BROKEN WINGS

  CHELLE BLISS

  CONTENTS

  Open Road Series

  1. Crow

  2. Bridget

  3. Crow

  4. Crow

  5. Bridget

  6. Crow

  7. Bridget

  8. Bridget

  9. Crow

  10. Bridget

  11. Crow

  12. Birdie

  13. Crow

  14. Bridget

  15. Crow

  16. Birdie

  17. Crow

  Epilogue

  Open Road Series

  Don’t Miss Out!

  About the Author

  OPEN ROAD SERIES

  Book 1 - Broken Sparrow (Morris)

  Book 2 - Broken Dove (Leo)

  Book 3 - Broken Wings (Crow)

  Book 4 - Broken Arrow (Arrow)

  The Open Road series is interconnected with the Men of Inked: Heatwave series. Learn more at menofinked.com/heatwave-series

  Also available in alternative paperback

  BROKEN WINGS © 2022

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book may not be resold or given away to other people.

  Publisher © Chelle Bliss September 6th 2022

  Edited by Lisa A. Hollett

  Proofread by Read By Rose

  Cover Design © Chelle Bliss

  Cover Photo © Michelle Lancaster @lanefotograf

  1

  CROW

  “Logan Taylor?” The uniformed officer fists a wrinkled paper bag covered in unreadable scribbles. He peers at me through thick glasses, as if the frown lines on my face will somehow match the crap written in black Sharpie.

  By now, I’m so used to being called every possible insult, I almost don’t respond to my given name. But after spending the last three hours in processing, going through identity verification, and signing on the dotted line over and over again, those two words—Logan Taylor—are starting to feel real again.

  Still, hearing my name on Officer Wurst’s tobacco-stained lips makes my mouth go sour. At any moment, this bastard could take a swing at me, accuse me of something, and in the blink of an eye, my ass would be back in orange, sharing a stainless-steel toilet with my most recent cellmate, “Nightmare” Nate.

  The last seven years of my life in Level 2 lockup have been a living hell, but my cellmate earned the nickname through acts viler than anything I could ever dream of. And yet, there I was, right in the bunk next to him.

  But today’s the day I pay my debt shit off in full.

  “You Taylor?” the officer repeats when I don’t respond, looking at me like maybe the endless forms got it wrong.

  I almost laugh at the irony. For years, I haven’t been myself. Forget about who I once was. That’s a very distant memory. But that’s not what he’s getting at. He’s doing his five-figure-a-year job plus bennies making sure the right asshole is released today.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  So I choke back the bile and nod. “That’s me, sir.” Tacking “sir” on to the end like it means something. I just hope I don’t sound like I’m sucking up to him—or worse, being sarcastic.

  Wurst has never done anything to earn my respect, but I’ll kiss his ass and call him Mama if that means putting this place behind me even a minute faster. I can tolerate the game to reach what’s on the other side of that locked door.

  Freedom.

  Wide blue sky, endless groves of orange trees, and miles of green grass, unmarred by barbed wire and armed guards. It’s all so close, I can practically taste the sweet Florida citrus on my tongue.

  I try not to look at Wurst’s oily hairline and wait for whatever it is that comes next so I can walk through that security door.

  “Got all your personal effects? Unless you want to go back?” He cackles at his own joke.

  I look him over skeptically. As if there is anything from that sickly green concrete room that I’d want to take out of here.

  The truth is… There’s nothing.

  While this place held me in a choke hold, I let parts of me die to survive.

  My pride.

  My dignity.

  My sense of myself as a man.

  Like a helpless baby, I ate the slop they spooned into my mouth. Swallowed nonstop bullshit they rained down on not just me, but all of us. How weak, useless, and ruined we all were. How we’re the lowest of the low, no good to anyone. Never was, never would be.

  I took the abuse and the violence, the loneliness and the monotony, because taking it meant I’d make it to this moment.

  And I sure as hell am not about to say or do anything to fuck that up now. The only thing between me and that endless blue outside is one more guard. One more hoop. One more question.

  I nod and give him the answer I know he wants.

  “Donated my books back to the library,” I say. “I’m good to go.”

  I hold up my hands to show there’s nothing I’m hiding. Nothing in the pockets of the stiff thrift store jeans and scratchy, ill-fitting T-shirt provided for me by the state on my release.

  “All righty, then.” Wurst waddles past me. “Follow me.”

  I keep my distance walking behind him. It’s surreal not being restrained by some kind of shackles as I head down a narrow corridor. I shuffle along, keeping my eyes low and my expectations lower. If my dad and brother could see me now… I thanked God every day I was locked up that no one from my family came to see me. Not once.

  A couple of calls from my dad and brother my first few weeks in. One deposit into my commissary account. That’s it. That’s all the support my family gave me over the years. They left me to rot in hell, believing I got what I deserved for what went down.

  And that’s how I preferred it.

