Chapter 26: Hot Water
The showers were a cacophony of noise and steam. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, reflected in the endless, grimy tiles that stretched from floor to ceiling. The air was thick, a wet heat that carried the cheap, sharp scent of industrial soap, mildew, and the raw, animal smell of confined male bodies. Water roared from a dozen showerheads, a constant, thunderous spray that bounced off skin and concrete, collecting in cloudy rivers on the floor before swirling down the central drain.
It was crowded. Bodies, naked and unselfconscious, stood shoulder-to-shoulder under the streams. The space was a mosaic of scars, tattoos, muscle, and fatigue. Laughter echoed, loud and booming, competing with the water. Conversations, crude and easy, crisscrossed the steam.
Dominic maneuvered them through the press, a hand firm on Angel’s shoulder. He claimed a spot near the end, under a showerhead that was less rusty than the others. The water was a rare luxury—actually hot, not the usual lukewarm trickle. It poured down in a heavy, steaming curtain.
“Here, piccolino,” Dominic said, his voice a low rumble under the roar.
Angel stood passively, his head down, platinum curls already darkening and clinging to his neck and back. He looked small, his hourglass shape a soft anomaly amid the hardened angles of the Alphas around them. Dominic stepped in close, chest to chest, turning Angel so the boy’s back was to the room, his face pressed against Dominic’s sternum. It was a shield, a habitual positioning.
Dominic reached for the small, state-issued bar of soap. He worked it between his palms until a pathetic lather formed, then began applying it to Angel’s hair. His fingers were careful, massaging the suds into the scalp, untangling the curls with a practiced gentleness.
“Close your eyes,” Dominic murmured.
Angel obeyed, nuzzling against the familiar tattoos on Dominic’s chest. The hot water sluiced over them both. Dominic’s large hands were meticulous, washing behind Angel’s ears, along the line of his jaw, the column of his throat. He lingered for a moment on the raised, permanent scar of his claiming bite on the side of Angel’s neck, a possessive thumb stroking over the roughened skin.
“Turn around, baby. Rinse,” Dominic instructed, giving him a gentle nudge.
Angel turned, facing the room, his eyes still squinted shut against the soap. The water cascaded over his head, streaming down his face and body, carrying white trails of lather down his chest, over the swell of his breasts, down the curve of his stomach.
Dominic’s hands followed the water. He took the soap again, lathered his hands, and then reached around from behind Angel. His arms framed the boy’s slender body. With a methodical, utterly domestic thoroughness, he began to wash Angel’s breasts. There was no erotic charge to the motion; it was clinical, paternal. He soaped the full curves, his knuckles brushing against the soft skin, circling each nipple which puckered under the touch of the cool soap and the hot water. He washed underneath, along the sensitive underside.
From the next shower over, Jax “Spark” Halloway whistled low, a grin splitting his face. “Damn, Reap. You give him the full-service wash, huh?”
A few chuckles from nearby. Dominic didn’t pause. “He gets itchy if the soap isn’t all rinsed out,” he said, his tone flat, factual.
He guided Angel under the water again, rinsing the suds from his chest. Then, he soaped his hands once more. He moved lower, his hands smoothing soap over Angel’s lower belly, his hips. Then, with the same unflinching, practical attention, he washed between Angel’s legs. His fingers were careful but thorough, cleaning the folds of his pussy with a swift, efficient motion bred from years of this routine.
Angel just stood there, pliant and trusting, his hands braced lightly on Dominic’s forearms, head tipped back under the spray.
“Gotta be honest,” called a deep voice from a few showers down. It was Marlowe, a forger doing fifteen for art fraud. He was scrubbing his armpits with vigor. “Reaper, you are the only man in this fucking building who has touched a pair of tits and a cunt in the last decade. Probably the only one who’s touched anything that nice.”
The shower block erupted. It wasn’t a mean laughter; it was a roaring, genuine explosion of amusement. It bounced off the tiles, louder than the water. Guys slapped wet thighs, leaned against the walls howling.
“Fuck, Marlowe, you ain’t wrong!”
“He’s got a point! My hands only know this sad bastard bar of soap!”
“You washing him or polishing him, Reap? Gotta be gentle with fine china!”
Dominic, still behind Angel, allowed a faint, dry smirk to touch his lips. He continued rinsing, making sure every trace of soap was gone. Angel, hearing the laughter, blinked his eyes open. He didn’t fully understand the joke, but the sound of happy noise made him smile, a sweet, dopey smile that crinkled his nose.
“They’re laughing, Daddy,” Angel said, tilting his head back to look up at Dominic.
“They’re idiots, baby,” Dominic said, but his voice was warm. He smoothed a hand over Angel’s clean hip. “But they’re not wrong.”
The laughter began to subside into chuckles and sporadic grins. Conversations resumed.
Spark, rinsing shampoo from his own short hair, leaned closer. “Kid, you are spoiled rotten, you know that? The Reaper, former terror of the five families, now playing bath-time attendant.”
