Chapter 2 Convict - several weeks earlier Coming back from the dead was for heroes, not assholes like me. The drip, drip, drip of my meds soaked into my dreams, mixing with flashes of flames and sirens, the only images in my otherwise empty head. I was in a hospital bed, that much I'd worked out. There had been a cop, then an ambulance crew, jostling my broken frame onto a stretcher. After that, a jumble of medics and needles and the numbing drug robbing me of the chance to recall who the fuck I was. "Sharp scratch," they told me before stabbing me again, though I never felt a thing. That must've been a couple of weeks ago. I'd woken enough to catalogue my injuries. A shattered leg. A burned arm. A crack in my skull that a nurse informed me left a scar. Maybe that's what stole my memories. I couldn't summon a name, and the medical bracelet on my wrist gave me nothing. 'Roscoe Locke' it read. If I'd ever been that man, I had no recollection of him. Unconsciousness sent my world to black once more. I woke to nurses changing the dressings on my arm. "Prison tattoos," one hissed to her co-worker. The second woman tutted. "Gang, more like." A gang. That felt right. I was heavy on the inkwork, from the skin that wasn't under white bandages, including a snake that wound around my uninjured forearm, its head peeking onto my wrist. My body told my history with muscles, old scars, including on my knuckles, and so much black ink. No shit that I was bad news. If I saw me coming down a dark alley, I'd run, too. No wonder they were keeping me docile. The first nurse eyed me. In her hands was a syringe of clear liquid, the shit that knocked me out each time they gave it. "Hey," I tried. My first word in weeks was barely a rasp. "Lay off the KO juice." The nurses exchanged a glance. "Please?" I tried. "Doc said I could start making my own bad decisions again. I don't need it." A lie, but I had to get a clear head. The second woman flattened her lips and spoke to her colleague. "Imagine what he'll be like off it. Screaming the place down in an hour." I passed out the second the drug entered my system. I couldn't tell the length of time until I surfaced next, maybe hours or days, but it was to a certainty that spiked my adrenaline and stirred my broken body. I had to get out of here. Even if I crawled and dragged my busted leg behind me. Except I needed clothes. The damn cast removed. To be off their drugs. Bribing a medic was out of the question with zero possessions to my name. Threats could work, but I didn't love the idea of hurting people who'd helped me, even with the side of judgement. Sweet-talking might be better. My door swung open, and a cop entered my room, a big fucker with his hands in his pockets and a smug-as-fuck smirk on his miserable mug. He inspected me. "Still alive, then." Instinct shut me up. Whoever he was, he knew me. I'd been desperate for that recognition, for one person to walk into my hospital room and ugly cry over me or say my name. But not someone like him. I didn't know much, but I was certain cops and I weren't on bro-hug terms. The officer picked up my chart and perused my injuries list. "That leg will keep you out of trouble, though the turf war appears to be over for a while. A skull injury? Possible amnesia? You're shitting me, Con-" He cut off his sentence and dropped the chart. "Amnesia. Just hilarious." The bastard strolled away, laughing. Desperation flooded my system. I tried to swing out of the bed but collapsed on the sheets, drugged up and weak as a kitten. A new fact became clear. No one was looking for me. That hollowed me out so badly that next time they stuck me, I didn't protest. Instead, I plotted. Over the next week, I played nice with the medical staff while I watched their routine. I faked a lack of interest. I faked a headache so they didn't judge me as more of a threat. I lied about taking the meds they'd switched to providing in pill form rather than the IV. My healing was going well and the heavy cast on my leg scheduled to be replaced with a walking boot. The minute I was upright, I was gone. The day dawned, and I was helped into a wheelchair and taken to a room where the cast got sliced away. A single nurse waited to escort me back to my room where I was due another dose of pain meds. I wasn't going back. I'd tested my strength in private moments, and it had come back in spades. Outside the room, I was going to turn and stride in the other direction and not look back. They couldn't stop me. Only one issue remained: I had nowhere to go. After a month in that fucking bed, I still had no clue of the name I used on a daily basis. No phone, no TV in my room, no visitors besides