“Allah hu Akbar.”
Ryan’s eyelids fluttered open at the sound of Beecher’s voice.
“Subhana kallah huma...”
He put his pillow over his face and groaned loudly.
Can’t you do that in your head? he’d asked before.
Has to be said out loud. Sorry. I’ll be as quiet as I can.
“...la ilaha ghairuk.”
You’re doing a piss poor job, Ryan thought, and rolled over to face the wall.
It hadn’t been too big of a deal at first – sunrise occuring after the lights had already come on, or close enough to it that it wasn’t that annoying – but the closer they got to summer the earlier the praying started. At this point, Beecher was getting up almost an hour before count: which meant Ryan was, too.
“Bismillah hir rahman nir raheem.”
I need my fucking beauty sleep, Beecher.
Well, I’m not compromising my religion for your comfort. Beecher had shrugged. Get some earplugs.
Ryan fished the orange foam plugs out of his pillowcase and shoved one in each ear.
“Alhamdu lillahi rabbil –”
Better. He could still hear it, but it was muffled enough. He closed his eyes again, hoping to settle back in for a few extra minutes of sleep, but his body had other plans.
Namely, his dick.
Morning wood was nothing out of the ordinary, but with the dream he’d just woken up from, it made him more than a little uncomfortable.
Fucking a faceless girl in the back room of a bar he used to frequent on the outside, her half-propped against the pool table, her legs hooked around him, his face buried in her neck. The force of his thrusts cause the table to shake, eventually knocking the beer he’d left on the adjacent edge onto the floor, glass shattering. Ryan ignores it, keeps going – the girl giggles, but it’s all wrong, too deep for a woman, and he suddenly recognises the scent of her perfume – cologne – and pulls away to look at her face.
The eyes gazing down at him are mismatched – one dark brown, one white.
Torquemada laughs at the look on his face and kisses him.
He keeps on fucking her.
It’s just a weird dream, he told himself firmly. Who cares. He absently stuck his hand into his boxers, trying to think back to the magazine he’d been looking at before lights out.
A tall, busty blonde (brunette, he thinks – no, redhead) with sultry eyes lays naked on a luxurious looking bed, her legs spread and her finger crooked at him, beckoning him closer. He crawls towards her, and she pushes his head down towards her cunt, pressing herself against his lips. She moans and pulls at his hair as he eats her out, and he can almost taste this fantasy woman’s pussy as he strokes faster, his breathing getting heavier as he gets closer to finishing, when suddenly she smacks him on the head and says
“Are you jerking off? While I’m praying?”
Ryan stopped, shuffled around to face Beecher. He took out one of the earplugs. “No.”
Beecher looked peeved. “At least wait until I’m done. It’s 5 minutes.”
“I wasn’t jerking off.”
“Yeah, okay. I know what you sound like. God, you’re such a child.” He returned to his mat, kneeling back down to pick up where he left off. Ryan’s erection throbbed.
“Hurry up,” he said. Beecher ignored him.
“Subhana rubbiyal a'ala...”
Ryan flopped onto his stomach as he waited, thinking about the day ahead. His potential Unit B connect had turned out to be a dead end, and the other calls he’d made before lockdown the night before hadn’t gone anywhere either. Unless something new fell out of the sky today, he was officially out of options.
Torquemada isn’t gonna be happy.
He thought about his dream again, and then very pointedly thought about pussy.
“Hurry up, Beecher.”
---
Every day when Ryan entered the cafeteria, he scanned the room for two people – Torquemada (mostly to see what dumbass outfit he’d chosen that day) and his father (mostly to avoid him – usually unsuccessfully). Today, neither was present; their absence both something of a relief and a source of mild unease, the latter of which intensified when Pancamo greeted him with a gruff “we need to talk” as Ryan reached the serving station, jerking his chin to the side and lumbering off further into the kitchen. Ryan followed him into the back.
“What’s up?” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, pretending to be unconcerned at the presence of Zanghi and Urbano waiting for them.
