Chapter 2.
Ryder's P.O.V.
The first few months in prison were a novelty. Badass 15 year old punk landed himself in a juvenile centre, only to be shipped off to prison at age eighteen, I was the cool kid. Two years on and it would be an understatement to say that the novelty wore off, leaving me bored out of my skull.
The tennis ball hit the wall one more time before it bounced away from me and towards the sink. Rolling my eyes, I got to my feet to get it, stretching my legs out. My cell mate, Robert, I think his name was, hadn’t been in with me for about a month. All it took was one fight in the canteen for him to be beaten to a pulp and never seen again. Back in the good old days, I wouldn’t have had to get up, he’d of chucked it back.
When I bent down and picked up the ball, I noticed one of the guards at the door, peering in through the window. I raised an eyebrow, giving her a lazy grin.
“See something you like, sweetheart?” I cooed and she scoffed, turning her back on the door. That was the way I liked it.
The guards were something that I really couldn’t be assed with. The male ones, mainly, but the female ones ticked me off, too. They all had attitude problems. Granted, my only form of amusement was pissing them off, but it was still no excuse to push me around like there’s no tomorrow.
“Hey, Reynolds.” I turned at the sound of my name, raising one curious eyebrow at the door. Banks was one of the guards that hated me, if I was some weedy little bugger, I’d be his favourite punch bag. I used to be, until I hit him back. Landed me a week in isolation but the big, black bruise on his cheek was definitely worth it.
I didn’t bother answering him; I just walked back over to my bed and sat down, putting my arms behind my head carelessly.
“You’ve got a new friend,” he cooed. Rolling my eyes, I waited for him to elaborate. It didn’t take him long and it definitely wiped the amused smirk from my face. In walked the guy that made a meal out of Robert’s face. Robert wasn’t what I’d call intimidating, but there were few that would actually mess with him. The guy that was strolling through my doorway did and he didn’t look too pleased with me, either.
“Alright, mate?” I asked, a grin spreading across my face again. The door slammed behind him, making the small, stone room quake. It wasn’t like the prison cells that you’d see on TV with all the bars and metal flooring. It was more along the lines of a cement room, complete with one window, two beds, one sink and a steel door. Sounds like an interior designer’s dream, right?
“Don’t talk to me,” the guy growled. His shaggy head of hair was full of grease as he sat down on the other bed, making my lip curl up in disgust. Piercing blue eyes met mine and he sneered, contorting his face into something that resembled a Halloween mask.
“You’re gonna be fun to bunk with, I can tell,” I jested, getting the reaction that I wanted. Standing up he marched over to my bed. He leaned down, getting all up in my face, blowing prison food breath all over me. I resisted the urge to grimace and kept my face carefully blank, a small smirk still in place.
“Don’t wind me up, boy,” he hissed and I sighed, rolling my eyes.
“I do what I want. I’m also gonna give you about ten seconds to get away from me before I make you,” I warned. The guy just laughed, pushing himself up and walking away. He wouldn’t be laughing if he made me play on the threat. I was in prison for a reason and it wasn’t for pirate copying some DVDs.
I wasn’t wrong when I said that the guy would be a bit of fun. After the risky introductions, he lightened up and shared with me about his arrest. I didn’t really care but I listened nonetheless, just to give myself something to do. He told me about the robbery and how he accidently killed a policeman on the way out. In a way, it didn’t really make him a real criminal, an accidental chicken shooting because he thought he was going to get caught. Only idiots get caught. Like me, for example, at age 15. If you looked up idiot in the dictionary, you’d probably find my year 11 photo there, staring you in the face.
“Reynolds,” the guard called. Huffing out a puff of irritated breath, I got to my feet and made my way over to the door.
“What?”
“Your friend is here to see you,” he drawled. I frowned but said nothing as he came in, cuffed my hands up and lead me down the stairs.
It was an adventure, I guessed. Leaving the cell was somewhat prohibited unless you were going to get something to eat, which in my case, was rarely. The metal stairs groaned under my feet as I was shoved down the final few. When the guard met me at the bottom, I shoved my shoulders back against him, making him grunt.
“Watch it,” I hissed. The guard didn’t say anything as he led me into the meeting room and handcuffed me to the chair. For the past three weeks, I’d been in there every day, talking to the same guy about the same old crap and for some reason, he still didn’t listen to me.
He wasn’t in there when I settled myself down. Rolling my eyes, I rested my head back against my shoulders, taking in the ceiling. I heard the door open but I didn’t move, only looking at him when he was sitting down and clearing his throat.
The crisp black suit contrasted against the white of the wall, reflecting on what was supposed to be the mirror on the far wall. Everybody knew it was a window, one that if you managed to crack it, would be a definite way out of the hell hole.
“Blake,” he said coolly and I grinned.
“This is just going to go the same way as yesterday and the day before that and the twenty odd days before that,” I informed him before he could get anything else out. Resting my free hand on the table, I raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to say something. The thin leather band around my tanned wrist squished against my skin when I moved my arm.
“All we want is what you know,” he replied. The tag on his jacket told me that he was from the SA and those were people that I definitely didn’t want to get mixed up with. I wasn’t a snitch and I wasn’t a good guy.
“About Victoria Harlow? I’ll pass, I’m afraid,” I said and the guy sighed.
“We can cut your prison sentence in half,” he responded. I shrugged, my broad shoulders stretching the orange fabric.
“And if I wanted out, I could bust out. Makes no difference to me so you can stay in here and try milking me for information or you can save yourself the trouble.” The guy laughed a cool, haunting laugh before shaking his head.
“You really don’t get it, do you, Blake?” I didn’t respond, just pursed my lips and waited for the asshole to leave. “You’re never getting out,” he finished.
“And you’re never getting my knowledge on that girl,” I said, effectively ending our conversation for the day.
YOU ARE READING
I Don't Kill & Tell
Action'Victoria," I started but she cut me off, sneering. "My name is Tori. Stop acting like you know me. You know nothing about me." I grinned, leaning back against the wall with an arrogant smirk. "I know more than you think." From the age of 15 onwards...
