Breaking The Chains (Satan's Knights Prospect Trilogy) Read online

  His square jaw tenses under my scrutiny.

  “Take a picture, Peaches, it’ll last longer,” he grinds out as he roughly drags a hand over his rugged face. I open my mouth to ask where he got Peaches from but quickly smack my lips together as he continues. “I don’t know who gave you a degree or why that guy hired you, but you clearly have no idea what the fuck you’re doing.”

  Well, that’s just rude and totally uncalled for.

  “All you’ve done is waste my time.”

  He’s worried about me wasting his time?

  Does he realize he’s in prison?

  Every day he spends behind bars is time wasted.

  Pushing back his chair, he moves to stand, and I panic. Instinctively I reach across the table and lay my hand over his. I argue the reason is that no one wants to fail on their first day on the job, but it’s more than that. It’s holding true to a promise I made a long time ago. However, touching him is a mistake, one I realize as soon as a shock of electricity passes from him to me. I quickly snatch my hand back as his eyes narrow and land on the vacant spot where I touched him.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter as I slide my hand under the table and out of his vision.

  Pull yourself together, Charlotte.

  I repeat those words over and over and promise myself if I get through this day, I’m going to drink all the wine in all the land. Moscato, Pinot noir, Sauvignon Blanc…No bottle of fermented grapes will be safe.

  “It’s my first day on the job and I’m a little nervous,” I explain, peeling my eyes away from him to feign interest in the pad in front of me. “Please sit,” I plead.

  He doesn’t reply which causes me to curl my fingers under the table.

  If I screw this up, I’ll be fired.

  David Schwartz isn’t the type who gives second chances, I’m sure of it.

  Refusing to look at him, I wait for him to make a move knowing he’s more than likely going to turn around and head for his cell without giving me a second thought. Instead, he mutters a curse.

  I peer at him through the fringe of my lashes and watch as he sits back down and crosses his arms against his broad chest. The muscles in his forearms stretch and flex with the motion and I swallow hard.

  “Talk,” he demands.

  “Right, okay, so you um…” My voice trails as I try to decide where to begin. I look at my notes and the star next to his son’s name. “Can you tell me a little bit about Connor?” I ask as I turn the page to a blank sheet of paper. Pen poised, I’m ready to take notes and wait for him to speak, but he remains silent. I lift my eyes and stare at him over the rim of my glasses. Hanging his head, he grips the edge of the table and I see the pain. It’s so very palpable, so very heartbreaking. It almost makes me forget he’s an asshole.

  “What do you want to know?” he replies finally.

  “Everything,” I blurt, cringing at the eagerness of my tone. Lifting my gaze to his, I soften the tone of my voice and explain. “Schwartz is going to want all the facts so he can weave a story for the judge.”

  Like I said earlier, I’m not sure what exactly my boss's plan is. Normally when a child is involved, the court appoints a lawyer to the minor so it may be difficult for him to take on Connor’s case. Still, it’s best I get all the information and let him decide what he uses and what he omits. That aside, I’m not sure it’s wise to have Bishop start with the heavy stuff.

  “Let’s start simple,” I suggest. “When is his birthday?”

  “April ninth,” he answers immediately. “His favorite color is green, and he loves the Avengers.”

  I smile softly as he continues to ramble random facts about his son and go to jot them down, but my pen is out of ink. I try to scribble something else, hoping it will magically work—yeah, nothing. I got nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “Keep going, I have another pen here somewhere,” I add.

  He doesn’t carry on and I immediately flush under the weight of his stare as I feel around in search of another pen. Figuring it probably rolled off the table and onto the floor, I cringe. There’s no way I’m getting back on my hands and knees with a ripped skirt and granny panties.

  Relenting, I meet Bishop’s gaze and offer a small smile.

  “I don’t suppose you have a pen, do you?” I ask sheepishly, hoping there’s a soft spot under all that ruggedness that’s carved specifically for smiles and missing pens.

