Unlocking the Soul Chapter Two

Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight

Unlocking the Soul

Chapter Two

Jasper

Red, black, and white. Blood contrasting, dark and sticky against

checkered linoleum. Blood, covering my chest and hands, her limp body

clutched in my arms. Wide brown eyes staring lifelessly at me,

accusation, betrayal, hurt coloring the last expression that her elfin

face will ever hold.

The sharp sound of metal clanging against metal jarred me from the

recurring nightmare. The sound was followed by a gruff barking of,

“Whitlock!”

I cracked an eye open to glare at the guard, but I didn’t bother to get

up from the narrow, cold bunk I was laying on.

“What the fuck do you want?” I growled out.

“Watch it, asshole,” he said. “You’ll be back in solitary faster than

you can say pretty boy.”

Fuck.I slowly pulled myself up into a sitting position, resting my

elbows on my knees and tilting my head back to look at him, showing a

passable amount of respect.

“That’s better,” he grumbled. “Congratulations, pretty boy, you’ve got a

new roomie.”

It was then that I noticed the man standing next to him. Standing at

about six feet, the man looked quite a bit like me, actually, with curly

blonde hair, blue eyes, and a smart-ass expression on his face. He wore

mandatory orange jumpsuit, hands and feet shackled in front of him. The

guard, grabbed him by the arm, flinging him into the cell. After

removing the man’s restraints, the guard slammed the door closed again,

locking it again before he walked away, spinning his keys in front of him.

My new cell mate continued to stand just inside the door, eyeing me.

This fucker had better not try anything. I’d already dealt with all of

that shit when I first got here. He took a step closer, and I stood up

from my bunk, drawing myself up to my full height. He raised one hand,

pushing his hair out of his eyes as his face twisted up into a crooked grin.

“I would hate to be a mobile home repo man.”

What the fuck?

He said this in a flat monotone, each word carefully enunciated and

spoken in a broken, staccato rhythm.

“What the fuck?” I repeated my thought out loud.

“How would you do it?” he asks in that same ridiculous tone. ”Knock on

the persons door and tell them, ‘Why don’t you go cut your grass? And

look that way for half an hour’” he said, gesturing with his arm,

pointing at nothing.

He was all out grinning at me now, but I looked at him with a stony

indifference.

“Relax, man. I’m just trying to break the ice.”

“Do you always fucking talk like that?” I asked him.

“Yes, I do,” he said, that stupid ass grin still on his face.

Jesus, that’s going to drive me insane.

I sat back down on my bunk, swinging my legs up and laying back down. I

heard him sit down on the metal chair that was shoved into a corner of

my, I mean our, cell.

“The name’s Williams, Peter Williams,” he said.

“Jasper Whitlock,” I grumbled.

“So, what are you in for, Jasper Whitlock?”

With an aggravated groan, I shoved myself up into a sitting position,

once again resting my elbows on my knees.

“You won’t shut the fuck up till I answer, will you?” I asked.

“No, probably not.”

I fixed him with a cool level stare. “Murder.”

A short flicker of something flashed behind his eyes, a quick flash of

fear maybe, before his expression evened out again. He sat watching me

without speaking, seemingly waiting for something.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m in for?” he asked.

“No,” I growled, irritated with him.

“Fine, I’ll tell you. Grand theft auto…and an incident with some goats.”

“Enough with the jokes,” I responded, my voice rough.

“I’m not joking,” he said, his expression completely deadpanned.

I can’t share a cell with this guy, I’ll wind up fucking killing him.

“Whitlock!”

I was startled when my eyes darted toward the voice to see the guard is

back at the cell door, unlocking it once more/. /I was almost glad to

see him. Almost.

“You’ve got a meeting with your new lawyer in ten minutes,” he said.

Fuck, that’s right, my new representation. I thought with disdain.

I followed the guard through the door, without another word to my new

cell mate, and as he led me though the corridors to the same room where

I had always met that other dipshit of an attorney. I sat down in the

same chair, tapping out the same senseless beat with my thumbs on the

same table top.

I wonder who it’s gonna be this time? How many times have I told them, I

don’t want or need a fucking lawyer? Yet here they are, trying again.

Course, it doesn’t really matter. They’ll never get anything out of me.

Voices flooded through the closed door from the hallway, and I stilled

my movements as the door opens before it was quickly shut and locked

again. The sharp tap of heels echoed against the dingy linoleum as my

new lawyer made her way to the table.

Wait, heels? Her? Surely they didn’t send a…..

