Badlands. Jill Sorenson

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СКАЧАТЬ he’d craved human contact. His father’s death had left a hole inside him. Shane’s lengthy incarceration had made another, and his own stint in prison had gnawed him down to nothing.

      Owen didn’t trust Shane, but he would always love him.

      Although they’d served time in different institutions, Shane and Owen had joined the same gang. The Aryan Brotherhood was the most popular white gang in the California penal system. Its members underwent a savage initiation process and swore allegiance for life. They were expected to continue to serve the AB on the outside.

      After the San Diego earthquake, Owen had been transferred to a quiet, medium-security correctional facility. Penny’s father had used his political connections to make the arrangements after Owen had helped rescue Penny. Owen would be forever in Sandoval’s debt for the favor. At the smaller prison, he’d been able to distance himself from the AB. He’d taken advantage of college courses, therapy sessions and a work program. When he was released, he’d had a job waiting for him in a remote park where no one would find him.

      Now, three years later, he was a security guard for a presidential candidate. He hadn’t been worried about the gang coming after him. His mistake.

      “You turned your back on the AB,” Shane said.

      Owen couldn’t deny it.

      “There’s a punishment for deserters.”

      “What do you want from me?”

      “Your compliance.”

      He wasn’t sure how to respond. Did it even matter? These assholes would never believe he was on their side.

      Owen had become a member the Aryan Brotherhood of his own free will. He’d engaged in gang fights and color wars. He’d used racial slurs without batting an eye and littered his body with offensive epithets. Although he regretted the necessity of these actions, he’d seen no other solution. He’d been eighteen when he’d gotten arrested. Male inmates preyed on young, attractive boys. Owen couldn’t escape their attentions without help. And, unfortunately, only one group would accept him. There were no rainbow coalitions in prison. It was a segregated environment, and protection came at a price.

      Owen wasn’t a white supremacist, but ideological differences hadn’t made it difficult for him to fit in with the gang. No, he’d adopted their ways easily. He’d been poor white trash his entire life. The men in the Brotherhood were just like him. They were the boys he’d played with after school, the desert rats with the faded clothes, the trailer park kids who came from nothing and ended up the same way.

      Salton City was a backward place, full of poverty and prejudice. His father had been a racist fool, spewing ignorance on a regular basis. His mother didn’t agree, but she’d known better than to contradict him.

      Despite his upbringing, or perhaps because of it, Owen had rejected those views. He didn’t want to take after his father. Long before he reached adulthood, he’d decided to be whatever Christian Jackson wasn’t. Owen couldn’t change the fact that he was white, male and heterosexual. In all other areas, he would diverge.

      That was the plan, anyway. But he’d gotten caught up in his brother’s world and drifted in the wrong direction. He’d started drinking heavily in high school, and he’d been a regular meth user by the time he was seventeen.

      Since he’d left prison, however, he’d stayed on the straight and narrow. He had a stronger sense of who he was as a person. The idea of pretending to go along with Shane’s scheme made him nauseous. Not only that, he doubted an agreement would give him any advantage. They wouldn’t remove his handcuffs or let him go.

      This was all just bullshit posturing. Shane had to prove his loyalty to the gang, and he had to do it with his fists. Dirk cracked his knuckles in a threatening manner. Owen knew what was coming: an epic beat-down. He studied each set of boots in his vicinity, expecting he’d be seeing them up close in the next few minutes.

      “I told you he was fucking her,” Dirk said.

      “You might be right.”

      “Looks like he’s had some tattoos removed.”

      “Strip him,” Shane said.

      Owen held still as one of the other men came forward, ripping his shirt down the front and letting it hang off his shoulders. The swastika on his hand and the script on his neck were gone. His other tattoos had been altered, rather than removed. He’d changed the Old English lettering that arced over his stomach to read Irish Pride, instead of White Pride. More telling, perhaps, was the cross on his chest. The flames were covered and the name Cruz was added underneath, transforming the hateful image into a tender tribute.

      He still had a three-leaf clover on his shoulder, minus the AB initials. Green ink was hard to remove, and it was a symbol of his Scotch-Irish heritage, so he’d kept it. He was damned lucky to be alive after several close calls.

      But maybe this was it. The last scrape.

      Dirk pointed out the obvious. “This motherfucker isn’t one of us.”

      “Are you with us?” Shane asked.

      Owen didn’t answer.

      “Stand him up.”

      Two men dragged him to his feet. He looked Shane in the eye, his pulse racing. His brother hit him with an open hand across the face, knocking his head to one side. Pain exploded in his cheek and gums.

      “Are you with us?” Shane repeated.

      Owen spat a mouthful of blood on Dirk’s shoes. “No.”

      “Son of a bitch!”

      They took turns hitting him in the stomach and back, hammering his pride and bruising his luck. Shane didn’t participate as much as the others, and his blows weren’t quite as heavy. Owen wondered if he’d lost his appetite for violence. The malicious glint in his eyes had faded into resignation.

      Whatever enthusiasm Shane lacked, his friends more than made up for. They held Owen upright and pummeled the hell out of him.

      “Enough!” Shane roared.

      They let him fall to the ground, writhing in pain.

      “Leave us alone for a minute.”

      “Are you going to finish him?” Dirk asked.

      “How about I finish you?”

      Dirk walked away with the others, grumbling.

      Shane crouched down next to Owen and lit a cigarette, one hand cupped around his jaw to block the wind. “I don’t want to kill you.”

      Owen struggled for breath, rolling over on to his side in the dirt. The punches to his rib cage felt like fire. It was difficult to anticipate Shane’s next move. He’d always been a loose cannon, acting in his own self-interests. But he’d defended Owen as often as he’d bullied him. He hadn’t been as cruel as their father.

      Shane changed the subject. “How’s Mom?”

      The question didn’t soften Owen’s sympathies any. Shane had a lot СКАЧАТЬ