  With his hard features set in stone and his eyes glued to mine, he reaches across the table and lifts his hand. My breath hitches as his fingers graze the top of my head. The motion is quick and before I realize why he’s touching me at all, he’s holding the pen he pulled from my messy bun, between us.

  Neither of us say a word as we continue to stare at one another. His eyes sharp and assessing one second and dark and uninviting the next. He is a puzzle; someone you spend all your hours trying to piece together. I was never any good at puzzles. It didn’t matter if it was twenty pieces or five hundred, I never got it right.

  “Hands to yourself, Bishop,” the guard calls from across the room, snapping us both out of the trance. I glance over his shoulder at the smug correctional officer watching us and finally take the pen from Bishop’s hand. The guard snickers with the man standing beside him and anger floods my veins as I’m transcended back to my sixteenth birthday.

  Most girls have elaborate celebrations, not me. I spent my sweet sixteen in prison visiting my father. It wasn’t a big deal seeing as I hadn’t celebrated a birthday in three years. Anyway, my dad went to hold my hand and the guards not only yelled at him but ended our visit. You see, unlike Bishop, my dad served his time in a maximum-security prison where touching was not permitted.

  This guard is just being a prick.

  “That’s total bullshit,” I mutter, drawing my attention away from the guard. “The board voted to restrict physical contact between inmates and their visitors, but if your son was here, you’d be allowed to hold him. Do you have specific limitations?”

  His brows knit together in confusion.

  “What are you talking about?” he asks.

  “In accordance with the new restrictions implemented in city jails you’re allowed to briefly hug and kiss your visitors at the start and end of every visit. Under the provisions, an inmate is also allowed to hold hands unless the department restricts physical contact. Do they usually tell you to keep your hands to yourself when you have visitors?”

  “I don’t normally touch my lawyer,” he replies, cocking his head to the side. “You trying to impress me, Peaches?”

  Trying not to read too much into his response, I shrug my shoulders.

  “I’m simply stating facts. If you were to pull a pen from another visitors hair—”

  “I don’t have any visitors,” he interrupts. “Until today, it’s only been Greenberg, and he’s bald.”

  A bunch of questions sit on the tip of my tongue, but I smack my lips together and remain silent. It’s not my place to ask why no one visits him. After all, it’s not like that pertains to his case…right?

  Bishop diverts his eyes to the pen in my hand and I swear I spot a glint of humor in his eyes, but as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone.

  “What’s with the Betty Boop pen?”

  Tearing my eyes away from him, I look down at the pen. A faint smile pinches my lips and my sister’s face flashes before my eyes. Betty Boop was Bethany’s favorite cartoon character. I don’t know if she actually ever watched the flapper girl on film, but she’d draw her for hours on end. The infatuation didn’t stop on paper and soon our house was flooded with all things Betty. I must’ve taken the pen from my mother’s house when I visited last Sunday.

  Lifting my gaze, I stare into Bishop’s blue eyes.

  “Not a fan?”

  Seemingly in deep thought, he purses his full lips.

  Okay, so he’s not a fan.

  Moving on…

  “Okay so Conner’s favorite color is green, and he likes t
he Avengers,” I recap, scribbling the notes down with the Betty Boop pen. “Does he play any sports?”

  “No.”

  He continues to fill me in on Connor, sharing more of his likes and dislikes until I look at the pad and realize everything, I’ve written down is something a teacher or a caseworker would know. I need to know how this father and son duo ended up in the situation they’re in. Where is Connor’s mother? How did he lose custody of his son? Why did the court appoint the uncle as his legal guardian?

  Pen poised; I fire off the first question.

  “Where is Connor’s mom?”

  “Green-Wood Cemetery.”

  My eyes snap to his at the blunt response.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, although I’m not really sure why I’m apologizing. The man doesn’t look the least bit distraught. Resting his elbows on top of the table, he leans forward and fixes me with a hard look.

  “Here’s the deal, Peaches. I’m not a good man. I’m a user and an abuser. A washed-up addict who stole from others to support his habits, never his kid. Before Kiki died, she was awarded full custody of Connor and had a restraining order put against me. That’s why he wound up in that sick fuck’s hands. I…” His voice becomes thick with emotion as he pokes a finger against his chest and continues. “I put him in harm’s way. I’m a shitty father who don’t know how to make things right. Instinct tells me to take my revenge to the streets but that ain’t something I can do while I’m locked in a cage.”

