“What are you in for?”
“Murder. My lover of eleven years did the one thing he wasn’t supposed to do: He fell in love with one of the sex partners in his stable. It was a no-no we both agreed on when we got together.”
“I kind of get that.”
“Of course you do, Starks. The similarities of our situations are obvious.” Steve removed the towel. “So, what do you think of your new look?”
“Just what I wanted.”
After several more comments were exchanged, Starks paused for a moment at the threshold to watch Steve sweep some of his history into a pile.
If only it were that simple.
CHAPTER 114
STARKS TOOK TWO left turns after leaving the barbershop, and then a right turn into the first cell in Block B, where he found Joe “Tat Man” Reynolds in his cell.
Reynolds sat up in his lower bunk. He frowned at the stranger disturbing him then recognition registered. “Damn, man. Took me a moment to know you. You’ve never even said hi to me before, and here you are. What can I do for you?”
“I hear you’re the best tattoo man here.”
“Going for a whole new look, then? C’mon in; take a seat. I was an ink artiste before I landed myself in here, and still am.” He handed Starks a spiral notebook. “My sketches. Twelve to a page. Twenty bucks or three cartons of cigs a tat.”
Starks opened the notebook. “These sketches are good. You drew them?”
“Of course.”
Starks continued to go through the drawings, spending a few minutes on each page until one drawing located at the top left corner held his attention. He pointed to a coiled serpent with vicious eyes and an open mouth with fangs ready to strike. “This one.”
He was about to hand the notebook to Reynolds when his eyes were drawn to the last image on the page. He studied it a moment, his eyes narrowing into slits. “No.” He held a finger on the sketch. “This one.”
“Nice. No one’s ever asked for that.”
“And no one is to ever ask for it again. I’ll pay you a hundred to do it and another hundred to never use it again. Is it a deal?”
“I can live with that. When do you want it?”
“You don’t look busy now.”
“I’m not. It’ll take a while, though.”
“If you do a good job, it should.”
“Where you want it? Back of your hand? Upper arm? Middle of your chest? Scalp?”
“Start on my hand and let it go up my arm. I want it big enough for people to see it coming. Give it red eyes and lots of colors on the body.”
“That’a a lotta ink. It’s going to be painful.”
“It’s what I need.”
Reynolds sterilized Starks’s hand, arm, and the equipment with a smuggled-in bottle of Rivers Rum.
“You better take a couple hits of that yourself,” he told Starks.
Starks took several deep swigs. “I’ll replenish your stock.”
With the precision of skill and experience, Reynolds began to make the fierce dragon spewing flames from its sharp-toothed mouth a permanent part of Frederick Starks.
“This tat’s heavy-duty, man. Sends a message. A message of a man with a plan. You got a plan?”
“Not yet, but I’ll think of something.” Starks watched the needlework in silence for a moment then said, “My life went to shit because of me. All my fault. I trusted others—their love, loyalty. Never again. They can all go to hell.”
“I hear you, man.”
Starks allowed the pain from the needle repeatedly piercing his skin to fuel him. Once the beast was completed, he walked to the mirror. He didn’t recognize himself. It was unsettling for several seconds then clarity overtook him: the old Starks no longer existed.
The dragon is born.
COPYRIGHT
When the Serpent Bites
Copyright © 2015 by Nesly Clerge
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author or publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9965017-0-5
Publisher: Clerge Books, LLC
Editor: Joyce Shafer (http://editmybookandmore.weebly.com)
Cover: Damonza.com
Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com
Praises for When The Dragon Roars
“When the Dragon Roars is an absolutely riveting read, full of surprising twists and turns and brilliant writing. The chapters are short, the dialogue realistic, the characters believable, and the plot gripping.”
—Viga Boland, Readers'
“With tight, crisp prose and realistic dialogue, the author keeps the pace of his tome moving at highway speed. His characters are finely etched both physically and emotionally. Clerge knows the story he wants to tell, and he tells it in a way that is both involving and entertaining.”
"Brimming with twists, turns, and non-stop drama, When The Dragon Roars by Nesly Clerge is a thriller ideal for any fan of prison-noir."
—Veronica Alvarado, Bestseller's World
WHEN THE DRAGON ROARS
EPIGRAPH
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
CHAPTER 104
CHAPTER 105
CHAPTER 106
CHAPTER 107
COPYRIGHT
And to conclude, I know myself a man,
Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing.