I didn’t finish my thought, because as it ran through my mind, a little

slip of a woman rounded the corner of the table and pulled out the chair

across from me. She was about a full foot shorter than I with long, dark

brown hair waving down her back almost to her ass. She was dressed in

one of those smart suits that women wear to make themselves seem more

professional, but I was not one who lacked imagination. I could picture

what she looked like underneath the trim blue of her suit, small, sleek,

and lithe like a little cat. I could imagine her small breasts pressed

against my bare chest, her toned legs wrapped around my waist.

Were my thoughts perverted? Yes, they were, but what else could be

expected from a man who hadn’t even seen a woman in more than a year.

Still, I kept my demeanor lazy, my expression indifferent, as she

finally raised her head to look at me.

I struggled against the urge to draw in a sharp breath when her large,

brown eyes, so much like Alice’s, landed on me.

“Jasper Whitlock?” she asked, her voice soft and sweet, with no trace of

an accent.

I nodded sharply, trying to figure out the best way to get rid of her.

“My name is Isabella Swan, and I’m your state-appointed counsel. Do you

have any questions for me before we begin?” she asked.

I didn’t respond, trying to appear as intimidating as possible.

Crudeness? Would that be the way to scare her off?

She was pulling files out of her briefcase, spreading them out on the

table between us. The deafening silence was nearly enough to make my

skin craw as she trained her eyes on the papers before her, looking

everything over.

I need to get the upper hand here. Don’t even let her get started.

Finally, her head raised, and her lips parted to speak, so I quickly cut

her off.

“We both already know the where’s and the when’s. Why don’t you go ahead

and ask what you really want to know, why they sent you here instead of

that other dipshit,” I said, forcing as much rudeness into my tone as I

could muster.

Looking like a deer caught in the headlights, she turned those wide

brown eyes on me.

“Excuse me?” She asked incredulously.

“C’mon, I’m not stupid. I know why they sent you. They thought if they

sent a pretty little skirt flouncin’ in here that you’d get me to talk,

that my mouth would open as fast as your legs probably would,” I said,

this time being as crude as I possibly could, which is very crude, if I

was being honest with myself.

Her eyes closed, and she did some deep breathing, trying to stay calm.

Impressive, I thought, she’s not going to let me get to her.

Her eyes snapped open, and I could see the determination in them.

“And just why won’t you talk, Mr. Whitlock?” she came back with. “You

haven’t said anything to even try to deny your guilt.”

Nice try.

“And I’m not gonna start now. You won’t get a single. Goddamn. Word. Out

of me.”

“Mr. Whitlock, you have got to give me something to work with here,” she

said, clearly exasperated. “Do you want to go to prison for the rest of

your natural life?”

Like anyone would notice the difference.

She began to read through the files aloud, hoping to get some sort of

reaction out of me, but I had heard it all before. On August 21, 2008, I

was found by the police, holding the body of Alice Brandon. Ms. Brandon

was dead upon police arrival, CPR and compressions were attempted by

paramedics, to no avail. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the

head. Bella’s words began to blur together, and I was quickly growing bored.

“Now if I’m correct, Ms. Brandon was a life-long friend of your sister,

Rosalie?”

This brought me out of my boredom enduced haze, and I snapped off a reply.

“Yes,” I said, trying to keep the defensive tone out of my voice.

She simply sat there, staring at me for a few moments, before going back

to reading the same information I had heard over and over.

At last, after an hour of her droning on and me glaring, she began

stacking her files back in her briefcase with an almost, dare I say,

defeated air. She stood from her chair and surprised me by rounding the

table and offering me her hand.

Her hand was soft and warm, a slight scent of tobacco coming from the

tips. She was a smoker?

“We will meet back here next week at the same time-” she began.

“You’re coming back?” I asked. I thought for sure that my behavior would

have scared her into never coming back again.

“Of course I am, and maybe next week you’ll feel like talking,” she said.

She was incredible, and not in a good way. Maybe unbelievable was a

better term.

“Don’t hold your breath,” I told her.

A fire started in her eyes, and she addressed me with a fierce

determination.

“Mr. Whitlock, we go to trial in a little over two months, and I will

have something out of you by then,” she said, and without another word,

she turned and headed for the door.

A guard came to collect me about ten minutes after she left and silently

led me back to my cell. Everyone knew by now that I didn’t do small talk.

He opened the door and waited for me to pass through before closing and

locking it behind me.

“Hey there, cell mate,” Peter said.

Well, almost everyone knew.

_*A/N: *_

Once again, huge thanks to my wonderful beta sparagus, for being so

wonderfully fast, and with out her this chapter would make no sense

whatsoever. Thanks to BamaBabe for naming my Peter. I'd love it if you would leave a comment, and let me know what you think!