I might as well be in boot camp with the way Mace treats me the next three days of confinement. He's early to bed, early to rise, and he shouts at me constantly. To keep my elbows up, to do crunches, sit ups, push ups, until I feel my muscles shake and give out from under me.
He even taught me how to take a punch – although I think he was just looking for an excuse to land one on my face. Saying I'm too soft managed to convince me at the time, but my jaw has been clicking ever since.
I get nothing from the "training" other than bruises all over my body and an incredible exhaustion that leaves me sleeping like a log all night.
Time completely distorts during lockdown. At one point I realize I have no idea how many days it has been. I count them out on my fingers and pray I can even trust myself.
At least I have Mace. I don't know how the other inmates can survive being completely isolated.
"Stop fucking worrying about them," Mace snaps when I voice my concerns to him one evening. "Guaranteed they're not wasting any time thinking about you, or your comfort. Don't give them that."
"But—Knuckle?" I think of his smiling, youthful face. "Dom?" Oddly, Dom does give off the vibe that he prefers confinement…
Mace's eyes narrow at me and he kicks at my legs spread across his bed. "Knuckle did this to himself… and to us. Fucking stupid to feel sorry for him."
Of course Mace thinks that way.
There's not a compassionate bone in his body; even being my bodyguard is some twisted way of honouring his murdered family. Though I've only spoken to Knuckle once, I know that whatever Roo said to him was bad enough to justify his actions.
"Move your legs," Mace demands, kicking them again so he can sit down beside me.
"I can't," I admit, refusing to even try. Mace made me do an hour of squats this morning and moving these heavy limbs of mine is difficult and painful.
He proceeds to climb up to sit on them anyway and I only have a moment to pull my dead legs away to give him room.
"They're like jelly," I groan.
"They won't be jelly when I'm through with you," he threatens. Sometimes he can say things that would normally scare the shit out of me, but that hidden smile on his face is getting easier and easier to notice.
I trust Mace.
This fact is now law in our tiny cell. He can punch me, make fun of me, grab me by my collar and shake me enough to get whiplash—and I'd still trust him. Is there something wrong with me? Probably.
"I don't think working out like this is safe…" I say, rubbing at my thighs that are absolutely burning from strain. "Besides, I could work out like this for a year and still not be able to take you down."
Mace pauses to consider this, grey eyes sweeping my frame again. I'm distinctly aware of our size difference but moments like these make me feel inferior in ways I've never felt before. It's an itchy, irritating feeling because I'm not even small. I'm almost six feet! It's just that Mace, Knuckle, and Ox are all built different.
"You lived a soft life before all this," Mace comments, patting me on my head. Two days ago I'd be taking offense, but I can't deny the weight of his palm is comforting. "That's not a bad thing, kid."
"Stop calling me that," I mutter, rubbing at my legs until the muscles start tingling in protest again.
"But that's your name." Mace offers a wry smile with his statement, as if knowing what he's said will piss me off. I smack his hand off my head, and if I wasn't almost crippled from squats, I would be moving off his bed right now too.
"My—name—is—Andy," I say slowly, like I'm talking to someone who has difficulty hearing.
"No," Mace refuses, having the fucking audacity. "Your name here," he gestures to our cell, to Third Block, and to the prison in general, "is Kid."
"The hell it's not," I snap, turning hysterical from the mortifying implications. "I don't like it!"
"I don't give a good God damn what you like," Mace growls back, that hidden smile disappearing completely. Deranged Mace is back, with his wide grey eyes and his neck vein tensing. "You're a kid, Andy—a fucking kid. And I want those guys out there to know it."
I feel hot from my chest up. It's a terrible embarrassment because I'm not a kid but also, how can I look a man twice my age in his face and argue that? Still, I feel a deep sense of hurt.
I don't want to be seen as a kid.
"Don't pout," he says, voice ten times softer suddenly. I know he's picked up on how offended I am. Nothing gets by him; he's a master at reading people.
I choose to ignore him; I have no good arguments or anything good to say anyway. I slide off his bed and almost tumble to the ground with the way my knees shake together from the post workout. Thankfully I manage to grab the post of the bed in time and keep myself upright.
Climbing the ladder to the top bunk is also painful. By the time my back hits the mattress, Mace is already leaning against the railing.
"Andy," he starts. I manage to glare at him, but that's only because he used my name. Otherwise, I wouldn't even bother looking over at him despite the way he's hovering. "We're not making fun of you when we call you that, okay?"
Mace is as sincere as I've ever seen him; his strong brows aren't pinched together, and his grey eyes are hooded and relaxed. A wave of confusion breaks through my anger.
Why is he even bothering explaining to me?
Normally he'd tell me to suck it up, or tell me I'm being a brat… I don't know how to talk to Mace when he's trying to be sweet.
"This is just one way of protecting you," he explains gently. "You trust me to protect you… don't you?"
What am I supposed to say to that? It's entirely unfair how he's twisting it to be to my benefit but… maybe I am overreacting a little bit…
"I do trust you," I confirm, "but—I still hate it."
Mace breathes out a small sigh as he considers my feelings. "I know when I was your age, I'd be fighting anyone calling me the same thing," he finally offers. "But my job isn't to protect your feelings. It's to protect you."
I hate the way my heart feels lighter already. Mace is way too good at making me feel special in these kinds of moments. I know this man hasn't cared about anything since he lost his family. He doesn't care about Knuckle—he doesn't care about killing people—he doesn't care about extending his sentence.
But he cares about me.
"Fine," I allow, unable to meet his eyes any longer as I lose the battle. "You owe me."