—Sir John Davies (1569 - 1626)
Which Is a Proud, and Yet a Wretched Thing
CHAPTER 1
FREDERICK STARKS HAD no other option. A fresh start was needed, if there was such a thing in a place like this. It had taken only a moment for words strung together into a sentence, to scorch him and cause what he’d believed was the single, and perhaps last, solid aspect of his life to crumble to ash. He’d been blindsided—again, but this time he was going to manage his life like the intelligent businessman he was.
He was clear that nothing tangible around him had changed and likely wouldn’t. Walls would remain unforgiving gray concrete. Each six by eight cell would remain inhabited by miscreants and lunatics who wasted away for years in a postage-stamp existence. The long, couple-inch-wide window in his cell in D-Block reminded him every day that a successful, wealthy life, and his position in it was now just as narrow. Sameness everywhere he looked. Yet, everything was different. Because he was.
The way he chose to start over was a one-eighty to how he would have done it outside these walls, and had involved enduring needle pricks for four straight hours while dulling as much of the pain as possible with hits from a contraband bottle of Rivers Rum. During those hours he devised his plan. Altering his appearance was the first step.
He was certain about his decision. Then why was a game of Twister playing in his gut?
The undesired answer flashed in his mind: Fear. He was so damn sick and tired of feeling afraid. Afraid of prison life. Of inmates. Of what kind of betrayal or turmoil might land on him with his next breath. He’d never been one to give up or give in, no matter how dire the circumstances. Initially, the idea of being a leader in this godforsaken place had motivated him. Not any more. He wasn’t going to settle for less than being the leader. He’d never give anyone anywhere the opportunity to dump on him and get away with it ever again.
Before prison his life had been about possibilities. Now he was entrenched in a reality that was a walking nightmare. Except he was awake. That’s why this change was imperative. He would do whatever it took to make him feel alive again. That’s why he’d caused Steve, the barber, to sniffle and moan as his thick dark hair fell to the floor with each buzzing scrape of the electric razor. That’s why he’d endured getting a dragon tattooed from the back of his right hand to his shoulder. It was his visual reminder to never again trust anyone, as much as a statement to others that he was taking back control of his life.
Betrayal was a bitch, and a label that had all but become his soon-to-be ex-wife Kayla’s middle name. And every breath the bitch took was like a stiletto thrust into his heart.
Starks studied the finished tattoo. At least he’d have something to show for enduring this process. All he’d gotten as a result of Kayla’s perfidy was fifteen years stolen from his life, restricted access to family and friends, loss of reputation and the luxuries his income had provided. And, most recently, the loss of his best friend since freshman year in high school, a wound too deep to fully comprehend as yet. Crushing rage and a number of other emotions he wasn’t ready to drown in weighed on him, pressed the breath out of him. Each of these losses hurt like a sonofabitch, but none worse than what the outcome had done, was doing, and would do to his three young children.
There was no escape for any of them.
With his latest agenda kick-started, he left Joe “Tatman” Reynold’s cell and made his way to the exit that would launch him onto this new path. This time, however, his presence in the yard would be radically different from when he’d arrived at Sands Correctional Facility. What a joke of a name, he thought. Little about the maximum security prison was correctional.
His altered appearance garnered attention as he passed through the gray corridors. Some of the incarcerated ignored the rule about staring at inmates. Some did double-takes, muttering expletives in their shock at the radical alteration. Starks searched for the word to describe what he was feeling and decided on renewed. But renewal was supposed to feel good. Maybe he’d feel that way later.
Springing his new appearance on inmates was the best way to make the statement that his former self no longer existed; that this new Starks meant business. It was especially poignant to do this on a Sunday morning, when the environment of the place was somewhat calmer. He wanted to shock inmates. So far, he was getting the desired result. He smothered his smirk.
Starks crossed the threshold of the double doors that led to the prison yard. July heat engulfed him as he stopped to do a visual assessment. He should have been lounging by his backyard pool, flip-flops hanging loose on his feet while his kids played and splashed just yards away. Instead, perspiration beaded on his skin and was already attracting dust from the mostly grassless ground. He ran a hand over his pale hairless scalp. Time in the sun every day would tan the skin soon enough.
The two o’clock glare and heat struck him like hot needles. He rubbed his right arm gingerly and squinted against the blazing sunlight as he surveyed the yard to see who was there.
