Blood to Dust (14 page)

I know what I need to do. What my conscience begs me to do. This day has been full of good and bad. I killed bad people, and now I have the chance to redeem myself by saving a good one. But it’s not that simple. My neck is on the line here, too.

And the fact that I want to fuck the shit out of her? Another complication that can backfire in my face. Do I want to help her or do I simply
want
her?

“Go to bed, Pea,” I order dryly, walking back to my room, shoulders slumped.

Things just got a whole lot more complex.

Thanks a fucking lot, Country Club.

A platinum-blonde secretary in fancy clothes and with enough makeup to layer a fucking cake greets me behind a massive reception desk made out of deep oak. The title
Royal Realty
is splashed in golden letters over the fancy wood.

There is nothing royal about the asshole I’m about to confront.

“Good afternoon, Sir. How can I hel—” I don’t even spare the woman a second glance. I simply charge through the double doors straight into God’s office. I tell myself that it’s not about Prescott. He’s been jerking me around for far too long. I need answers.

The woman shoots up behind me, slowed by her heels and fears. Yeah, I wouldn’t mess with me either.

“Sir! You can’t go in there. Mr. Archer’s in a meeting!”

I can see that for myself. I’m standing on the threshold, watching Godfrey behind his desk, two suited men sitting in front of him, in the middle of a heated discussion, which I just broke. The men twist their heads in my direction, and God stares me down like I’m a dog he’s about to smack with a rolled newspaper.

He’s lucky he has guests. If he were alone, I would’ve made a nice rug out of his dead body by now for what he did.

“Welcome, Nathaniel. I don’t recall you making an appointment to see me today.” He sounds composed and tranquil. But his hands are dancing. Pupils darting everywhere.

“A word,” I grit, my eyes bleeding anger. Every second I stand here instead of killing him is a fucking testament of my strength. The secretary’s still behind me, and I watch her in the edge of my periphery making hysterical signals to Godfrey with her hands and mouth, telling him she tried to stop me. Godfrey nods curtly, then turns to the men.

“Gentleman, I apologize, but there seems to be some kind of an emergency. During my unfortunate time at. . .” He scowls, before he continues, “San Dimas prison, I used my time and authority to try and help the young inmates. Nathaniel was one of them, and I trust he has a very good reason to turn to me so suddenly and spiritedly. Please excuse us. Melanie will show you out and reschedule our meeting.”

They all shake hands, while mine is aching to sucker punch him. After a round of pleasantries, the door shuts behind us and Godfrey’s agreeable mask falls, his true colors dripping from every wrinkle of his face.

“I’d slit your throat right here if the very carpet you stand upon wasn’t worth more than your whole, miserable existence, you sad piece of shite.”

I throw my head back and laugh. I’m not Irvin or another brainless muscle guy. I ain’t scared. Pissed? You bet, but not scared. “Godfrey, cut the crap. I ain’t one of your San Dimas groupies.”

“You’re a no one, that’s who you are.” He rolls his plush executive chair back and swivels, giving me his back. He pins a vinyl record into a gramophone.
Four Seasons
by Vivaldi fills the air. The only reason I know this shit is because he used to listen to this when we were working together in San Dimas.

“Why are you here?” he barks.

“When was the last time you checked on the AB?” I pace deeper into the room and he turns around to face me again. His brows furrow. His back falls to his chair as he exhales.

Underlying question: Did you send them or are you just a useless prick?

“Do I look like I work for you, lad?” he finally asks, his pupils assessing my reaction closely.

“No, I’d never hire someone like you.” My ass hits the chair in front of him as I sprawl back and make myself comfortable. “I’m the one who clearly works for you, under the assumption that I’m in your debt. That’s because you claim to protect me from the Aryan Brotherhood. However. . .” I trail off, leaning forward and smashing my palm against his desk when I catch his eyes drifting downwards trying to text message. The little bitch wants security to throw me out. He jumps in response, staring at me with heated eyes. “That can change. Maybe you’re not as powerful as I thought you were. Maybe you can’t keep me safe.”

“You know, Nathaniel, everybody loves the second concerto of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
best. It’s that part they keep using in car commercials. The summer part. Everybody loves the summer. But the thing about art is”—Godfrey tosses his phone across the table and gets up—“it’s quite subjective. For instance, I hate the summer, and I hate car commercials. My favorite part? The winter. Winter people are dangerous. They’re not afraid of the rain, the snow or even little blonde storms. The minute you stray from my plans, Nathaniel, the minute you walk away from our arrangement, after everything I’ve done for you. . .” He looks around, like there’s a crowd watching, and drops his voice an octave. “Caution is advised.” He winks.

I stand up and wipe everything off his desk. Folders, a full coffee mug, a laptop and a pile of documents all thrown, and crashing to the floor. “You never did anything to protect me from them.” My face twists with rage.

Godfrey sits back and knots his fingers together, looking smug. “Know your place, pawn.”

I know my place, all right. Now I know everything about where I stand, and it’s nowhere near where he wants me.

Fifty thousand dollars. Fake new passport.
I know this rich kid has the money.
And I’ve already seen a fake passport in her duffel bag. Prescott’s legit. What’s more? She’s fucking relatable.

As if reading my mind, he asks, “How’s our girl?” sounding creepily cheerful. “Camden can’t wait to come here. Shame, really, about this whole wedding. Such a hassle, but it’s got to be done.”

“She’s alive,” I grit, remaining vague.

“Tried any funny business? Run away? Seduce you? Convince you to team up with her?” He cocks one brow and strokes his chin thoughtfully. All of the above. And why wouldn’t she? I’m about to hand her over to this motherfucking nutjob.