“I like to think I’m a reasonable man. Patient. But it’s been 10 days, and me and my boys haven’t seen squat.” He crossed his arms. “Tell me you’ve got some good news for me.”
“’Fraid not. It’s rough out there right now. Maybe things’ll ease up in a few months, but – ”
“We don’t have a few months,” Pancamo finished. Ryan nodded. “So what’s your plan?”
Ryan hesitated. He didn’t really have one – had been hoping something would come to him before he confronted Torquemada again, since all that really seemed left in terms of viable options was taking the kitchen route, and the last time he’d floated that –
Well, it hadn’t gone badly, per se. But he could tell it would if he tried again.
“Look, the guy’s just worried that if he puts you in contact with his supplier via your kitchen guy, he’s going to become irrelevant,” he said instead, jumping ahead. “And I can’t say I blame him. I’d be thinking the same in his position.”
“He ain’t wrong,” Pancamo conceded with a grunt. “But the only reason we’re working together at all is out of respect for my nephew, so I’m not gonna touch him whether he’s holding the cards or not. Our deal is safe.” He shrugged. “Of course, if there’s nothing flowing, we got no deal, so it’s a different story. I gotta go back to dealing tits the normal way, he becomes irrelevant anyway, and I got no reason to uphold my end of anything.” He jabbed a finger at Ryan. “You let him know.”
Ryan didn’t exactly know when he became messenger boy, but nodded again anyway for the sake of keeping the peace. “I got it.” He turned to leave.
“What’s your angle, anyway?”
Ryan paused. “Come again?”
“What’s your relationship to that faggot?” There was no accusation in the words, as far as Ryan could tell – just the way everyone talked in here – and it was a fair enough question, he supposed, given what Pancamo had just shared regarding his own motivations. Still, the question made Ryan uneasy.
“Nothing you don’t already know. He came to me for a connect at Lardner, offered me a cut. I delivered. Still just trying to get that green, same as you.”
“Twenty percent for a phone call. Pretty hefty bit of cash for not that much work.” Again, there was nothing in the way he said it to suggest he meant anything beyond the surface meaning of the statement, and it wasn’t exactly like Chucky Pancamo was a guy who had a lot of depth – probably just simple curiosity. But what had happened in his head last night had him on edge, and while on its own it could easily be brushed under the rug – he’d had weirder dreams – any implication from an outside observer regarding the nature of their partnership wasn’t something he could afford to ignore.
“It’s work,” Ryan said. “Believe you me, I’m working for it.” He wondered if there was anything else he should say, could say, that wouldn’t merely come off as defensive – he decided there wasn’t, and let the response stand on its own.
Pancamo regarded him carefully for a moment, then nodded. “Well, keep at it,” was all he said. “But if I don’t have pills by the end of the week, I’m bringing in my own product. My way, like Sinatra.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Ryan promised before heading back out into the main area of the cafeteria, briefly considering picking up a tray as he did so despite the unappetizing selection before clocking that Seamus had joined the end of the line and deciding actually, he wasn’t all that hungry today. He walked past the serving station and instead strolled over to the table that hosted the members of what Torquemada had started calling El Nada. “Yo, Alvarez.”
Alvarez glanced at him over his shoulder. “O’Reily.” He picked at the food on his tray disinterestedly. “What do you want.” He was looking better these days, now that he was no longer strung out – unlike most of the other Destiny heads, though, he’d gone through his detox a few weeks earlier, before they’d transferred and the well had dried up. Ryan wasn’t sure what had led to his sudden decision to get clean – though he’d certainly noticed the effect of Alvarez’s change of heart on Torquemada’s mood, the guy getting considerably more pissy in the immediate aftermath before settling back into his default state of nonchalance almost as abruptly, as soon as Ryan had pointed it out (not my fault you lost a customer, pal, quit taking it out on me) – but he supposed it was lucky for him, putting Alvarez ahead of the curve in terms of adjusting to the fallow period, calm and clear-eyed while half the other returning inmates were either sick and lethargic or buzzing with aimless adrenaline.