the cop. Even the home address in my records felt like a stranger's. Maybe I'd go there. Maybe I'd end up on the streets. Something about my scars and how ready I felt to use my fists told me I was a survivor. The medic who'd removed my cast helped me up. My nurse steadied me on crutches, then together, we shuffled to the door, the weakness a pretence on my part. Sure, I wasn't at peak strength, but I could fucking run. In Deadwater Hospital's bright corridor, I readied to go. But down the hall, a woman stared at me like she'd seen a ghost. "Am I high, or is that really you?" A stranger. No. Platinum hair, a banging body, kind eyes. I knew her, didn't I? Hell if I could recall her name. Steadying myself on my crutches, and with the nurse hovering at my shoulder, I formed a half-smile, temporarily frozen in my plan. I hadn't expected that. A familiar face. "I guess so." Blondie's gaze sank over me, taking in the boot. The bandages and healing scars. "Oh, hun, I thought you were dead. We all did. Do you remember me? It's Dixie. Have you been here the whole time?" The name resonated. She was a sex worker, my mind finally supplied. Or maybe an exotic dancer? I'd definitely seen her naked, but not in the touchy way. She was a friend. Holy fuck. At my nod, Dixie whipped out her phone and stabbed at the screen with hot-pink nails. Her call connected, and she spoke in a rush, her other hand going to a bandage at her throat. "You'll never guess who I found. It's Convict. He's alive." Convict. Emotion lurched inside my chest. At long last, I had an identity, even if I was apparently named after a criminal record. Not only that, but someone was looking for me. My plans flexed and shifted. "Dixie?" My tone still held a rasp after the smoke damage from the unknown fire that left the burn marks in my skin. "If I wanted to leave this place, do I have somewhere to go?" Pity filled her eyes. "You don't remember the warehouse? The skeleton crew?" At my side, my nurse clucked her tongue. "Mr Locke, without family to discharge you into the care of, you should remain here. The police recommend⁠-" Dixie returned the nurse's challenging glower and interrupted. "The police can suck it, hun. We're his family, and if you get in our way, I'll have the whole skeleton crew down here to take our boy home." My need to run was no more. I was finally leaving. I wasn't alone after all. I swallowed a lump in my throat. "I just want to go." Dixie smiled. "Then it's settled. Damn, Convict. Risen from the dead. I'm going to start calling you a saint." Everything moved so quickly my messed-up head spun. Despite her words, my nurse had clear relief in her eye when I took the offered meds bag and walked away. A gangster was a liability to the hospital. No matter their protests, I was better off gone. Then we were out into the night. Rain drenched my face. The air bit into me. After fuck knows how long, I threw my head back and let the city embrace me. A man had joined us-Manny, the security chief for the skeleton crew who was there to escort Dixie. I knew him on sight. He guided us to a huge black car, muttering to himself about how Shade was going to shit a brick. Shade. Another rush of relief nearly floored me. Shade was my friend? Or boss? Maybe both. Someone I cared about for sure. We slid through Deadwater's mean streets in Manny's bulletproof ride, the city lights strobing over me. Exhaustion clawed at my senses, and the windscreen wipers and engine hum lulled me to rest. I fought it. Couldn't close my eyes. Not now I had friends again, and familiar faces after weeks of nothing. I'd been in a coma so hadn't noticed how winter was giving way to spring. The weather didn't deter the crowd that formed outside a huge red-brick warehouse by the river, bright neon lights on the signs that read DIVIDE and DIVINE. The headquarters of the skeleton crew. A nightclub on one side and a strip club and brothel on the other. Home. I swung my crutches out of the car and gazed up at the building, music thumping from one of the clubs. 'Circus Psycho' by Diggy Graves. A swell of emotion threatened my hardman exterior. I knew every brick. I'd worked and played here. We got up to all kinds of twisted fun and games. A whole lot of sex. