Thorn: Carter Kids #2 by Chloe Walsh

cigarettes towards me.
    “Ho fucking Ho, man,” I shot back, smirking. Fucker sure knew how to brighten up an inmate’s day.
    Tommy and I had been friends since high school and to be honest, the guy had stepped up when I went inside. He visited frequently, at least once a month, which I had to admit I enjoyed a helluva lot more than I let him know.
    Reaching down, I slid the packet into my sock. It wasn’t against the rules to have cigarettes in here, but I sure as shit didn’t share and Lucky was a chain smoker. “Appreciate it, T.”
    “Anytime,” he replied warmly. “Eight more months, Noah,” he added, leaning back in his chair. “You’ll be out before you know it, man.”
    I responded with a grunt.
    It might seem that way to Tommy, but anyone who had ever been inside knew that you weren’t out until you were out. A million and one fucking problems could happen between now and my parole and I wasn’t getting my hopes up. Not for one fucking moment. Not when there were assholes inside who could jeopardize my future at the drop of a hat.
    This was a dangerous fucking world to live in and the only reason I’d made it this far as unscathed as I had was because I had been born into it. I knew the rules of the underworld. I knew the code of the scum. Stick to myself, keep my nose clean, and never back down.
    But I would be a liar if I said I wasn’t nervous.
    Eight more months.
    Two hundred and forty days.
    I was on the cusp of freedom. I could practically smell it… and it was fucking terrifying.
    Say nothing bad happened and I was released in eight months? How would I make it in the real world? I was only a kid when I came here, eighteen and green. Now I was almost twenty-four. That was a long ass recess from the real world.
    “People are talking, Noah,” Tommy said in a hushed tone, leaning over the table towards me. “There’s more interest in you with the MFA now than back in high-school, dude. Some of the guys are saying that with some training you could go pro –”
    “Incase it’s passed your attention, I’m a criminal, Tommy. I’ve got a record as long as your arm, dude. I’m not getting signed by any respectable company,” I responded wearily, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. My getting signed had been Tommy’s wet dream of an obsession since we were in our teens. Back then, before Teagan Connolly had come around and knocked my concentration to shit, the MFA – the fastest growing league for mixed martial arts and street fighting in North America – had shown an interest in me. That was then, before I had a rap sheet to contend with. “You know it and I know it, so why don’t you give the whole MFA shit a break, man. Please.”
    Shrugging my words off like the optimistic bastard I knew he was, Tommy continued planting the seed in my brain. “Times are changing, Noah,” he argued, excitement evident in his eyes. “And the rules are changing too. In your favor, dude. The sport is sluggish, and they’re looking for fresh meat – someone with enough personality to draw the crowds back in. Young, skilled and ruthless.” Drum rolling his hands against the table, Tommy grinned. “And you’re all of those, man.”
    “Forget it,” I told him. “There’s not a company on this side of the continent gonna sign the likes of me.”
    “You sure about that, man?” Stuffing his hand into his pocket, he dragged out a crumpled sheet of paper and placed it in front of me.
    “And this is?” The letter was scribbled out in cursive. I was a fucking terrible reader and I sure as hell wasn’t about to embarrass myself by trying to sound it out in a prison visiting room.
    “A handwritten letter from Quinn ‘The Ripper’ Jones himself,” Tommy informed me proudly. “Letting your pessimistic ass know there’s a place waiting for you in his gym when you’re out. In eight fucking months.”
    “Why?” It was the one question I needed answering. Why the fuck would Quinn Jones write to me?