Chapter 3: Chapter 3

The only “good” thing about Vic’s fist in my face is it guarantees I won’t be required to fuck him for at least a few days. According to him, he doesn’t fuck ugly. In his way, I suppose it’s an underhanded compliment. Though, it’s his fault I have a split lip and black eye in the first place.

I call into work during the time it takes for the swelling to go down and feign the stomach flu. My face isn’t exactly back to normal, at least normal enough to cover the bruises with makeup. Vic’s forgotten what pissed him off enough to plant his fist in my eye, at least for now. Thankfully, I’ve been able to placate him with blow jobs and his favorite meals and he’s returned to a bittersweet temperament. Sweet in that he dotes on me; bitter because I know it’s only a matter of time until he’ll want me to fuck him again. I both dread and crave the release it will provide, but I’m afraid he’ll be able to tell how much touching him turns my stomach.

He chatters as he gets dressed, and I do my best to ignore him. It isn’t as easy as it used to be. Not when I keep imagining what it would be like to pour the scalding hot coffee over his balding head or “accidentally” dump antifreeze in his oatmeal. I never used to fantasize about what it would be like to cause him harm, but each time he beats me, the fantasies get more and more vivid. In the week I’ve been off from work, I’ve started to lose grasp on what’s real and what isn’t as I wait for whatever horrible punishment he has for me next.

“Did you hear me?” Vic asks.

I wince as I dab concealer a little too hard over the bruises surrounding my eye and then blink rapidly. The mental byplay I’d been having where I jabbed my cuticle scissors into the meat of his thigh melds with reality, and I refocus on the mirror and Vic, who’s standing behind me.

“I’m sorry,” I say once I find the words. They aren’t as easy to force out as they once were. “I was thinking about work. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

He stares at my reflection in the mirror long enough to cause my heart rate to kick up a notch. When he only lays a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it, I release the breath I’m holding.

“No sugar,” he says as he turns to put on his shoes.

I follow his movements until he strides down the hall, only then do I relax my spine. I’m not the only one who’s been acting peculiar this past week. Vic’s been overly solicitous, slower to anger, and dare I say it, considerate. It only makes me more suspicious. I’ve been so on edge I have barely been able to eat or sleep. Work will be a vacation at this point.

Before he can holler at me to hurry, I manage to focus enough to finish getting dressed. I’d like to leave my hair down to cover the shadows on my cheeks, but it’s against regulations, so I plait it back into a twist. People at work have gotten disappointingly used to my excuses, so I doubt anyone will even bother to ask about my appearance. If I’m lucky, today will be slow, and I won’t have as many patients to treat, either.

Vic is waiting in the kitchen, and I scurry like the good little girl I am and prepare him a thermos of coffee. He watches over my shoulder, and I lift my cheek to receive his kiss as I press the thermos into his hands. I fantasize about bashing it over his skull and can almost hear the sharp crack it would make, how his body would crumple to the ground, and how the blood and coffee would spill across the tile.

As he whistles on his way out the door, I decide it’s a good thing I know how to get bloodstains out of grout. Just in case.

There are two nurses in medical assessing patients when I get to work, but the infirmary is empty. I spend too much time throughout the early morning replaying the events from breakfast in my head and trying to decide if I’ve finally gone over the edge. It’s why, when I look up and see the last prisoner I want to see standing in the doorway, I freeze, certain I’m hallucinating.

What the hell is he doing here?

“Work detail,” he answers, and I realize I must have spoken aloud.

Furious to find myself feeling cornered and even embarrassed, I turn away from him. Corralling my emotions and impulses is like trying to keep waves from wetting the sand. No matter how many barricades I put up, some of it always manages to spill over the edges. Having him around isn’t going to help. I’ve only met him once, and I feel like he can see past those barricades and right through me. Even worse, he makes me want to tear them down and show him all my soft and vulnerable parts.

“Since when?” I ask when I can look at him without wanting to run in the opposite direction. Working in medical is a coveted position by inmates. His presence can only mean Vic has changed his tactics. I knew his mood was too good to be true. He was using this prisoner to remind me who has the power in our relationship, and if I put a single toe out of line, I’ll be punished.