  Nothing about me being here was justice. My sentence—downgraded from the minimum set by Florida law due to the circumstances—was about making somebody pay, plain and simple. If consequences were fair, if there were any such thing as real justice, well, a lot of things would have been very, very different.

  I’m not saying I didn’t do the crime. I sure as fuck did. I swung a punch in a bar and shattered the face of a man who more than deserved it. He literally asked for it.

  But the state of Florida had a dead man on their hands and witnesses who ID’d me as the one who threw the fatal punch. Not the first punch, mind you. But the last. Witnesses backed up my version of the story, but truth doesn’t matter when there’s a bar fight, a dead man, and a guy left standing with blood on his hands.

  Facts… Fuck the facts.

  Two men died that shitty summer night. The minute I threw that punch, my life was over. Not the same kind of over as that meth head from the bar, but over just the same.

  I was arrested, tried, and convicted. Lucky to get seven years, reduced from the state minimum for manslaughter because of a carve-out in the law. I accepted the judge’s “mercy,” the two and a quarter years he shaved off my sentence because the victim contributed to the circumstances that led to his own harm.

  The state took away my work, my freedom, years of my life on this earth because I stopped a guy hopped up on drugs from terrorizing a couple of idiot kids who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I could have walked away or ordered another beer and tucked into a dark corner like so many of the witnesses there that night. But if there’s one thing my father raised me to do—aside from knowing when to call a man sir—it was to jump in and help when needed.

  “Be an example, son,” he’d say. “When others run away, real men run in.”

  I ran in, all right. Fists flying.

  And every day since, I’ve had a lot of time to think about what a real man is. What a hero is. And whether that’s what I want to be.

  I could have gotten my life back several times over, but I made no effort to get released early. Refused parole, wanted nothing to do with probation. No ties to bind me to this hell. When I walk out of here, I want to be truly free. Accountable to no one but myself and to the brotherhood. The fact that there is any brotherhood left waiting for me is a shock.

  My cheap sneakers—another parting gift from the Florida Department of Corrections—squeak on the tile floor on that long, quiet walk to the exit.

  I start panicking.

  This is real. I’m getting the fuck out.

  I take a long last breath of stale, institutional air and blink hard. Not once, not twice, but again and again to make sure the door unlocking in Wurst’s hand is really happening. Not a dream I’ll wake up from. This is it. I can believe what I’m seeing because it’s finally happening.

  Wurst calls into a radio at his shoulder and nods. “All right, man.” He holds out a paper bag, and I just stare at it, eyes locked on his hand.

  I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m afraid to take it from him. My instincts after all this time so trained to submit, to seem harmless, to disappear in a sea of far more dangerous faces, that I can’t even grab what rightfully belongs to me.

  The guard makes it easy on me, shoving the wrinkled mess into my hands.

  “Your commis
sary account’s been cashed out.” He points at the bag. “There’s a prepaid card in there with your balance on it.”

  I’m tempted to open the bag to make sure, but I’m not going to risk pissing the guy off.

  “Hope to never see you again, Taylor,” he says, and there’s a bit of kindness in words. Like, maybe, he really means it.

  I nod to him. “Yes, sir,” I say, because saying anything else is only going to tempt everything inside me to come pouring out. And right now, I need to keep my cool. I’m still on government property.

  Wurst holds the door open and squawks into his radio so the guards monitoring the perimeter know I’ve got the okay to leave.

  “Johnson!” Wurst shouts to the van driver. He’s smoking a cigarette and looking pissed off that his break has been interrupted. “Just one today.”

  “Ahh right, ahh right.” The guy stubs out his cigarette and gets behind the wheel. “Let’s do this, then. Gives me an excuse to get out of this sun.”

  I look between Wurst and Johnson, in disbelief that they aren’t going to lock me into the van. Monitor my every move until I’m secure in my seat where I can’t be a threat to anyone. Why would they? I’m technically a free citizen now. All that’s left to do is transport me off the property. But it still feels fucking crazy.

  I scan the road ahead, the service drive that leads a long loop around the facility, where family members and friends park for visiting days and for times just like this. I debate just walking to the visitor lot. No one will be waiting for me there, not yet. There’s no rush to get where I’m going.

  But then I think about the thousand things that could happen between here and there and decide following the protocol is the easiest way to make sure my last day in prison stays my last day. I shove aside my fears that this transport is a trick my mind is playing on me, or worse, a trick the guards are playing on me.

  I’m getting out. It’s all but done.

  I climb in the rear, slam the door shut behind myself, and sit my ass in a seat. I wonder if the view will look any different as a free man. The only times I’ve been in this vehicle I’ve been heavily monitored and shackled. And then I realize I haven’t buckled my seat belt. I do it quick, even though it’s a very short ride. Johnson’s still a cop after all.

  Once he starts up the van, I get nauseous. A combination of so, so many things. But Johnson’s a chatterer, so I focus on him and not the waves of worry sloshing in my gut.

