Page 97 of Too Many Beds
“Alright, back off, you lot,” she warns, putting herself between me and the hungry inmates. “Give him a chance. He’s not even settled into his bunk yet.”
“Perhaps I can help with that, Fargus.”
The deep, smooth timbre of a man’s voice shivers across my flesh. It colours me with hope, comforting and familiar yet intimidating with anonymity among the crowd.
The guard sets her jaw stiffly but decides against drawing the pistol. “Come along then. The rest of you: back up.”
The inmates part like a sea for this apparentsaviourto step forward. I expect a behemoth of a man. Someone dangerous and deadly and covered in scars.
But it’s just a man. A man almost indistinguishable from the swell of beige jumpsuits, with a short crop of dark hair and stubble sprinkled across his cheeks. He’s not much bigger than the others, but he walks like he’s ten feet tall, with his hands low in his pockets and a self-assured smirk on his lips.
It’s him.
It’s reallyhim.
I tremble, knuckles turning white from my fierce grip on the basket as I try to keep my feet. Every inch of my being burns at the sight of him. I can’t act on it. Not yet. Not here.
He steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder, letting it sit there just a little too long. “Welcome,” he says with a feline grin. “Call me Tarrant. I’m your top dog. Let’s get you settled in.”
I nod meekly and follow Fargus, Tarrant falling into step behind me. I’m acutely aware of his presence now. Aware of his proximity, of the heat from his body and whisper of his breath. I set my gaze on the back of Fargus’s head just as I did before. Hair spills from her bun. That’s strange. Every guard I’ve seen has been as immaculate and polished as the Authority’s chrome pistols. Perfect and shiny like the high-rise buildings of thesocially important citizensremaining in the world’s capitals—not dirty and broken like the cogs turning aimlessly beneath them.
Cogs like me.
Like Tarrant.
“So where are we taking our new friend?” Tarrant asks Fargus.
“D,” she says without turning. “Reid’s old cell.”
“Ah, we’re going to be neighbours.” Tarrant gives a low, rumbling chuckle. “Lucky me.”
The inmates’ attitude changes now Tarrant escorts me through the yard. Instead of jeers and wolf whistles, it’s now calculating stares and muffled whispers. About me? About Tarrant? It doesn’t matter; it’s forgotten when Fargus scans us through another heavy doorway with the same irritatingly chipper chime from her device.
I expect D Block to be like the Plunge: a long white corridor lined with cells. It’s nothing like that. It’s homely … in a sparse kind of way. We stand in some sort of shared living space, not unlike the abandoned home I used to squat in. There’s a couch; a couple of archaic PKTs (personal knowledge tablets) I thought had gone out of circulation when they started fitting implant devices at birth; equally rare and outdated print journals; and a small refreshments station along the back wall, complete with mugs, a hot water cistern and jars of synthetic tea and coffee tabs. My heart gives a little flip. Out there, I was lucky to findfresh water most days, let alone have something to flavour it with. Anyone with an active device ID can access a daily ration of all-in-one NourishPodz but there’s never anythingrecreational—food, drink or otherwise. That’s why people like Tarrant?—
Another sound chirps from Fargus’s device and this time, a projection fills the space before her. A guard appears in the flickering image but the message is encrypted and inaudible to anyone but Fargus and her earpiece. She gives a stiff nod and shuts off the message.
“Eden Walsh,” she says. “That’s you. Cell 4. I’ll leave your top dog to give the tour.”
She hurries off, the door hissing closed behind her.
“Well,” he says, sauntering towards me with both hands slung low in his pockets. “That’s your cell. That’s mine.” He gestures flippantly at each door. “Which one do you want to fuck in first?”
I drop my basket and raise my arms to loop around his shoulders as he drags me in for a kiss. His mouth is hot and frenzied as we tumble through the open door of his cell where he pushes me against the wall with a thud. He’s just as I remember—full of heat and hope and hard all over. I gasp a breathy moan as Tarrant sucks my neck, hungrily biting then soothing it with his wet tongue.
“T-Tarrant,” I pant, his knee forcing my thighs apart. He doesn’t listen—doesn’thearme. Our hips grind together, erect cocks pulsing at the friction through our prison rags. Tarrant’s hands are inside my clothes, tugging the coarse fabric aside to expose me to the chill air of the room. My skin prickles under his hot caress.
“Tarrant … Are we … Can we? The door’s open. Are there cameras?”
Tarrant withdraws and I turn cold. He studies me with smoky intensity, hazel eyes dark as he brings his hand to stroke a tangle of hair from my forehead.
“Baby, I fuckingownthis place,” he growls. “I do what I want.”
He thrusts two fingers into my mouth and I suck them desperately, tongue curling around each digit because I know what’s coming and Iwantit. I want it so badly I got myself arrested—locked up just to be here withhim.
I press further into the wall, hitching my legs around Tarrant’s hips to brace myself off the ground. Clothes discarded somewhere, Tarrant grips my naked thighs and curls one hand around to enter me. To probe me. To stretch me. Tofuckme with saliva-slick fingers. Shit, that feels good. I groan and bury myself in the crook of his neck, hands battling for something to hold, to squeeze—flesh and clothes in lieu of hair, which is cut so short I can’t pull it. It’s hot. Dangerous and sexy. I bite his ear.
Tarrant bucks and slams me into the wall; air leaves my lungs with a hiss.