Or am I? Godfrey doesn’t seem to do much for me these days.

“You know, Nathaniel, I could’ve kept her in a million different places and waited until Camden’s arrival. I chose you lot because it’s a test. You’ve always been a loose cannon. I reckoned it’d be wise to test the water before I threw you into the deep end, into the more important fields of my business. Are you going to fail me,
inmate
?” His chin drops down, inspecting me. I smooth my hand on my chest, smirking.

“Don’t test me, Archer. I’m not your fucking student.”

I turn around, about to leave, when his voice freezes me in place.

“I hope she didn’t mention her child,” Godfrey grunts. “Poor little Prescott can say just about anything to get her off the hook.”

Her child?
I want to ask him what the fuck but know him better than to think he’d give me straight answers. She’ll be spitting the information tonight, all right. I turn around and veer back to my reason for being here.

“So you don’t protect me from the AB but still expect me to be your guard dog?” I summarize.

“I do protect you from the AB, to an extent. They are business.” He taps his fingers against his lips
. Drugs
. “You can’t expect me to jeopardize my business for you, Nathaniel. I keep an eye on them for you. But you are right about one thing—you’re still mine, still work for me, and the minute that changes, you’re dead.”

A cell phone starts ringing from the pile on the carpet and he sends a fragile arm, bending down to answer it. I’d pick it up for anyone else, but not for him. I stand, tall, young, proud, and watch him flailing his arms while leaning one hip downwards miserably, struggling to pick it up.

“Now, now,” he says, waving his cane in the direction of the entrance, finally gluing the phone to his ear. “I have some wedding arrangements to discuss. Off you go. Oh, and Nathaniel? Don’t switch teams. Ours is awfully powerful.” He winks before I shut the door behind me.

Bastard.

I spend my time reading his diary, holding the red notebook at an angle that allows a ray of sun to trickle through a crack in the boarded windows. Yellow light sheds over the pages. I’m getting to know Nate. Getting to
like
Nate. It’s horrible, to feel positively about your captor. But I do. Can’t help not to. He is broken, just like me. Life has fed him heartbreak, just like it fed me.

DECEMBER 25
TH
, 2010

“THE HEART WAS MEANT TO BE BROKEN” – OSCAR WILDE

Christmas Day.

Frank heard the news about my mom’s death through the grapevine. He visits me in my cell. Brings in candy bars and Top Ramen. Pedro’s eyeing the sweets like they are fucking Megan Fox. He’s been trying to land himself a spot in ad-seg to get a shot of the good stuff. Again.

“Crack already, boy,” the old man grunts, punching me in the shoulder.

“Yell. Curse. Break shit. Your mother just died. She was a good woman.”

I agree. She was the best. Right after I killed my dad, she threw herself at the police officers’ feet, begging for them to take her and not me.

“Need a shoulder to cry on?”

I sniff an arrogant “No.”

He leaves, but not before he shoves a few stamps into my orange uniform. “Get yourself something nice, Nathan—I mean, Nate.”

I throw the Ramen noodles against the wall and watch the slimy strings crawl downwards like worms. My throat constricts with emotions, and not the good kind. Never the good kind.

“You’re a weird kid.” I hear Pedro rolling over on his bunk bed. “Let me know if you get the shits again. I really need those meds.”

JANUARY 3
RD
, 2010

“FRIENDS ARE THE SIBLINGS GOD NEVER GAVE US” (MENCIUS)

I arrive back at the exercise yard after being MIA since news broke about Mamá.

Godfrey and his crew sit at a picnic table, eyeing me like a moving target. Seb grins and pats the bench in a silent invitation. I ignore him and go straight to Frank.

The old man’s there with Stockton’s old schoolers. They’re standing in the corner, rolling up cigarettes and swearing at no one in particular. Frank flashes his false teeth with a rusty “Hello.”

“Yeah,” I say, snatching the cigarette from his hand, even though I’m not a smoker. He tilts his chin down. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I need a shoulder to cry on.”

And that night, I bawl my fucking eyes out for hours on a shoulder I used to think belonged to a veteran pirate.

FEBRUARY 3
RD
, 2010

“AGE IS A CASE OF MIND OVER MATTER. IF YOU DON’T MIND, IT DON’T MATTER” (SATCHEL PAIGE)

I’m in the cafeteria when Frank shows up, slapping backs as he strides along the lengthy benches. Good mood is playing on his face. When he sits next to me, I find out why. Frank got me a gift for my twenty-second birthday. A paperback of
On The Road
by Jack Kerouac. The irony tickles my lips with unfamiliar laughter. I haven’t laughed in a long time, but getting a prisoner a book about freedom is pretty dope.

The book is bent and you can see it’s been rolled up for hours when it was smuggled in.

No one’s given me a birthday gift since I was eight.

I cry a little on the inside, but on the outside, I let out a yawn.

He hooks my neck in a headlock and my cheek crushes against his saggy chest as he ruffles my messy dark hair.

“Fucking brat. I know you wanted this more than wet pussy.”

“How?” My fingers dig hard into the book. It feels like home in my palm. Like it belongs there. His friend Sergio gives me an odd look, his eyebrows pop in surprise.

“He a fag?” he enquires, jerking his thumb in my direction. Frank shakes his head and pats my back. “He’ll grow up to break bones and hearts in equal measure. Hey, Nathan—Nate,” he says with a cluck of his tongue and gives me his peach. I love peaches, so I take it. “The correctional officer? Officer Bouscher? Beth?”