"Or what?" I ask with a flash of defiance.
"Or your life sentence will feel like an eternity. You'll beg the universe for death but it won't seem to come fast enough."
I don't respond and he unlocks the door, ushering me in. I lean against the concrete wall, and slowly slide down into a sitting position. The door slams shut and it sounds just like a gun going off in my head. Bang. The same noise that haunts all of my waking moves. I clench my fists.
Fuck this place. I've got to get out of here. I touch the cut on my cheek and I remember the homemade weapons that the other inmate was holding in the midst of our fight. It could have been a lot worse. That son of a bitch was trying to give me a buck fifty wound right down my face. The kind of wound that leaves a lasting mark, like a brand. Some guys can be treated like they're cattle, but not me. Fuck that.
I guess the busted collarbone is the least of my worries. That prick better hope I never see his ass again. It's not that I want to spend my time fighting in this place, but I've been slapped with a life sentence. I mean, what the fuck do I have to lose besides my status in here? It's either eat or be eaten. You're either the lion or the fucking gazelle. You've got to watch your ass because no one is going to do that for you.
I let out a sigh and tell myself I should try and sleep but my mind refuses to shut off. Since when did this prison get such a hot medical staff? I think back to the medical assistant who examined me in the infirmary. Her hair. Her tits. Her perfect curves. Was I now hallucinating from the painkillers she shot me with, or was she looking at my cock back there on that x-ray table? And didn't she stumble on her words a few times? I swear I saw her face match the color of her hair at least once during that exam. Maybe I've been starved of a woman's touch for too long—I'm the first to admit that—but maybe she's more than just a hot piece of ass. Maybe she's my meal ticket out of this shithole. The way I rattled her when I suggested she liked it in the ass. I laugh at that memory until I'm practically crying and the only thing that stops me is when the pain resurfaces and becomes too much to tolerate. Fuck those weak ass painkillers.
I'm no stranger to women, and everything tells me this nurse is as naïve as they come. With a little effort, I bet I can persuade her to help me. In fact, I know I can. She'll be an unknowing accomplice. I think back to other women in my life—Maggie, Sarah, Lisa—they were all so naïve. Maggie was the first. Her face was as round and innocent as an apple pie. "I need you, baby," she'd beg every time I left the house at night, feigning a work emergency only to go fuck her friend. I'd come home the next morning hung over and smelling like sex—sometimes with a pair of her panties in my pocket. I'd tell her I had a long night. I'd tell her my boss was working me to the bone and you know what? She'd eat it up. I mean it; she'd swallow it all like I was serving her an expensive dessert. It was that easy.
And then there was Sarah. She was Maggie's opposite in a lot of ways—more guarded, like a bank vault, but still naïve as all hell. My lies grew more elaborate, but she still clung on to me as if I was a fucking crucifix. Like I was going to save her from her demons. At the time I didn't mind because every time I rested my head between her warm breasts, or pinched her nipples in between my lips, or ran my tongue between the secret parts of her thighs, everything was right with the world. But the first time she ingested a week's worth of Xanax, I knew it was beginning of the end.
Lisa was a different creature all together. If I weren't such a fucking coward I would've married her. I would've dropped down on one knee like they do in the movies—maybe I would've even taken her to a fancy restaurant and asked the waiter to bring her a slice of cake with a giant diamond ring buried deep in the buttercream—something that happens in Hallmark ads. If I weren't a coward I would've put my arm around her waist and pulled her close to me. I would've whispered in her ear that she was the star that had burned brightest in my darkest skies and that my life was fuller with her in it. I would've told her she was beautiful. That she was fucking worth it. But life isn't Hallmark. That shit is a fucking lie. That's not how the cookie crumbled. Instead she got pregnant and I ran as fast and as far away as I could. If I'm honest, I couldn't get away fast enough. I left her in our apartment kitchen, crying in front of a bucket of dirty mop water. How naïve could she be to fall in love with a guy like me anyways?
