“Yeah, I’m gonna start with sex,” Fester continued, oblivious to the threat in Puck’s voice. The guy was a complete moron, but at least he was harmless. Over the past year, he and Painter had needed to fight off the cartel boys at least once a month. An annoying cell mate was better than getting shanked in your sleep. “There’s this chick I saw once who—”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up right now, I’ll cut off your dick,” Puck muttered. Fester laughed, because they’d had this same conversation at least once a day for the past six months. But today they were in lockdown, which meant Puck couldn’t get away from the little shit.

Painter snorted in amusement across the room, because he knew exactly how much the man got on Puck’s nerves.

“How ’bout that girl of yours?” Fester asked Painter, shifting directions abruptly. “She have anything interesting to say? I always think about her in that blue sundress she was wearin’ in that one picture. You know, the one where her tits were sorta pokin’ through? I swear to fuck, those were her nipples. They taste good? I’ll bet they taste good.”

Puck closed his eyes and shook his head. Fester had no fuckin’ sense of self-preservation at all. Painter didn’t like questions about his girl. This was not new territory.

“You say one more word and I’ll kill you on the spot,” Painter replied, his voice like stone. “She’s not my girl and whatever you think you saw, you forget. You’re not good enough to look at her picture, asshole.”

“Sorry, Painter,” Fester said quickly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bother you. You just keep readin’ your letter and I’ll go over here for a while. Maybe draw a picture or somethin’.”

“You do that,” Painter said, then Puck heard Fester move across the room, followed by the sounds of crayons dumping out across the desk. Man had the mind of an eight year old, no joke. Puck wondered how he’d survive when they got out in two weeks, but he didn’t put too much energy into it. Fester was like a cockroach—he’d find a way.

“Any news from home?” Puck asked, although “home” wasn’t really the right word. Painter’d gotten a packet of notes and pictures from Coeur d’Alene, all gathered together by one of the Reapers’ old ladies and sent down at once.

“Not really,” he said. “Looks like Bolt and Maggs are back together.”

Puck grunted, trying to remember who Maggs was. Bolt he remembered, but they hadn’t talked much. He’d only been in Coeur d’Alene a few days before everything fell to shit. After their first four months inside together, Painter had suggested he come prospect with the Reapers when he got out. Wouldn’t be happening. Puck’s dad had been a Silver Bastard, and that’s who he wanted to ride with.

Assuming he ever got to ride again.

“Mellie got a scholarship,” Painter added after a few minutes. “Says she’s excited, because it means she won’t have to work during school this year.”

Puck grinned, but he didn’t say shit. Painter had it bad for the girl—pussy whipped, despite the fact he’d never even gotten a whiff. He’d never fall for that, no fuckin’ way. Life was hard enough without some bitch whinin’ all the time.

Not only that, who wanted to pick just one?

The warning bell rang for lights out, and Fester scrabbled around, presumably picking up his crayons. Freak had a talent for drawing, strangely enough. He could draw pictures of anything, all shaded and complicated and shit. Puck wouldn’t have thought you could pull that off with crayons, but what did he know?

The lights went out and Puck closed his eyes, ignoring the howls and moans of inmates up and down the block. This was the best time in prison. He might be stuck in a concrete box with Painter and their pet fuckwit, but with the lights off he could imagine being somewhere else. Outside.

Get drunk first or get laid?

Damned fine question, he had to admit. Christ, but he missed women. Specifically, he missed fucking them … But he also missed their softness, and the way—when he smiled just right—their eyes went all liquid and they’d do whatever the hell he asked, no matter how fucked up it might be.

Okay, laid first.

He tried to picture the girl. Blonde? Dark hair? Fuck, he didn’t care. He’d start out with a blow job, and then move on to her pussy, maybe eat her out. Yeah, that’d be good. His cock twitched and he lifted his hips, sliding down his pants. On the bunk below him Fester grunted, breaking the spell—but not for long. Puck ignored him, palming his dick and squeezing tight.

Just like that.

But her mouth would be hot and wet, and the thought of her pussy was so sweet it made his teeth hurt. And he’d find one with a sweet pussy for that first night outside. No nasty old bitches for him. Nope. Nothing but the best, because it was his fantasy and he’d damned well do what he wanted in it.

His cock swelled as he pictured sliding it into her slowly from behind. Favorite way to do it, looking down at their asses, all heart shaped and pretty. Jacking his hand slowly, he tried to decide what he wanted. Pale skin? Dark? Maybe some freckles, or just all creamy smooth? Hell, he’d order one of each, find a new one to play with every night.

Speaking of asses, he’d hit that, too. Yup. Mouth, cunt, ass. Then he’d get drunk and start all over again.

Fuckin’ beautiful. Too bad she wasn’t real. Frustration filled him, but Puck jacked harder, lust for his imaginary girl clashing with the cold, hard reality that a man’s hand just wasn’t enough. Not after thirteen months.

But his hand would have to do.

Fluid started seeping from his tip, and he caught it, slicking his way as he kept going. His heart pumped faster now, matching his rhythm. Sweet, tight, and hot. Young. Pretty. Maybe long hair, so he could hold on to it while he fucked her, because riding rough worked for him in a big way.

Oh yeah …

He liked the idea of pulling her hair, maybe giving her ass a little smack. The vision was so intense he practically heard the slap of his hand against her flesh, the way she’d tense around him when he did it. Fuck, that was good. The pressure inside grew tighter and he knew he was close. So fucking close.

His vision shifted—now she knelt in front of him, looking up with big, deep brown eyes as she wrapped her pink lips around his cock. Holy hell, that was perfect. Puck’s arm started to ache, but he didn’t slow down. Probably making enough noise for the others to hear and he didn’t give a shit. Painter was his brother—might not be with the same clubs, but brothers just the same. They’d done time together, forged a bond that couldn’t be broken. Shit like this meant nothin’.