Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
"Hi," I say. Flashin’ her a charming smile. "I'm Legion, I don't think we've met."
She smiles back. I have that effect on people—especially women. "I'm Giselle."
"Are you…"
"No. I'm not a hang-around. I'm Dusty's regular girl."
I don't even know who Dusty is. One of the prospects, probably. But it doesn't matter. If she's not a whore, I'm good. "This is my sister, Mercy. She needs a job."
Giselle, being a clubhouse woman, gets my meaning. She studies Mercy, pretendin’ to look her over with a critical eye. "Well," Giselle says. "I don't hire just any old girl for the laundry. It's a good job."
Mercy makes a face, and with it comes another scoff. "What's so special about laundry?"
"It's air conditioned," Giselle says smoothly. "And no one comes out here. You know what I do all day, Mercy?"
"Laundry?"
"Well, of course, I do laundry. If I didn't, people would complain and I wouldn't have this cool job no more. But that's easy. What I really do is listen to audiobooks."
"Audiobooks?" Mercy is interested in this perk. "What kind of audiobooks."
Please, I pray. Please do not say dark romance. Please, please—
"Mysteries."
"Thank fuck," I blurt.
"Yeah," Giselle continues. "And, if I let you work here in my AC with my cool audiobooks going all day, that would be a privilege."
Mercy side eyes me.
I shake my head and put up my hands. "I did not tell her to say that."
"Hundreds of girls have asked to work with me in the laundry, Mercy. I've turned them all away because they didn't wanna work. They just wanted my AC and audiobooks. So…"
"I'd work," Mercy says. "Laundry's easy. I've been doing my own laundry since I was six."
Six. Three years. The guilt never stops.
"Well." Giselle looks at me. "Can you confirm this, Legion?"
"I can. She's real good at laundry."
Giselle folds her arms. "OK. But you're on probation. One week. If I catch you being lazy, I'll have to fire you."
Mercy lets out a long breath, steals a look back over her shoulder at the boys—still hovering, those sons-of-fuckin'-bitches—and relents. "I'll work. I like AC. And I've never listened to an audiobook."
Giselle guides her inside, talkin’ about whatever the hell is on the audiobook menu today. When she takes one final look over her shoulder at me, I mouth the words, “Thank you.” She gives me a small nod, then turns her attention back to her mini-employee.
Satisfied, I cross the compound. Headin’ north where the buildings thin out and the scrub takes over. The old hunting blind sits crooked on stilts against the skyline—abandoned since they built the new watchtower. Back when I first started running with Badlands, I'd come out here when the noise got to be too much. When I needed to breathe without someone watching.
The ladder creaks under my weight, but the trap door swings open easy with a push of my palm, and I haul myself into the blind.
Someone's been here. Not recently, but enough to leave traces. Blankets folded in the corner. A camp stove, tarnished from weather. Coffee pot. Can of off-brand coffee. Two tin cups.
I stand in the center, suddenly feelin’ like I'm trespassing in someone else's sanctuary. The thought twists something in my chest.
That's the thing no one tells you about gettin' out. Life goes on without you. The world doesn't pause while you're payin' your debt. For three years I sat inside Whitefall, fightin' through each day, taking my beatings, earning my place in the hierarchy. Six days in the Pit taught me more about silence than the twenty-nine years that came before it.
And all that time, what did I think about? Myself. Like the fucking universe orbited around Legion Kane and his pain. Like my absence left a hole nobody could fill.
But the truth is, everyone's just tryin’ to survive. Even the wolves. Even the men who think they're kings. We're all just animals scratchin’ for territory, for food, for somewhere safe to lick our wounds.
Very little inside Badlands counts as private property. The office belongs to Brick. Sacred ground. Everything else is communal—claimed by whoever needs it most in the moment.
Right now, that's me.
I pick up one of the blankets and drop it down next to the wall. Then I lower myself to the floor, back against the particle board wall where I can see both the compound and the distant hills, and pull out the little spiral notebook and the pen.
For a moment, I'm back in Whitefall. Back in my cell with nothing but concrete walls and these little spiral notebooks I'd buy from commissary. Writing was something I did on the inside, and I did it on the regular. So regular, I had dozens of these little fucking spiral notebooks by the time it was all said and done. I filled every single one of them up—tiny, cramped writing covering every inch of paper.