I've never said I was a good person. It's too late for that. I've fucked up my life—hurt the people around me in more ways than one, and maybe I'm going to hell for that, but I'm innocent of the charge that landed me in this fucking place and I refuse to sit here and take it. I sit against the wall, closing my eyes in contemplation. My anger flares and I think about confronting Billy in a dark alley. I think about what I'd tell him before rearranging his face. And then I snap back to reality and the look at the four concrete walls surrounding me. There's got to be a way out of here.
I close my eyes again and after a few moments it hits me. I have an idea. I need to see that red head again.
Kerri
I stare at the grey tiled floor and notice it's the color of stone. I look at the chair at my desk. It's also the color of stone. Chiseled, grey, and distant. Why is everything around me reminding me of Lucien Stone? I know what you're thinking, but the answer is no. I'm not one to develop schoolgirl crushes on men I don't even know. If it's one thing I've learned, it's that men come and go and there's no sense dwelling on something so short-lived. If I sound jaded, it's because I am. Do you blame me? And besides, this man is serving a life sentence. Talk about unattainable! So why can't I get my mind off of him? He's a dangerous criminal. I know this—I've seen his paperwork—but there's something about him that doesn't seem like a cold-blooded killer. It's as if I know him, or at least recognize that there's more to him than what his paperwork says.
Maybe I'm hormonal. That has to be it. My body betrays me when my hormones fluctuate. Some women need to chart their ovulation cycles on a calendar. Not me. As soon as I start letting my guard down and thinking that Mr. Right might be the man sitting next to me, I have to put myself in check. I have to remind myself that there's no such thing as a Mr. Right. I think back to Jonathan. His smile. His strong, wide shoulders. I fell so easily into him. The way he'd walk down the street with me, putting me on the inside so that he'd be on the side of traffic. I thought he was the one. He'd even be the guy at the park who'd stop and wave to babies. He was the fairytale—that Knight riding into the frame of a movie on an all-white horse. I could picture us having a house together, the garden surrounded by a white picket fence, and maybe a few kids. And where did that get me? I'll tell you. It shattered my world. I learned the fairy tale doesn't exist.
Maybe I just need a quick hook up. A one night stand. I haven't been with a man since Jonathan. It's my lunch break so I tap my phone on and load the Tinder app I recently downloaded. Don't laugh. I never thought I'd download Tinder, let alone consider hooking up with someone from this app, but it can be hard to meet people.
I swipe through the profiles. I see a man in a full suit of armor, as if he were going to a renaissance fair. His bio reads, "I'm hoping your standards are lower than mine." Swipe left. Another man sits in front of what appears to be a math textbook. He seems to be winking at stereotypes and his caption reads, "I'm the Asian for any occasion. I enjoy math and Pokemon." Swipe left. Another man with short, cropped hair has a zoomed-in profile picture of his angry, pockmarked face. His bio reads: "I don't give a shit what you look like because I'm not that good looking." Swift left. I sigh and tap my phone off. So much for Tinder.
&nb
sp; I look at my watch. My lunch break is nearly over. I finish my sandwich and think about Lucien again. I have an exam scheduled with him in a few minutes to check on his fracture. I need to keep my cool. Hormones be damned. I have to keep this professional.
Consistency and firmness. No small talk. A professional distance. I mutter all of these things to myself, but as soon as Lucien enters the infirmary, all of this fades and again, I'm finding myself struck by his presence. He's the kind of guy who commands a room. I can't help but feel his confidence. His gaze suggests a depth of character that goes beyond the walls of this prison.
I ask the guard to remove his handcuffs and I take a look at him and ask, "How are your shoulder and arm feeling today?"
"I've had better days."
"But would you say you're feeling any better?"
"I'd feel a whole lot better if I weren't stuck in these four walls."
"Can you move your arms for me?"
Lucien carefully lifts his arm, and slowly rotates it in a semi-circular motion. I notice that his range of motion is improving.
"I'm still in a lot of pain."
"Well, you aren't out of the woods yet," I remind him. "You'll have some discomfort for a few weeks."
"It's not discomfort, it's pain. I know the difference."
"Has your pain subsided at all?" I ask.
"Off and on, but I could use an extra aspirin."