  A chill runs down my spine and I force myself to look away from him.

  I was right.

  I am not equipped to handle this.

  Not the case and certainly not the man.

  “Time’s up, Bishop,” the correctional officer says as he comes to stand next to us. Swallowing, I peer up at the guard.

  “I’m representing his legal counsel and I’m not finished speaking with my client.”

  “Too bad, schedule another appointment,” he says, tapping the top of the table. “Let’s go.”

  Bishop pushes back his chair and rises without uttering a word. In a desperate attempt to keep those blue eyes with me, I call his name before he has a chance to turn his back to me. He meets my gaze and I’m automatically drawn into that sea of blue, consumed by the waves of pain rolling through them. I forget whatever it was I had planned to tell him and struggle to find my voice.

  “Schwartz is the best. If anyone can help you it’s him,” I say hoarsely.

  And maybe just maybe, I can help him too.

  -Six-

  Bishop

  Past

  “One-ninety-seven…one-ninety-eight…one-ninety-nine…two-hundred,” I hiss, lowering my body to the concrete floor of my cell. Sweat pours from me as I roll onto my back and drag in a deep breath. Without giving my body a chance to rest, I immediately fold my hands behind my head and start doing reps of sit-ups. Every muscle in my body aches, and with every ragged breath, I grunt, pushing through the pain. I probably won’t be able to fucking move tomorrow, but ask me if I give a shit. I’ll do whatever it takes so long as my mind stops racing.

  “Quiet, Bishop,” the guard orders as he passes my cell. The cunt called lights out about an hour ago and I tried to be the model prisoner, but sleep isn’t in the cards for me. Not after yesterday’s visit with my newfound lawyer and his trusty sidekick.

  I’ve spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours trying to figure out why Blackie would go to such lengths to help me. After the guard broke up my visit with the quirky paralegal, I went to the library and used the computers there to research my new lawyer. It turns out the guards weren’t fucking kidding when they said I stepped in shit. David Schwartz was a fucking legend in criminal court. If there’s anyone who can get me out of this cage and back on the streets, it’s him. He recently made headlines with Blackie’s case, shedding light on the corrupt correctional officers employed by the city. He outright accused the warden of having a part in what happened to Blackie and issued a statement, declaring he’d be suing the city on Blackie’s behalf. On top of that, he got a judge to modify Blackie’s sentence. Rather than transferring him to another city jail, he was to complete his time in a court-appointed rehab. I suppose that deems him worthy of his arrogance.

  His paralegal, on the other hand—well, that’s another story. I don’t know if that woman is equipped to do anything other than get a man’s blood boiling. She looked completely misplaced sitting in that room and yet, without even trying, she commanded the attention of every poor bastard with a working a pair of eyes. At first, I thought it was the side-show she was headlining that garnered all those stares. I mean, she did get down on all fours underneath a table and her skirt did bust at the seam, giving everyone a glimpse of her lace covered ass. Okay, so maybe that’s what got them looking, but it isn’t what kept their eyes glued to her. She was crazy beautiful in a subtle way. All one had to do was glance into those hazel eyes and they’d be a goner. It didn’t matter if you swore not to look at her, those flecks of gold sucked a man in against his will and held him hostage. So, for me, it was definitely the eyes and maybe her voice, smooth and raspy it made me wonder what sounds she made in the bedroom. As for that juicy ass of hers… I didn’t start thinking about that until I laid my head on my cot and closed my eyes.

  Why the fuck do you think I called her Peaches? It sure as hell wasn’t because she smelled like fruit. The girl’s ass is as fucking perfect as a goddamn peach and like every other weasel in the joint, I wondered what it might be like to sink my teeth into it. I thought how all that wild hair would feel wrapped around my fist as I feasted on her and pondered if she wore those ridiculous glasses while she got fucked. In all my fantasies, I flip her onto all fours and give it to her so hard, I fuck those thick black frames right off her face.