Angel just grinned, accepting the words as the affection they were. “Daddy’s good at it. He doesn’t pull my hair.”
From his other side, Brick was a silent, mountainous presence under the spray. He gave a single, solid nod of agreement. “Gets the job done.”
The steam thickened. The talk turned, as it always did, to the mundane currencies of prison life.
“You hear about the commissary truck? Said it’s delayed. No new coffee ‘til Thursday.”
“Goddamn it. I’m down to my last bag of that burnt shit.”
“Ledger’s taking bets on whether the new guy from Block C – Blackwood, the slab of meat – tries to move in on the south yard weights next week.”
Dominic, now washing himself with swift, efficient strokes, listened, his eyes sharp. He finished and guided Angel back under the water for a final rinse. The boy was pink and clean, his skin glowing, his long hair a slick, dark gold cape down his back.
“Alright, cuore mio. All done.”
Angel stepped out of the spray, immediately shivering as the cooler air of the room hit his wet skin. Dominic followed, grabbing two thin, gray towels from a stack on a rusty cart. He wrapped one around Angel’s head, turban-style, ruffling it. With the other, he began to dry him, starting with his back, working in brisk, firm strokes.
“Arms up.”
Angel lifted his arms, and Dominic dried his underarms, his sides, the soft curve of his waist. He knelt on the wet floor, unfazed, to dry Angel’s legs and feet. It was a ritual. A sacrament.
Near the door, a few guys were getting dressed, moving slow. Conrad “Doc” Wexler, already in his jumpsuit, leaned against the wall waiting. His eyes scanned the room, a habit. He watched Dominic dry between Angel’s toes.
“Any rash?” Doc asked, his voice carrying.
“No,” Dominic said, not looking up. “Skin’s clear. He used the last of that cream you got him, though.”
“I’ll see what I can do. The humidity in here’s a breeding ground.”
Angel, now mostly dry, reached for Dominic’s towel. “My turn, Daddy.” He insisted on this part. He stood on his toes and began patting Dominic’s broad chest dry, mimicking the care he received. His small hands moved over the dense forest of black ink, over old bullet scars and knife wounds, with a focused tenderness.
Dominic stood still for him, letting him work. His expression, usually so hard and closed, was soft. He watched the tip of Angel’s tongue poke out in concentration.
“You missed a spot,” Dominic said gently, pointing to his shoulder.
Angel diligently scrubbed the spot.
“He’s gonna be a good little wife for someone someday,” Spark joked, buttoning his jumpsuit.
The smile vanished from Dominic’s face. He turned his head, just an inch, and the look he shot Spark was arctic. It wasn’t anger. It was something far more absolute. A promise of void.
The air in their immediate corner chilled. Spark, to his credit, paled slightly and raised his hands. “Joke, Reap. Just a bad joke. He’s your kid. Only yours.”
The tension dissolved as quickly as it formed. Dominic gave a single, slow nod, then looked back down at Angel, who was now trying to dry his back. “He’s not a wife. He’s my son.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Angel said absently, as if agreeing the sky was blue.
Dressed in their damp, clean jumpsuits, they filed out of the shower room, the steam following them in a ghostly cloud. The hallway was cold, a shock to the system. Angel pressed close to Dominic’s side, seeking his warmth.
Back in their block, the late-afternoon lethargy was setting in. Men played cards, read, stared at walls. Angel bounced a little on the balls of his feet, his clean hair springing into its usual chaotic curls as it dried.
Dominic’s hand came to rest on the back of his neck, a heavy, calming weight. He guided him toward their bunk. “Let’s get your hair brushed before it tangles.”
He sat on the lower bunk, and Angel settled on the floor between his knees, his back against Dominic’s shins. Dominic produced a plastic comb from his locker and began working it through the long, platinum strands, starting from the ends. The gentle tugging made Angel’s eyelids droop. He leaned back, his head resting against Dominic’s knee.
Around them, the block’s life hummed. The crudeness of the showers was forgotten, replaced by this quiet, insular moment. The careful combing. The shared heat. The slow, steady planning that was always happening just beneath the surface of their world.
Angel’s hunger was a quiet, ticking clock. Dominic listened to its sound, his hands moving with a soothing rhythm, his dark eyes watching the shadows at the far end of the block where the new transfers were housed.
The star carved into Grady’s back was just a memory in the drain now. The next one would need to be more substantive. Dominic finished with Angel’s hair, smoothing the now-glossy curls over his shoulders. He leaned down, pressing his nose against the clean scent of Angel’s scalp, right over the claiming bite.
“There. All pretty.”
Angel reached a hand back, patting Dominic’s leg. “Thank you, Daddy.”
The lights would dim soon. The nighttime silence would settle. And in that silence, plans would crystallize. For now, there was just the clean scent of soap, the warmth of the body between his knees, and the patient, unwavering focus of a predator tending his young. The fizzy feeling would be addressed. It was only a matter of time, and opportunity. And in here, opportunity was something you could carve out yourself, just like anything else.