Page 8 of The Sharpest Edges

Dean squints, turning this information over a few times. “Walt? He’s running the shots, right?”

Clyde laughs like he can’t believe Dean hasn’t connected the dots yet. “Nah, man. The other one. You seen ‘em. He ain’t said nothing to you yet, but I know you seen him. Taller, talks with his hands a lot, sounds like he’s giving a speech every time he opens his mouth. Jaxson.”

He has seen him, always at the center of the group that Walt and his friends cluster in. Often running off at the mouth and even though Dean stays far away from them he catches the echo of those words more often than not. Jaxson strikes him as someone who enjoys the sound of his own voice, but he hasn’t pegged him as the leader. Maybe because he hadn’tbeen there when Walt and the others kicked Dean’s ass six ways from Sunday.

He should have known, though, should have realized that the one in charge wouldn’t get his hands dirty in petty squabbles.

“Okay, so he’s running it but what the fuck is it? Some kinda prison gang? Guy joins up or they drive him crazy with sleep deprivation?”

Clyde only shrugs. “Dunno, ain’t part of it. Think they’re planning something big, but I ain’t invited to the meetings. Consider yourself lucky you aren’t either. Think it’s loud now? Imagine how bad it is inside that guy’s cell.”

He has a point. The sound is loud and obnoxious, but it’s muffled enough that Dean can drift off eventually. Block it out. But that’s only because the tiny radio is far enough away on the other side of the block.

How that man hasn’t broken it yet is beyond him. Dean’s pretty fucking sure that their toy would meet the cinder block walls faster than they could turn it on if they shoved it in his cell, too.

Of course, that would likely land him in traction.

“Keep your head down. All I gotta say on the matter. Whatever they got going on, whatever they’re doing with all these ‘new recruits’, ain’t nothing you wanna be a part of.”

“Guards don’t care?” Dean replies. “Why haven’t they shut this down?”

Clyde snorts. “Come on, they don’t give two fucks. You gotta know that by now. They ain’t even in here half the time. Just watch us on the cameras. Collect their paychecks. We’re on our own.”

Dean watches Clyde disappear over the edge again. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, trying to drownout the sound of pop music followed by a country song, followed by some sort of religious nonsense.

This is definitely nothing he wants to be a part of.

* * *

It’s been over a week since he’s spoken much to Ava.

He’s gone for his usual visits, but Nick has been off, leaving a new guard to take him back and forth. Greg, who seems less hostile than Nick, but much more inclined to do his job than to linger in the break room for half an hour.

His last three visits have lasted a grand total of ten minutes or less, and he’d be surprised if they said more than a handful of words to each other. He hasn’t asked her about the car and she hasn’t offered. Lack of privacy makes it impossible, but it nags at the back of his mind each time.

Maybe today he’ll bring it up. There’s a new guard leading him down the hall, one he’s not seen before. Young and green and frightened of his own shadow. The type of person Dean doesn’t think should be working in a place like this where the inmates can smell the fear coming off him in waves.

It might buy him some time alone with Ava, though, now that Greg isn’t on the other end of his cuffs.

When he’s led through the door and deposited onto the bed, she greets him with a smile that only gets bigger once his handler heads for the door, telling them he has another prisoner to transport to the warden’s office before disappearing around a corner.

She hands him his pills first, as she normally does, because he no doubt looks like hell every damn time he shows up. Aday or two without the good meds leaves him feeling like a train hit him, backed up, and hit him again.

“So…I got those photos you asked for.” She’s hesitant, like she’ll bother him by bringing it up, as if that could ever be the case.

He’s excited to do something that doesn’t involve staring at the wall or listening to country music. Something somewhat productive. “Let’s see ‘em.”

She whips out her phone from her back pocket, pulling up the pictures and handing him the device that he cradles in both hands. Her eyes stray to the closed but unlocked door, clearly second-guessing herself for a split second. That’s all it takes to remind him that he’s asking for something that could get her in trouble. Possibly fired.

He scrolls through several photos, squinting at various parts, all shiny and new, the trademark of a freshly restored vintage car, before spotting the problem. “Yeah, you need a new timing belt. Thought that might be it, can see it’s all worn. Shouldn’t cost more than seventy-five depending on labor fees, but don’t let no one jack it up or sell you filter replacements, or oil changes and new tires. They’ll get you out there.”

He’s given the sweetest smile in return, one that reaches her eyes and scrunches her nose the smallest bit as she takes her phone back.

“Thank you. I was hoping you’d see something. I’ll make sure they don’t hold my car hostage for a dozen other repairs.” She pauses then, regretful. “Sorry, I completely blew past your injuries and went right for the photos. Greg doesn’t have Nick’s attraction to jelly donuts and we just got lucky with the new guard today. How are you? Anything hurting more than usual? Anything you feel needs attention?”

“It’s alright. Glad I can help,” he says with a shrug. “Feelin’ a bit better.”

Ava raises a brow like she can see right through his attempt at not complaining, making him sigh in defeat. “Fine, ribs and toe still hurt, but that’s gonna be weeks, right? Gotta live with it.”

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