I nod. “I was told ninety days, no more than that.” I volunteered to come here. I walked in on my own two fucking feet. The lawyers told me I’d have to serve a minimum of ninety days, to appease the court, since my father put a good word in.
Jordan gives me a sympathetic smile. “I was voluntary too. They also told me ninety days.”
I narrow my eyes. The feeling in my gut like there’s something wrong is back. “How long have you been here?”
“Five years, give or take,” Jordan says. “Welcome to St Michael’s.”
I blink as I watch him walk away, taking his tray over to a table full of teenagers with the same tattoo. Some of them look up and watch me back. Others make way for Jordan like’s he’s their fucking king.
This part of the clinic, the one I’m in, is filled with addicts one step away from prison. If I want to find Byron, I need to get into the other side with the teens who are deemed mentally unstable. How I’m going to do that, fuck knows.
But maybe Jordan can help.
I take a punt and go over to their table. Immediately, they stop talking.
Jordan looks up and smirks, gray eyes focused on me. “Jude, join us, why don’t you?”
I sit down opposite, lowering my voice. “If you’ve been here that long then you know how to get into the other side.”
He chuckles. “You really don’t want to get out of this shithole, do you?”
“Can you help or not?” I’m getting really pissed off with this fucking guy but I suppress the urge to tell him to screw himself.
He leans back and looks me over. “Sure, I can help you.”
“You want something in return?” They always fucking do.
“It’s only fair.”
“And what’s that,” I ask him.
“I don’t know yet, but I’ll know it when I see it,” he says.
The others on his table haven’t spoken a word. I look around, taking in their faces. A girl with dark braids, grey eyes and pale skin, in the seat next to Jordan, sneers at me. Another guy with short black hair, dark brown eyes and brown skin, sitting opposite Jordan and next to me, offers his hand.
“Cal, and that’s Raine,” he says, indicating to the braided hair girl. “And that’s Truck.”
I look at the far end where a huge guy with light green eyes and freckles, ginger like Dino but twice as fucking big as me, nods. Each one of them has the same neck tattoo as Jordan. I doubt they got drunk one day and decided to get matching fucking tattoos.
“Alright, who do you work for?”
Jordan smirks. “We work for Griffin, mate. Have you heard of him?”
My body tenses. Without thinking, I flex my fingers on my right hand. Jordan notices and chuckles. “I can see that you have.”