  “Congrats, man.” Johnson’s so relaxed, making small talk, his arm slung out the window. “You got a woman waiting for you?”

  I swallow hard and wonder if I’m really going to be sick. “Don’t know,” I say. A vague response is better. Nothing could be further from the truth. I’ve got no one waiting for me. And the last thing on my mind is getting a piece of ass. I’m still too focused on getting out of here with my ass intact in this set of cheap pants instead of an orange jumpsuit, but agreeing with him is the path of least resistance.

  Within minutes, we’re pulling into a parking lot. Johnson leans out to chitchat with the guard on duty at the lot. I’m not sure if I’m free to get out, so I sit there, seat belt on, awaiting instructions.

  “Hey!” Johnson calls out, giving me a wave. “You’re all good, man.” He points toward the street, an empty two-lane highway. “Bus will be by at some point.”

  Johnson goes back to chatting up the other guard, so I open the back door and step out. Just like that. Hand on the handle. My foot on the pavement.

  I turn slowly and shut the door behind me, every muscle in my body burning with tension. I grip the paper bag in my hand, my knuckles white. The same knuckles that got me sent here in the first place.

  I relax my hands. Roll my shoulders. Take in a lungful of fresh air.

  Then I turn my back on the prison, the van, Johnson…all of it. And I walk away.

  “You fuckin’ bastard.” A black extended cab pickup truck slows to a stop about ten feet away from me. The window’s rolled down, and a heavily tattooed arm flips me off.

  When the driver’s side door opens, a man about my size climbs out, his motorcycle boots pounding hard on the hot concrete. His muscular arms are exposed, but I cock my head when I realize he’s not wearing his leathers. No vest. No patch.

  “You fuckin’ pussy,” I reply. “What the hell happened to you?”

  Morris, the VP of the Disciples, crosses his arms over the chest of a short-sleeved black golf shirt. He looks down at himself and scrubs a hand over his chin.

  “Lot has changed, man,” he says, a grin twisting his lips.

  The passenger door opens, and a man who has no business fitting his massive girth into a pickup truck stumbles out.

  “Tiny.” I nod. “Good to see some things haven’t changed.”

  Tiny pulls a toothpick from between his teeth and snorts. “Just you wait, brother. Just you fucking wait.”

  Morris comes at me in a run. He tackles me at full speed and sticks a shoulder in my chest before wrapping his arms around me in a hug. “Been waiting long, you son of a bitch?”

  I stiffen at the shouting, at the contact, but try to slow my breathing to remind myself this is cool. I can be cool. To these guys, nothing’s changed. It’s just been a minute since we’ve seen one another. Still Disciples. Still brothers.

  I pound Morris on the back and notice as he pulls away that there’s a wedding ring on his hand. “What in the name of…?”

  “Told you.” Tiny lumbers over to clap me in the world’s sweatiest hug. “Talk about a ball and chain.”

  “You asshole,” Morris says, shaking his head. “Way too soon for prison jokes.” He smacks Tiny playfully across the back. “This one should talk. Come on, we’ve got a lot to catch you up on.” Morris looks at the paper sack in my hands. “That your shit?”

  I nod, suddenly regretting letting Morris and Tiny pick me up. Once I was scheduled for release, they insisted, but I’d been so focused on getting out of prison, I hadn’t even thought about how I’d feel physically going home. Seeing people I knew again. I didn’t know if I knew myself anymore, let alone these two. But it’s only been five minutes since they rolled into the lot, and Morris is grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me. Hard.

  “It’s fucking good to have you back, brother.” Something like tears glimmers in his eyes. “We’ve missed you, Crow.”

  Hearing my old name brings water to my eyes, but there is no way I am going to let it flow. I let Morris hug me again, and then Tiny plants a meaty palm against my back.

  “Come on, brother,” he says. “Let’s get your ass home.”

  I climb into the back of Morris’s truck and roll down the window first thing. After being locked down for so many years, the last thing I want is to be closed up in a small space for a long ride, even a truck with two of my oldest friends.

  Morris and Tiny yammer up front, talking about things and people I have never heard of and know nothing about. They include me, calling back to me, asking me about everyday things like food and getting me a phone.

  It’s overwhelming. I shut down and just nod, listening to what they say while the fresh air messes up my hair on the drive back to the compound.

  I’m sure I’ll adjust. I’ll adapt. Just like I did inside. But right now, despite the fluffy clouds overhead and the brilliant sun on my face, I’m like a bird whose wings have been clipped. After dreaming of the flight for so, so long, I feel like I’m falling. That feeling doesn’t ease when we pull into the parking lot of the compound.

  The three of us head inside on a much different vibe than the one I left on. I remember that day too clearly, but I refuse to think about that now.

  When Morris yanks open the door and shoves me inside, it’s this surreal feeling, almost like time travel. The place is familiar and so much the same, but it’s been so, so long, it’s hard to believe it’s real. And then I hear the screams.