  Not thoughts a man in my situation has any business thinking.

  I suppose that’s why I’m torturing my body.

  I didn’t want to look at her then and I don’t want to think about her now. It makes me sick to realize after everything, I can still think with my dick. That I’m still the same selfish fuck who puts his own needs before his sons. Anger coils inside me and I viciously continue to attack my body with another set of sit-ups.

  “I said quiet down, Bishop, or I’m throwing your ass in the hole for twenty-four hours,” the guard growls, banging his nightstick against the steel bars.

  It wouldn’t be my first stint in solitary and while I’m all about punishing myself, getting my ass thrown in the hole won’t bode well for my case. For the first time in a long time, there’s a shot of me helping my boy.

  Ever since Connor told me what Pete had done to him, I knew I needed a good lawyer. I also knew I couldn’t afford one, that’s why I robbed that house. If I hadn’t gotten caught, things would be so different or at that’s what I hope. Now, for whatever reason, Blackie has given me the tools I need to help my kid and I can’t fuck that up. Chances like this don’t come around all that often, especially for a prick like me. There’s no way I’m pissing on this opportunity.

  Exhausted, I finish out my set and force myself to rest, dragging in one deep breath after another. My body is drenched in sweat and my abdomen feels as if it’s on fire and yet it’s not enough.

  I’ll never get my fill of pain.

  Pushing myself up from the floor, I walk on unsteady legs toward the sink attached to the wall and brace my hands on the edge of the metal. Hanging my head, my eyes wander to the torn photograph that’s taped to the wall. It’s the only thing I have of Connor and in a fit of rage, I tore it in half. If it wasn’t for Blackie, I probably would have ripped it to shreds, but my cellmate stopped me from doing any more damage right before he was taken out of our cell and brought to hell. I didn’t understand why he had this dire need to help me and I sure as fuck never expected his generosity to continue.

  Reaching for the photo, I run my fingers over the strip of tape holding both halves together and stare at my boy’s ey
es. They were so full of joy, so fucking innocent.

  And his smile…

  That toothless grin.

  It’s why my black heart still beats.

  “Daddy’s coming for you, Connor,” I whisper hoarsely, thumbing away the lone tears that leaks from the corner of my eye. “One way or another, Daddy, is coming and I’m going to spend every day of my life taking away your pain.”

  Every goddamn day.

  Every motherfucking hour.

  All the fucking seconds.

  I’m going to bring back that smile and make sure he knows he’s safe.

  No one will ever hurt him again.

  Not his fucking uncle.

  Not me.

  No one.

  I bring the photograph to my lips and gently kiss it before tacking it back to the wall. My hands close around the knobs and I turn on the faucet, watching as the water drips and swirls down the drain. Bending my head, I splash the water on my face and drown out the tears running down my cheeks. I don’t stop until there’s nothing left in me.

  Giving into my exhaustion, I close the water and step away from the sink. I pull the white t-shirt over my head and wipe away the sweat clinging to my body. Chucking it to the side, I crawl into my cot, the noise from the cell block ringing in my ears as I close my eyes.

  Suddenly, the mousy brunette flashes before me and I recall the sensation I felt on my fingertips as I pulled the Betty Boop pen from her hair and the sear of her touch as she grabbed my forearm.

  “Fucking, Peaches,” I growl under my breath.

  I wish to God I never laid eyes on her again.

  Especially as I slide my hand inside my sweatpants and wrap my fist around my cock.

  -Seven-

  Charlotte

  Past

  “Cheryl!”

  Startled by the sound of Schwartz’s boisterous voice, I jump from the chair and glance around my cubicle, expecting to see him standing over me with a scowl on his freshly shaved face. However, he’s nowhere in sight. A beep sounds on the machine in front of me and I realize he’s used the intercom system to summon me. Reluctantly I hit the call button and respond, answering to a name that isn’t mine because there’s no point in correcting him. Not when I’m almost certain I’m on the man’s shit list.