He lifts a shoulder and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Couple of days ago.”

My teeth clack together in an automatic response to the heated words determined to spew forth. I guess Vic’s beatings are good for something. If nothing else, they’ve taught me to control my sarcastic mouth. “They could use you in medical for the long-term patients.”

Before I’ve even finished the sentence, he’s shaking his head. “They told me to come in here.” Then he smiles a little. The bastard’s enjoying watching me squirm.

“Fine. The mornings will be slow, but you can start by organizing the supplies in the cabinet.” Anything to keep him out of my personal space. I doubt he even understands the meaning of personal space.

His smile widens just a fraction, and I’m thankful for the guards who rotate between medical and the infirmary.

Without another word, I look back down at the paperwork and jot down some more notes. My brain is full of white cotton, though, and I barely remember what I’ve written. I keep seeing flashes of the twisted fantasies I’ve been having of Vic. Only now they have the added horror of the prisoner’s heated gaze on the fruits of my self-destruction.

Get it together, Tessa.

The tip of my pen digs into the piece of paper, and I curse under my breath when it rips right through and scrapes against the surface of the desk. I’m such a mess. I mentally sigh. Oh, who am I kidding, I’ve always been a mess. My life has been a train wreck from the start. Abusive father. Absent mother. I was born strung out on drugs and abandoned. I didn’t see my parents until two months later when the doctors believed I was stable enough to withstand going home. Child Protective Services kept a wary eye out, sure, but I was one of the lucky ones who slipped through the cracks. I guess I’d been good at being invisible even as a baby.

It wasn’t surprising that Vic saw the victim I was born to be.

“Are you all right?” comes the prisoner’s voice an indeterminable amount of time later.

I don’t know how long I sit and stare at the ripped sheet of paper any more than I’m aware why his question fills me with such sadness. Then again, I don’t know why I do many of the things I do these days.

“I’m fine,” I say, pleased to note my response is toneless and apathetic. I find myself slipping into the same numb state I revert to when Vic decides to force himself between my thighs. Like I’m viewing my life from the outside in, from a place where nothing and no one can truly hurt me. “When you finish with the cabinet, the beds could use a fresh change of sheets.” I indicate the shelving with neatly folded squares of sickly green.

I force myself to go back to the paperwork I’ve been filling out, certain he will do as instructed if I continue to ignore him. The tediousness of the task distracts me in my newly numb state, and a few minutes pass before I think to look up to check and make sure he hasn’t decided to buck my orders.

He hasn’t moved an inch to take care of the beds. If anything, he’s closer than he was moments ago.

With a sigh, I get to my feet and head to the door that leads to medical to find another nurse to deal with him, but I think better of it. I won’t run from this confrontation, and if we’re going to work together, he’s going to learn to put up with a woman giving him orders.

With great difficulty, I return to the room where he waits, hip propped against the desk where I’d been working. “What do you need?” I ask, pointedly looking between the shelf, the beds, and him. I want to get this over as soon as possible, and I don’t care if he knows it.

He thrusts a sheet of paper at me. “We never finished the other day.”

A snort of derision escapes me. I slap a hand over my mouth, startled by my reaction. My widened gaze flits up to him, but I find a smile instead of a frown. It’s just a quirk of the lips, but what is most arresting are his eyes. I was too distracted when we first met to notice them, but they’re a shade of green I’ve never seen before. So bright they look almost chemically altered.

When I can drag my gaze away, I realize he isn’t smiling anymore. And I’m staring. My mouth firms into a line as I take the paper from him before turning my back on him and moving toward my desk. Our short history has already taught me I’d be better served to keep my distance at all times.

With a businesslike tone, I go through the questions, hoping to conclude the interview quickly. I don’t make the mistake of looking up again, and after a quarter hour, I’ve finished without incident.

I hand him back the paperwork. “Will that be all?” I ask with a sharp glance at the shelves for him to get back to work.