“Looking for your cellie.” Ryan scanned the room again – still no circus freak, but his father was starting to look around, so he adjusted his body so that his back was to the line. “Where’s he at?”
“Still in the pod.” Alvarez took a small bite of eggs, grimaced. “Said he wasn’t hungry.”
“Right.” Not exactly out of the ordinary – Torquemada never seemed to tire of complaining about the prison food – but usually he at least showed up to give said complaints.
Your stepfather is right. We should revolt.
Not my stepfather. Also, we already tried that a couple years back. Didn’t work out.
“What’s it to you?” Guerra asked, moving in to swipe the cookie off Alvarez’ tray. Alvarez swatted his hand.
“Yo, ask, pendejo.”
“Didn’t care yesterday.”
“Does it look like yesterday to you? I want that shit today.” Guerra pouted at him, then turned to Ryan.
“You got a crush on him or something?” He walked his fingers over to the edge of Alvarez’s tray, tapping the piece of toast hanging over the edge. Alvarez nodded, and Guerra grabbed it, took a big bite.
“I got a message.”
Guerra grinned, swallowed. “Message about how you wanna suck his dick?” He took another bite, eyes sparkling with amusement, and Ryan forced himself to smile back even as his skin crawled. “You tryna be the first one inside that virgin ass?”
“Haha, very funny,” Ryan said dryly, then jumped on the offensive. “Just because Alvarez is pulling him off doesn’t mean all of us are.”
Guerra's smile froze, his eyes suddenly hostile.
What?
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Alvarez demanded, fully turning around to face him. Ryan shrugged.
“What, you gonna act like you don’t know?”
“Shut the fuck up, O’Reily,” Guerra cut in, toast abandoned, but Ryan ignored him, pressed on.
“Word on the street is that’s why you were getting Destiny for free. Paying with something else besides cash.” Ryan was fairly certain that wasn’t true, at this point – he’d never been able to get a straight answer out of Torquemada about it, same as with Angelo, but just judging from the amount of time he’d spent in the presence of both, the attraction, if any, seemed to only flow in the one direction, and not towards Torquemada – but this was how the game was played. When met with a dangerous accusation: deflect and redirect.
Alvarez stood up, stepping over the bench, his jaw twitching. “Yo, easy, Miguel,” Guerra cautioned, casting his eyes over at the hacks on duty. Alvarez kept his focus on Ryan, who tensed in preparation for a fight, but Alvarez just jabbed a finger at him.
“Ain’t nothing between me and that maricón,” he said in a low, raspy voice. “Never has been, never will be. You got that?”
Ryan raised his hands in submission. “Alright, I got it. Jeez.” He nodded at Guerra. “Tell your new amigo here the same applies to me. Hey, since when are you two not trying to cut each other’s throats, anyway?” Is he the one you’re pulling off instead? he thought about adding, but decided not to push it.
“Mind your own fucking business,” Alvarez snapped and stalked away, leaving his mostly-untouched tray on the table. Guerra clicked his tongue against his teeth as he got up himself.
“Thanks a lot, asshole.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? You started it.”
Guerra rolled his eyes. “It was a joke, chocha.” He plucked the cookie off Alvarez’ tray, wrapped it in a napkin and put it in his shirt pocket. “Sensitive-ass white boy. If that’s all it takes to rile you up, how you spend so much time with Torquemada’s antagonistic ass is a fucking mystery.” He stacked their trays and moved to follow Alvarez, bumping Ryan’s shoulder as he did so, and Ryan figured he might as well have said his own unspoken addition.
Maybe you do want to suck his dick.
“Ryan!”
Shit.
Ryan didn’t turn around, just started heading quickly for the exit, feeling a migraine coming on. Could this morning get any more annoying. He reached the gate, and the hack standing there beside it regarded him suspiciously.
“Hey,” he began with a nod. “You mind if I –”
Ryan suddenly found himself roughly turned around. “You fucking ignoring me?” Seamus looked like shit, even more so than he always had; prison was not doing him any favors. Didn’t seem to be drunk or hungover today, at least – prison hooch another thing that had yet to come back to Oz – but dear old dad had many times over proven himself perfectly capable of being nasty without the help of intoxicants.
