I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m afraid to take it from him. My instincts after all this time so trained to submit, to seem harmless, to disappear in a sea of far more dangerous faces, that I can’t even grab what rightfully belongs to me.
The guard makes it easy on me, shoving the wrinkled mess into my hands.
“Your commissary account’s been cashed out.” He points at the bag. “There’s a prepaid card in there with your balance on it.”
I’m tempted to open the bag to make sure, but I’m not going to risk pissing the guy off.
“Hope to never see you again, Taylor,” he says, and there’s a bit of kindness in words. Like, maybe, he really means it.
I nod to him. “Yes, sir,” I say, because saying anything else is only going to tempt everything inside me to come pouring out. And right now, I need to keep my cool. I’m still on government property.
Wurst holds the door open and squawks into his radio so the guards monitoring the perimeter know I’ve got the okay to leave.
“Johnson!” Wurst shouts to the van driver. He’s smoking a cigarette and looking pissed off that his break has been interrupted. “Just one today.”
“Ahh right, ahh right.” The guy stubs out his cigarette and gets behind the wheel. “Let’s do this, then. Gives me an excuse to get out of this sun.”
I look between Wurst and Johnson, in disbelief that they aren’t going to lock me into the van. Monitor my every move until I’m secure in my seat where I can’t be a threat to anyone. Why would they? I’m technically a free citizen now. All that’s left to do is transport me off the property. But it still feels fucking crazy.
I scan the road ahead, the service drive that leads a long loop around the facility, where family members and friends park for visiting days and for times just like this. I debate just walking to the visitor lot. No one will be waiting for me there, not yet. There’s no rush to get where I’m going.
But then I think about the thousand things that could happen between here and there and decide following the protocol is the easiest way to make sure my last day in prison stays my last day. I shove aside my fears that this transport is a trick my mind is playing on me, or worse, a trick the guards are playing on me.
I’m getting out. It’s all but done.
I climb in the rear, slam the door shut behind myself, and sit my ass in a seat. I wonder if the view will look any different as a free man. The only times I’ve been in this vehicle I’ve been heavily monitored and shackled. And then I realize I haven’t buckled my seat belt. I do it quick, even though it’s a very short ride. Johnson’s still a cop after all.
Once he starts up the van, I get nauseous. A combination of so, so many things. But Johnson’s a chatterer, so I focus on him and not the waves of worry sloshing in my gut.
“Congrats, man.” Johnson’s so relaxed, making small talk, his arm slung out the window. “You got a woman waiting for you?”
I swallow hard and wonder if I’m really going to be sick. “Don’t know,” I say. A vague response is better. Nothing could be further from the truth. I’ve got no one waiting for me. And the last thing on my mind is getting a piece of ass. I’m still too focused on getting out of here with my ass intact in this set of cheap pants instead of an orange jumpsuit, but agreeing with him is the path of least resistance.
Within minutes, we’re pulling into a parking lot. Johnson leans out to chitchat with the guard on duty at the lot. I’m not sure if I’m free to get out, so I sit there, seat belt on, awaiting instructions.
“Hey!” Johnson calls out, giving me a wave. “You’re all good, man.” He points toward the street, an empty two-lane highway. “Bus will be by at some point.”
Johnson goes back to chatting up the other guard, so I open the back door and step out. Just like that. Hand on the handle. My foot on the pavement.
I turn slowly and shut the door behind me, every muscle in my body burning with tension. I grip the paper bag in my hand, my knuckles white. The same knuckles that got me sent here in the first place.
I relax my hands. Roll my shoulders. Take in a lungful of fresh air.
Then I turn my back on the prison, the van, Johnson…all of it. And I walk away.
“You fuckin’ bastard.” A black extended cab pickup truck slows to a stop about ten feet away from me. The window’s rolled down, and a heavily tattooed arm flips me off.
When the driver’s side door opens, a man about my size climbs out, his motorcycle boots pounding hard on the hot concrete. His muscular arms are exposed, but I cock my head when I realize he’s not wearing his leathers. No vest. No patch.
“You fuckin’ pussy,” I reply. “What the hell happened to you?”
Morris, the VP of the Disciples, crosses his arms over the chest of a short-sleeved black golf shirt. He looks down at himself and scrubs a hand over his chin.
“Lot has changed, man,” he says, a grin twisting his lips.
The passenger door opens, and a man who has no business fitting his massive girth into a pickup truck stumbles out.
“Tiny.” I nod. “Good to see some things haven’t changed.”
Tiny pulls a toothpick from between his teeth and snorts. “Just you wait, brother. Just you fucking wait.”
Morris comes at me in a run. He tackles me at full speed and sticks a shoulder in my chest before wrapping his arms around me in a hug. “Been waiting long, you son of a bitch?”
I stiffen at the shouting, at the contact, but try to slow my breathing to remind myself this is cool. I can be cool. To these guys, nothing’s changed. It’s just been a minute since we’ve seen one another. Still Disciples. Still brothers.
I pound Morris on the back and notice as he pulls away that there’s a wedding ring on his hand. “What in the name of…?”
“Told you.” Tiny lumbers over to clap me in the world’s sweatiest hug. “Talk about a ball and chain.”
“You asshole,” Morris says, shaking his head. “Way too soon for prison jokes.” He smacks Tiny playfully across the back. “This one should talk. Come on, we’ve got a lot to catch you up on.” Morris looks at the paper sack in my hands. “That your shit?”
I nod, suddenly regretting letting Morris and Tiny pick me up. Once I was scheduled for release, they insisted, but I’d been so focused on getting out of prison, I hadn’t even thought about how I’d feel physically going home. Seeing people I knew again. I didn’t know if I knew myself anymore, let alone these two. But it’s only been five minutes since they rolled into the lot, and Morris is grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me. Hard.
“It’s fucking good to have you back, brother.” Something like tears glimmers in his eyes. “We’ve missed you, Crow.”
Hearing my old name brings water to my eyes, but there is no way I am going to let it flow. I let Morris hug me again, and then Tiny plants a meaty palm against my back.
“Come on, brother,” he says. “Let’s get your ass home.”
I climb into the back of Morris’s truck and roll down the window first thing. After being locked down for so many years, the last thing I want is to be closed up in a small space for a long ride, even a truck with two of my oldest friends.