One thought steeled him: every fucking person inside these walls and out was, from this moment on, going to hear the dragon roar.
CHAPTER 2
STARKS CUT A straight line across the dirt-packed yard. He stopped at almost the same spot where he’d stood the first day of his incarceration. Six months, and it already felt like a lifetime. He wound his fingers around a mesh segment of the chain-link fence. Rust stains trailed like old blood down the twenty-foot white wall positioned ten feet beyond where he stood. Multiple strands of razor and electrical wire glinted atop the fence and wall, blinking a Morse code-like SOS that would go unheeded.
He leaned against the fence with his arms crossed at his chest, and casually observed the inmates. Several bolder prisoners assumed postures that let him know they were this—they mistakenly believed—new fish’s potential opposition. This included a few members of the Los Hermanos gang he’d recently aligned with. Hermanos leader, Hector Sanchez, flipped his black ponytail off his shoulder. He pointed to the single blue teardrops tattooed on each cheek as he engaged in a stare-down with Starks. Starks didn’t suppress his amusement.
Perceiving this as a challenge, Sanchez took a few steps in Starks’s direction, pumping his arms and chest to flash muscle used often. Then he halted, mouth open. Sanchez muttered something to his soldiers nearest him. Recognition registered. Starks’s name carried in a whisper across the yard.
He was certain one question was at the top of any list his fellow inmates might create: why?
Because ultimate betrayal changes a person.
Starks fought hard not to laugh as he strolled around the perimeter of the yard. Just like Tendum Enterprises, the engineering company he’d taken over as CEO and turned into a huge success, this place needed a major shake-up. It needed to be restructured, at least as far as inmate hierarchy went, and he was the man to do it. Beyond these walls was his former empire; what existed inside them was about to become his kingdom.
He nodded at inmates as he sauntered toward the door that led into the prison, all the while reveling in the comments and obscenities uttered with stunned voices as he made his way to his painted-gray cell in this gray-toned existence he now called his life.
The tattoo hurt, but pain was something he was becoming all too familiar with. His former cellmate, Mike “Weasel” Lawson and asshole gang leader Boen “Big Bo” Jones, with assistance from some of Bo’s soldiers, had seen to that. And he had seen to those two.
The dozen s
tab wounds Lawson inflicted on his torso had healed into thick scars that still pulled, itched, and throbbed. The two-month coma Jones put him into, though it had been, in its own way, a more pleasant few months away from Sands, was something he still resented. None of the inmates missed Lawson, but some of Bo’s gang were more than pissed off that their leader’s influence inside and outside the prison had been stripped from them.
Maybe they’d come after him. Maybe they wouldn’t, especially if he could offer them a good enough incentive not to. All he had to do was figure out what that might be.
Prison officials wanted to pin Bo’s murder on him but couldn’t. The attack had been too clever. He’d had help, lots of it: The rubber magician’s thumbs with toxic powders hidden in the tips, both created by brainy Lewis Mason in his lab; Jeffrey Davis’ skilled transfer of the thumbs to him under guards’ noses in the visitation room; and his cellmate, Ronald Jackson’s intricate plan, down to the last man, including one of Bo’s soldiers who was fed up with taking shit from the gang leader. One quick thrust of the prepped child-size knitting needle supplied by Jackson, and Big Bo had been in agony until he lost consciousness and died less than forty-eight hours later, the poison undetectable in his system.
There was no way to link him to Lawson’s killing, either. Hector Sanchez still thought killing Lawson was his idea, and he’d never talk. No one who knew the truth would. Inmates didn’t tolerate a blabbermouth, and the occasional person who failed to follow this code was shut up swiftly, brutally, permanently. Not even solitary confinement to protect a snitch was a guarantee of safety, which he had proven in Lawson’s case.
Two fewer inmates in this Massachusetts prison didn’t make much of a dent in the overpopulated enclosure. But there were a lot of weaker men here—and strong ones as well—who were glad those two were no longer breathing.
The two inmates’ treachery had created something hard inside Starks. They weren’t solely responsible for this, though: Others had started that solidifying effect ahead of them. One person in particular had forced him to look at his life and himself with different eyes. He bounced back and forth between rage and numbness about this latest betrayal. Finding a solution to the problem created as a result wasn’t going to be easy.