the race for us. I was a little nervous when she kept up with me at first, but then the piano dropped.”

“The piano?” Dr. Hunter asked.

“It’s a piano swim when it feels like you’re carrying a baby grand on your back. Believe me, I’ve had a few of those, especially my first meet. She barely finished the race.”

“Sounds like you managed your anxiety well.”

“Yeah. I kept telling myself ‘She’s old and out of shape,’ like you said I should.”

Dr. Hunter laughed. “Please don’t tell her I said that. I’ll be in a lot of trouble.”

“Why do girls care about getting older?” Ben wondered. “I can’t
wait
till I’m older.”

“It’s not only women who worry about aging.” Dr. Hunter crossed his legs.

“Really? You care about getting old?”

Dr. Hunter shrugged. “There’s a lot of pressure to look young in our society. A lot of ageism out there. My partner’s a plastic surgeon, I should know.”

“That’s cool. Your…partner? He’s a dude, right?”

“Yes, he is.” Dr. Hunter’s smirk faded. “How do you feel about that?”

“Hey, man, it’s cool. There’re some guys at school who are gay. Some chicks too. No biggie. Uh, the dude—your partner—he must be pretty rich, huh?”