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the Fɪndηovᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. I had no idea who the fuck I was, but I belonged in this hotbed of sin. Across the car park, a crew member with a skeleton print black bandanna held open a staff door. He lifted his chin at my approach, Dixie and Manny either side of me. "Good to see you again, Convict. Been a long time, and we all thought... Doesn't matter. You're back." "Thanks, man." I slapped his hand. Manny powered on ahead to get the next door, and Dixie leaned in once we'd passed the unknown crew member. "That was Mick. You weren't close but you liked him." I slid her a glance, but there was no judgement in her eyes. She knew. "You've been out of it a long time, and hospitals make you delulu with lack of sleep. Ask me how I know. That nurse said it could take a while to be back on your feet for more than just standing." She gently nudged me with her shoulder. I found my voice. "What happened to your throat? Were you hurt when I was?" Dixie's smile dimmed. She touched the white bandage and swallowed. "Separate incidents, and nothing I want to talk about, hun." "Got it. Consider me shut up." "After your return to the land of the living? A whole lotta folk are going to want the opposite, saint." Deeper inside the warehouse's interior, people stared at me with open surprise. A half-naked dancer sticking jewels on her nipples gaped then hurried back into what appeared to be a changing room, whispers following. I frowned inwardly. Her heavy, round tits had bounced as she'd moved. That was hot as fuck. But my dick? Not interested. We arrived at an office, and a man swung out of the room with shock in his eyes. At about my age of twenty-eight, he had endless tattoos, piercing blue eyes, and black hair. Better still, I knew him, just like I had Dixie. Two for two. Shade banded me in a hard hug, his arms crushing me. "Shite, did I hurt ye? That's a stupid question. You've never felt pain in your entire life. Not when we were kids in a fight club and not now." He palmed my jaw and examined me, his Scottish accent strong. "Do ye remember me?" Shade was... I searched my mind. An enforcer? Yes, I'd seen him kill. He took out the assholes who crossed our crew. Right. "Course I do," I muttered. Like with the docs, I wasn't admitting my shite memory. It was bad enough that I was in hospital-issue t-shirt and trackies, cut to accommodate my walking boot, my dark hair overly long with a scar running back from my hairline from my skull injury. Coupled with the fact I needed a shower and a shave and to get off the fucking meds that were slowing my thoughts, I was a wreck. Relief swept over his features. "Good. That's good. Don't worry, brother. We've got ye covered from here. Arran isnae home, but the minute he reads my message, he's going to fucking die." He twisted to talk to Dixie, asking her about the hospital and what the nurses had said. But the name Shade said gave me pause. Arran was the leader of our crew, my brain supplied an image of the man. I'd known him for years, and small details peppered my thoughts. He was as deadly as Shade and more ruthless. In that mental picture, Arran was enraged. I'd done something bad to him. Sickness crawled through my belly at the certainty. Somehow, I'd fucked over one of my closest friends and ended up broken in a hospital bed. I swayed, either at the realisation or exhaustion. Shade caught me. "Come on. Upstairs and to bed. You're dead on your feet." He was wrong. I was alive. We took the lift up to the fifth floor. Shade led the way into a corridor with rooms opening to the left and right. "Thought it would be better for ye to stay here where we can take turns in checking on ye. I had someone prepare a bedroom right at the end, so ye shouldn't be disturbed too much." Dixie whispered, "This is the cam girls' and boys' floor. Lots of faking orgasms for paying viewers." As she spoke, a door opened to one of the rooms and a woman exited, buck naked aside from a barely there bra. She gave us a polite smile and sauntered to a bathroom opposite. Inside the space, another woman sprawled on a bed reached between her legs to slide out a double-ended dildo. Fucking hell. That was fire. Or it should've been. Still, there was zero response in my body. No rush of heat. No reaction at all to the display of sex they'd just quit. Either my brain was fried or my dick had gone on strike. And honestly, I wouldn't blame either of them. Shade and Dixie directed me to the last room on the corridor and set me up with water, my oversized bag of medication, and promises for regular check-ins. Shade held the doorframe. "Rest. Fuck knows ye need it." Finally alone, I dropped down onto the cool white blanket and exhaled hard. Somehow, I'd been gifted a second chance with people who cared about me. I didn't know what I'd done to deserve it, or to earn their rejection in the first place, but one thing was certain. Whatever I did to get tossed in the fire, I wouldn't repeat it. I'd been burned once. Now I'd set the world ablaze for them. I'd never fuck up again.