“No,” Ryan lied, brushing Seamus’ hand off his shoulder. “Didn’t see you.”
“Bullshit. You don’t fucking ignore me when I call your name, you understand? Show a little respect.”
“Respect,” Ryan laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, right. You want something? Make it fast. I got shit to do.”
“What, gotta run along to your spic boyfriend?”
Ryan responded without thinking, stress making him stupid, “He’s not my fucking –”
“Yeah, sure,” Seamus interrupted. “It’s always just business, and always with fags.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about," Ryan retorted, and Seamus laughed derisively.
“Don’t play dumb with me. You think I don’t remember that other little spic you used to run around with back in the day? Trying to bring that faggot into my house, saying you were just talking shop. I thought I knocked that shit out of you, but I guess being in a place like this, you can’t fucking help yourself.” He spat on Ryan’s shoes. “Fucking disgrace.”
Every nerve in Ryan’s body was pulled taut, screaming at him to throw a punch, but he resisted the urge to even clench his fists – hyper-aware of the hack behind him and the favor he still needed. “I said, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he repeated through gritted teeth. Diego had been a faggot, it was true, but he’d also handled the cleanest heroin on Bridge Street. It had been a good partnership. Nothing more to it than that.
Nothing important, anyway. Nothing real. Nothing that anyone could possibly fucking know.
And Seamus had indeed knocked it out of him – after being beaten within an inch of his life for the crime of a 5 minute deal on the O’Reily’s front porch, Ryan had cut things off. Threatened to kill Diego if he ever spoke to him again, the hurt look in his former partner’s eyes something that still haunted him every now and again.
He went straight. Met Shannon shortly after, got married, and never messed around with anyone like that again. Not until coming to Oz, anyway – and none of the people he’d hitched his wagon to in here had caused any problems for him, fag or otherwise. Until now.
“You tell yourself whatever you need to,” Seamus replied. “But you can’t lie to me. I’m your father. I know you better than anyone ever will.” He jerked his chin to the side. “Now come on. I wanna eat.”
“Told you, I have shit to do. Eat by yourself.” Ryan turned away and faced the hack again, who was doing a very bad job of pretending not to eavesdrop. “Can I leave?”
The hack hesitated for a moment, then nodded, opening the gate.
“Thanks.”
“It’s not just me, you know!” Seamus called after him. “Everybody’s gonna figure it out eventually. Only a matter of time.” Ryan sped up, trying to put as much distance between them as quickly as possible; heard the hack say something to Seamus, and Seamus cursed at him, but seemingly no more than that.
Not good, Ryan thought as he approached the entrance to Em City. Not good at all.
He’d been careless, he supposed. Gotten too used to the faggotry that went on within these walls, had been willing to overlook it when the ends justified the means. Should have seen the writing on the wall back when those rumors about him and Ross had briefly circulated, but since they’d quickly evaporated after Ross’ death he hadn’t paid any attention (not to mention he’d had Gloria and Cyril to think about shortly after). He’d gotten comfortable around people like Keller, like Beecher, like Cramer – and then, like Torquemada.
Maybe he could have continued getting away with it if the rules were the same as at Lardner, where Torquemada had been forced by the environment to present like something resembling a normal person – but maybe not. Maybe his luck had simply run out.
Regardless, he had to do something about it, or he was in trouble.
One last meeting, he told himself. I deliver Pancamo’s message, and then I tell him I’m out. Not like there was anything more I could do anyway. He ignored the hollow feeling in his chest at the idea, the thought of once more relegating himself to loneliness, cutting himself off from the one person who had made the months following Cyril’s execution and Gloria’s transfer somewhat bearable – shoved all the weakness inside him into a box and locked it and threw it into the bottomless pit where his heart used to be.
Life in prison, no longer any possibility of parole – not til I’m older than Rebadow, anyway, and by then what’s the point.
The only thing that matters is survival.
He reached the Em City gate, and the hack buzzed him in.
One last meeting.