home,” she said before turning and leaving him on his own.
As soon as she was gone, the other inmates on the floor swarmed in front of his door. A light-skinned black male in a white wife beater pressed his hands to the doorframe and leaned in. “Welcome to the block. What are you in for?” Webster supposed he should be relieved that the man’s tone seemed only vaguely curious and not hostile.
“Terrorism,” Webster said, keeping his voice bored.
The group of guys laughed, and a dude at the back with a black skull cap on snorted before saying, “You don’t look like no terrorist I ever seen. What you terrorizing, homes? The yogurt shop?”
Webster shrugged. “They say I hacked the FBI.”
This brought a smile to the first inmate’s face, showing Webster a mouth full of perfect white teeth. “Oh, they say, huh? But, let me guess, you didn’t do it,” he said with a laugh.
“Nope, I’m innocent,” Webster said, holding up his hands. “They got the wrong guy.”
The man nodded. “Okay, Poindexter, I see you. We all innocent, too. The law just got it out for us.”
Poindexter. They always went to Poindexter, no matter who they were or what their background was. Even without his glasses. Webster thought it seemed like low-hanging fruit as far as nicknames went, but he wasn’t about to tell that to Mr. Wife-Beater with his bulging biceps.
Before he could say anything else, the group of men started to fall back, making way for somebody. “‘Sup, cuz,” the man at the door asked somebody out of Webster’s line of vision. “We were just saying hi to your new roomie. His name’s Poindexter.”
Anything Webster might have been about to say died as his new roommate entered the narrow room, taking up more than his fair share of the space. Cyrus. Had he somehow grown even taller? Webster was a few inches shy of six feet, but Cyrus had to duck to enter. He wasn’t just taller, he was broader, making Mr. Biceps look like he was the before photo.
He swallowed the lump in his throat as they stared at each other, and Webster could swear one of the guys made a noise that made Webster think he should be very afraid.
Was he afraid? He didn’t feel afraid, exactly, but there was a strange shock of adrenaline that rocketed through him, like seeing a ghost appear right before his eyes. Cy’s tattooed forearms flexed as he crossed his arms over his tight white t-shirt, calling attention to perfect ochre-colored skin, the orange jumpsuit sleeves peeled down and tied around his trim waist. His eyes still looked the same honey brown, but he had a skull and crossbones under his right eye, and his head was shaved into a buzzed close-cropped mohawk. Webster could only gawk at him. Was this the same boy he had called family for a whole year?
Cy advanced on him, his expression menacing, his full lips flattened into a hard line as he closed the distance between them. Webster didn’t even panic. If anything, he had a moment of total clarity and perfect peace. He had this coming. He completely deserved whatever punishment Cyrus planned on doling out to him right then and there in front of the other inmates. At least Webster wouldn’t have to worry about sleeping on that uncomfortable fucking mattress.
Cyrus gripped his arm and yanked him forward, arms closing around him tight enough to cut off his breathing. It took a full thirty seconds of Cyrus clapping him on the back for Webster to realize he was being hugged and not murdered. “Good to see you, brother. Sure wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”
“Damn, Cyclops. You know Poindexter?”
Did everybody have a nickname in this fucking place?
Cy stepped back, giving Webster a strange look, before turning to face the others. “Yeah, he’s family.”
There were some snickers.
“I’d love to see that family tree.”
Cy didn’t elaborate. “Nicky, that’s Timber, Iggy, Jay, and Cricket.”
Cricket? What the fuck?
“Hey,” was all Webster could think to say.
“Y’all leave us alone so we can talk.”
There was a lot of grumbling, but then they wandered off in a group like a pack of dogs. Webster supposed it wasn’t that far off. Packs watched each other’s back. Didn’t pay to be a lone wolf in a place like this. Webster had no pack. But it seemed, despite everything, he somehow had Cyrus.
As soon as they were alone, Cy slammed him up against the wall, balling his jumpsuit in two tight fists. “What