But he just scoots closer on the stiff wooden seat and braces his elbows on the edge of the desk. He shifts and directs his stare to my wrists as though reminding me of what caused the tension and all-too-delicate awareness in the first place. He’s a snake waiting to strike, waiting to ask questions I don’t want to answer. So, I pull my own hands back and lay them across my thighs where he can’t inspect them.

Stay professional, Tessa, I remind myself as I imagine blood-stained tiles and searing pain, of mechanical sex and labored grunts. If I’m going to have to put up with him, it would be a mistake to let him cross any more lines.

Those eyes come back to mine, and he cocks his head to the side, and I realize what a futile attempt it would be. Apparently, this man makes it his mission to cross all the lines.

“I have work to do if that’s okay with you.”

His eyes narrow, and I dig my nails into my palms at the fierce look on his face. “Your man enjoy putting those on you?” he says with a nod at my face and the bruises I must not have covered completely.

“That’s none of your business.” I get to my feet to put some distance between us. A helpless glance through the small window into the central area of medical shows the nurses in an in-depth discussion or attending patients. I don’t want to draw too much attention to us. If I do, the news will surely get back to Vic, but I also want him to leave. Caught. Trapped. One look in his direction shows he knows and delights in it.

I keep one eye on him and the other on the nurses so I can shoo him away as soon as they pay one iota of attention to us. Seconds tick away like hours, and even though I’m screaming at myself to do otherwise, I don’t move when he gets to his feet and does his prowling shuffle until he’s standing right next to me. He’s so close I can smell the soap he must have used in the shower.

It isn’t a complicated scent, not like the expensive cologne my husband puts on like it’s his mission to bathe in it. On this big, dangerous man, the scent is elusive. It hides secrets. Secrets my nose wants to investigate. I want to search out all the hollows where it hides and map them. Discover each and every hiding place and plunder and plot until there aren’t any places left unexplored.

“And what if I say I’m making it my business?” he murmurs. The rough cloth of his jumpsuit hisses as he lifts his hands to trace the shadowed bruises on the rise of my cheek.

Shock washes through me, a cold dip in a frigid river, followed by a heated blast of shame. I put distance between us and cross my arms over my chest. “Then you’d be wasting your time.”

Those green eyes study me as if they know exactly what I was thinking just a few seconds before. Nerves clamor inside me, and I pray silently for a riot, a rash of stomach viruses, a goddamn epidemic, anything to distract this man’s laser-like focus.

“I don’t think I would.”

“Look, Mr. . . .” I remember I don’t even know his name and huff out a breath, irritated with us both. “Look. What I do in my personal life is none of your business. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we both have work to do.”

“A woman like you,” his deep, dark voice follows even as I brush by him to go back to my paperwork, “doesn’t deserve to be treated that way.”

I spin around. “You don’t know me at all.” Not that it matters. Not that I’d ever leave the prison of my own making. The apparent derision is evident. He’s a prisoner, a criminal.

His expression turns predatory. “What if I said I wanted to get to know you?”

I don’t dignify that with a response. He’s obviously the type of guy who enjoys the cat-and-mouse game, snaring his prey and watching them suffer. I have one overbearing man in my life—I don’t need another.

At my silence, he says, “C’mon, Tessa. What do you have to lose? It’s not like I can do anything while I’m here. There are guards in the other room, and besides, we’re going to be working together. Let’s not make it more awkward than it has to be.”

“It’s not awkward now. We work, and that’s it. I don’t see why there’s any reason to get to know each other.” My clawing curiosity notwithstanding, I know it’s in my own best interest to keep professionalism at the forefront of our interactions.

“Fine, you can get to know me. Ask me anything you wanna know.” He grins. “I’m an open book.”

“I highly doubt that.” I smother my smile by turning away so he can’t see it.

“You know you want to,” he says over my shoulder. He’s right; I do more than I probably should. More than is professional. In fact, my interest is most certainly unprofessional.

“I’ll cave, but only so we can get back to work.”

“Whatever you say.” I hear the smile in his words. “Shoot.”

