Page 2 of Law Maker

That ended several months ago and this was the final stretch.

The longest stretch, but what did it matter?

What did he have after all? No family, no one at home warming his bed and making pancakes every Sunday.

Yeah, no biggy to Lawless.

And it kept his mind off … wellno matter.

It wasn’t as though Lawless was having in depth conversations in this shit hole either. He’d yet to meet anyone with a half decent braincell.

Besides that, he didn’t trust a soul here, so he wasn’t flapping his gums to anyone on the daily.

He supposed that added to hisdon’t mess with mestatus.

The quiet bald guy who would kill you with a stare.

They got wind of his arrival and knew he was a MC enforcer.

What ya gonna do, a guy had to adhere to his name.

They about threw him a fucking welcoming party.

It was all he had going for him right now.

Lawless, a prison heavy.

Who would’ve guessed it.

They stared at him. Meat searching for a soul, to see a slither of vulnerability, trying to understand what kind of man he was.

Humans were weak. Falling under the weight of all their emotions like anvils around their necks. Always crying out for something that theyneeded. Broken birds unable to fucking feed themselves, unless someone regurgitated afeelingfor them.

Fucking weakness.

Lawless, for want of a better word, wasempty.

His vessel floated unoccupied in a sea of human despair, always howling out with their supplicating bowls.

He smiled to himself. The emptiness suited him actually.

Lawless was a survivor, that bitch made sure of it when he was seven and younger.

In comparison to those shit days, prison was a cakewalk.

Only he fucking hated cake. Too sweet. Too thick in his mouth.

That day, Lawless dressed in the clothes they provided. Gray sweatpants and different varieties of white shirts. He was no fashion victim so he wore the long sleeved Henley type.

Time moved glacially slow.

He rested an arm on the jail cell cinderblock wall, his ankles crossed.

Nothing in this place was private. His mail came already open—probably pawed over by a team of overly fed oafs in uniform.

But that didn’t matter.

He’d been in this self-made boredom for one hundred and twenty-one days and he had about the same number of letters, give or take.

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