With my back on the bed and my legs spread-eagled up the wall, I toss the bright yellow stress ball right between my feet. I keep bouncing it back and forth to myself while I lip sync to the nineties music that’s playing out of the headphones attached to the portable CD player resting on my stomach.
I like colors, so the ball and blue CD player are two of my favorite things in here. It helps to make up for the rest of the drab surroundings. My hair does the job too, since it’s a bright ombré with orange at the roots and yellow at the tips.
I’ve tried to bedazzle my jail-issued inmate numbers that are printed over my breast pocket, but the guards didn’t like that too much, and they made me take it off. Such a drag. So I’ve resorted to just coloring it purple instead. Nothing in the rule book against that.
The walls and floor all around me are boring gray concrete, no doubt suffused with some kind of magic—just like the silver cuffs around my wrists. Not that I’d try to break out of here. That would be stupid.
Bounce.
My CD skips, the words to “No Scrubs” by TLC getting all choppy on me. Damn. I’m going to have to bribe another guard for a new CD soon, and sometimes, I get stuck with some questionable ones. I just had to listen to “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion for a week straight before I got this new CD. It was torture.
I hit the forward button until “MMMBop” by Hanson plays, and I smile. Such a classic.
I’m humming happily to the lyrics when I hear footsteps rushing my way. I pull down my headphones, letting them rest against my neck so I can listen. Yep, someone is definitely coming.
I tilt my head backward until it’s hanging off the side of the bed, just as someone reaches my cell. I study him upside down, but even from my vantage point, I can see that the dude is not a guard from this paranormal jail I’m currently residing in. I know all the guards in this place, and he’s not one of them.
I cock my head, looking him up and down. He’s wearing some major stealth clothes, all black, armored, and uber boring. He’s tall and damn scary looking, with a wicked scar down his left cheek.
“Cut yourself shaving?” I ask before digging into my pocket and grabbing a packet of Pop Rocks candy. I dump some onto my tongue, and the grains immediately start popping like there’s miniature gunfire going off in my mouth. It’s like an adrenaline rush and a candy rush all in one.
“Are you Sinclair?” he asks, ignoring my question.
“What?” I call around the insanely loud popping going off in my mouth.
Frustration crosses his face. “I said, are you Sinclair Denali?”
I hold my hand up to my ear. “Can’t hear you!”
A tic in his jaw pulses with irritation, and he leans his face closer to the bars. “Stop eating that shit and tell me your fucking pack name!”
“Geez, no need to yell. I’m sitting right here,” I tell him with exasperation. “And I think the word you’re looking for is lounge, not pack.”
“What?” he snaps, confusion taking over his purpose-filled gaze.
I’ve gotten him so wound up that he’s nearly turning purple, but I just happily crunch the rest of the candy in my mouth and swallow them, enjoying the little pops as they travel down my throat.
“Lounge, Assassins R Us. A group of lizards is called a lounge. Not a pack,” I explain as I lick my lips, searching for any stray sugary morsels.
He lets out a giant huff. “The general term for any group of shifters is pack,” he argues, like I’m some bratty five-year-old that needs to be put in my place. “Are you Sinclair Denali of the Denali pack or not?” he asks again, glaring at me as he hits a hard K on the word.
“Yep, that’s me,” I finally admit, ready to move onto the next phase of this little game we’re playing. I’m very familiar with this game. I’ve been forced to play it quite a few times already.
I stuff the remainder of the candy packet back in my pants pocket. I have to ration these bad boys. I have sentencing later today, and if all goes well, I’ll be headed to Nightmare Penitentiary—the supernatural prison. That place is like the holy grail of prisons for our kind, and