I consider my options as I sort through patient files I’ve already organized. I could ask his name, but I’m not sure I want to know. Somehow, I feel like knowing will make him all too real, too powerful. The same for whatever crime he committed that landed him in prison in the first place. Murder, rape, assault, robbery. None of the answers lead to anything good. Too many things in my life are too complicated, and this rapport with him is effortless. Even though I know it’s wrong, I want to keep it that way. At least for now.

“Where are you from?” That seems safe enough.

“That’s too easy, but I’ll give it to you. I’m from Georgia, originally.” His smile is saccharin-sweet as his accent deepens. “A good ‘ole Southern boy, just without the manners.”

“Clearly.”

“What about you?” he asks as he finally starts to strip one of the beds.

“I’ve always lived here.”

He dumps the dirty sheets in a bin and then grabs a fresh set from the shelf. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“You realize there’s a whole hemisphere with sun, right?”

“Sun?” I say with a laugh. “What’s that?”

We lock eyes, and my heart beats a clipped rhythm in my chest. I refocus back on the files, the rhythmic hum of the air conditioner and the swish of fabric fills the silence. This was a bad idea.

“You deserve better, you know,” he says after a few minutes.

The filing drawer shuts with an echoing clang. “Oh, so what? You think you would treat me better?”

Thankfully, just as he’s about to break my fragile composure, the door opens, and another patient walks in. The guards escorting him hover by the doorway until I dismiss them with a nod. I cross quickly to the new arrival’s side, beaming a touch too brightly at their timely appearance. This inmate, whose jumpsuit name tag identifies him as Salvatore, is cradling one bleeding hand with the other.

“Cut myself in the kitchen,” he explains.

“Let’s get that taken care of,” I say as I lead Salvatore to an empty bed where he reclines with a grunt, his face ashen. “You sit right here, and we’ll have that stitched up in no time.”

I turn to get my supplies from the very storage closet I had him organize, and find Green Eyes still waiting, watching, except this time his focus is on the patient. “You’re welcome to get back to work,” I tell him with forced nonchalance.

“Yes, Mrs. Emerson.” He hands me the kit I was going to get, eyes bright with unshed laughter.

I lift a shoulder before taking the kit from him. “Suit yourself.”

“I normally do, but I’ll tell you what—I’ll let you get back to your work here, and I’ll stay out of your way for the rest of the day if you do me one favor.”

My responding smile is calm, or at least I hope so. “What is that?”

“Tell me. Admit to me who hurt you, and I’ll leave you alone.” His voice is barely a whisper when he asks it, so I know Salvatore couldn’t possibly have heard.

The paper from the suture kit crinkles under my strangling hold. He’s too close. Not physically. No, he’s not trying to crowd me right now. He’s too close emotionally, psychologically. Those green eyes are more than just pretty window dressing. Something tells me he sees far more than I’d ever be comfortable with.

“Why does it matter so much to you?”

He leans against the doorjamb. “You’re avoiding answering the question. Tryin’ to keep me here longer?” His eyebrow lifts in question.

My throat bobs with a swallow because I was right. He can read me too well. He knows I don’t want to answer the question. Not only because I’m afraid of what it’ll mean if I do, but because it wouldn’t matter if I shouted my problems from the rooftops. There isn’t one person in my life that cares what happens to me. Not one. I’m surrounded by hundreds of people who are supposed to uphold the law, but they let Vic get away with everything he does to me. That isn’t something that is going to change. Then I realize how pissed Vic would be if I did tell this man what he does to me. What does this no-name inmate matter anyway? He’ll eventually screw up and get transferred. After that, I’ll never have to see him again. This is my one chance to let someone know, to reach out and connect. I’ve been isolated for so long I’m practically vibrating with the need for positive attention from someone, anyone, even if it’s the last person on earth I should want it from.

“My husband,” I say quietly and then turn back to attend to my waiting patient.

The sound of my heartbeat fills my ears as I carefully unwrap the sutures and prepare to close Salvatore’s wound. I shouldn’t have told him that. I shouldn’t have given him the advantage. I shouldn’t have let him think he could have power over me in any fashion.

But I did.

And no doubt I’ll suffer the consequences.