Strays

More Loss

Chapter Eight

Stockton State Prison

Tully

Today's the day.

The day I finally meet Juicy Boy.

I've been watching him from a distance—gauging him, dissecting him. And I won't lie, part of me doesn't understand how my sweet Peaches has managed to keep her hands off this man. He's all coiled tension, wounded loyalty, and thick Puerto Rican sex appeal.

But this ain't about sex. Not yet.

This is about control. About power. And maybe... about loneliness, too.

John, the only guard on this block I trust, gives me a nod. I tell my guys to pack up the bones and keep an eye on the tier. No one interrupts this meeting.

John cuffs me and leads me down the corridor to one of the solitary cells. The sound of our boots on the concrete echoes in the stillness like the beat of a war drum. I step inside as the door buzzes open and stretches wide like a mouth waiting to swallow someone whole.

The cot's already made, a single pillow stacked neatly on top. I lay the blanket down, smooth out the wrinkles with the side of my hand. Some might call that considerate.

Some might call it staging.

Then the buzz hits again. The new fish is here.

Juice steps in with a posture that says he's expecting to be jumped. He's thin, haunted, and twitchy—but there's fire behind his eyes. Fire that hasn't gone out yet.

"You're Tully?" His voice is sharp, posture locked.

I don't answer right away. I just let him look. Let him study the scars, the stance, the fact that I'm not what he expected. Then I nod once.

"That's me. Glad I could finally get an audience with you."

"Yeah, I'm a rat. You gonna kill me or not?" No fear, just tired defiance.

I should be impressed—and I am—but I keep my expression flat. I've learned the hard way: showing emotion in here is like bleeding in shark water.

"Not here because of Jax," I say calmly. "I'm here because of Jaycee."

That gets him. His jaw ticks.

"Don't," he snaps. "Leave her out of this." He steps forward like he might swing. "You want to beat me? Do it. Just don't bring her into it."

He loves her. It's painted across his face like war paint. Poor bastard.

"Oh, Juicy baby," I say with a smile just to piss him off, "Miss Teller and I already have an understanding."

His brow furrows. "What are you talking about? What understanding?"

"She didn't tell you?" I shrug, letting that hang in the air like secondhand smoke.

He looks away, wounded pride sharp as glass. Good. That means he still cares enough to be hurt.

"She's a bit guarded with me," I add. "But I think you and I can help each other out."

He straightens. "She's not up for discussion."

I chuckle. "You saying she's your old lady?"

"We weren't allowed," he says, tight-lipped. "And she never let anyone claim her."

Good to know. That tracks.

"Untamed and unclaimed," I mutter. "Starting to understand the appeal."

He glares.