Page 7 of Caged Hunger

Pulling his shirt off over his head, he tossed it onto the floor, then undid the top of his jeans.

He would need to buy a hamper as well. Something to store his dirty clothes in.

Turning on the shower, he let the water warm up as he stepped out of his jeans and underwear.

Staring into the mirror, he caught sight of the scar along the bottom of his stomach—a permanent reminder of how close he had come to being killed in prison.

His mind drifted back to that near-fatal moment.

He had spent the last few hours working in the laundry as he did every Monday and Wednesday. The warden had them on rotating schedules, with a couple of days working laundry—loading machines and folding dried clothing—and a couple of days working in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and scrubbing pots and dishes. Nothing sharp and nothing poisonous. While they were treated as employees, they were still convicted felons. Safety always came first when it came to prison jobs.

By the end of his shift, he had worked up quite a sweat.

Stepping under the lukewarm water was a welcome relief as it massaged his aching muscles.

He grabbed the soap and worked up a lather before sliding the bar along the length of his arms. He glanced over his shoulders, first the left, then the right.

Nothing.

Silence.

He was the only one in the showers at that time of night. The guard had only given him ten minutes, so he needed to be quick and enjoy the naked solitude while he could.

In prison, one didn’t get much privacy… or alone time. People did their best not to notice and turned their heads when a bit of privacy was required. But for the most part, they were basically animals in a cage, being told to behave themselves.

Glancing around once more, he reached for the bottle of shampoo and poured some into his hand before quickly applying it to his short, buzzed hair and beard.

He scrubbed it quickly, doing his best to wash himself before anyone entered the room.

Closing his eyes, he quickly dunked his head under the water and scrubbed some shampoo onto his face for a fast wash.

And then it happened.

A sharp, searing pain shot through his body.

His eyes popped open just in time to see the gray-haired man snarl at him before plunging the homemade knife into his gut again.

Instinct kicked in, and he drove his fist into his attacker. The man was older—well into his sixties, maybe more. He didn’t have a beef with the guy. He was most likely a member of someone’s crew, out for revenge over something that either Basher or his club had been involved in.

The man fell to the tile, his face drowning under the spray of water.

Basher dropped to his knees, straddling the man as he began beating him with every ounce of power he could muster.

This was life or death.

The man had come at him with a knife.

There was no way he was letting this guy get away with it. If Basher survived, he needed to send a message to anyone else in the prison who might try to finish the job. He wasn’t an easy target, and there would be hell to pay for anyone who dared to fuck with him.

The water ran red around them both, the blood curling and mixing—Basher’s bleeding out from his stomach, his attacker’s spilling from his broken face.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been beating the man, but he only stopped when two of the prison guards grabbed him and pulled him off.

Basher would come to learn that his hit had been at the request of the Caplan family—retribution for what he had done to the boss’s son.

He spent two weeks recovering in the infirmary. It was a welcome change from the tiny accommodations he got to enjoy with Antoin, his talkative, semi-psychotic roommate.

Turning away from the mirror, Basher stepped into the shower and closed his eyes under the steady stream of hot water.