A heartbeat passes as we stare at each other. The image I conjured was worse, for sure, but I’m glad I saw it because it snaps something inside me. I feel like I bit into a live wire. My despair and nausea fade out like a mirage.
This motherfucking piece of shit is not going to lay another hand on me.
I don’t know if this is my shot, but I don’t care. I take a swing.
My arm shoots out, my hand splayed and crooked like a rake. My nails have been kept short and filed, but I scrape them across Jefferson’s skin hard enough to leave red furrows across his face.
He howls, clutching his nose as he staggers back.
This is it, Quinn. Do whatever it takes.
Jefferson’s hand comes away slick with blood, his face matted and dripping. “Fucking cunt,” he snarls, lunging forward. Fueled by adrenaline, I dodge left, letting him fall onto the bed. Then I drop on top of him, wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing.
His entire body seems to wrench underneath me, arms flailing, slapping desperately. Bubbles form between his lips before popping with each shallow gasp. All my weight presses on his chest, keeping it from expanding.
“I amnevergoing to be Prescott’s bitch,” I growl.
Jefferson’s jaw gapes in silent terror, and I’m so tempted to punch his teeth in, to make him feel a little pain before it’s all over, but I can’t let go.
Then I hear the bang of boots against a door. The entrance to Jefferson’s room splinters, ripped off its frame. Reed, Byron and Corbin rush inside, stopping short in shock at the scene in front of them: blood everywhere, me naked, Jefferson mostly undressed — my hands choking the life out of him. Then they react, grabbing at my body all at the same time, pulling me off the judge.
I howl furiously, a sound that surely carries throughout the building. They hold me down despite my thrashing, which doesn’t stop until Jefferson gasps, sucking in gallons of air.
“Goddammit!” I scream. I had him! He was dead!
It takes the old man a minute, but he gets up. Covered in blood still dripping from the cuts, he looks like Satan. Even Jefferson’s eyes have turned red, like he burst a few blood vessels in the struggle.
Jefferson’s mouth opens and his lips twitch, but no sound comes out. He tries to cough, but instead he vomits, emptying a stream of bile into the trousers still pooled around his ankles. Byron gets up to help the judge, but Jefferson pushes him aside.
“You’re… dead,” he rasps, pointing at me. “Throw her… in… the locker.”
Chapter 15
This is a fucking disaster.
It was bad enough Quinn had to knee Robards in the nuts, but now she’s brought repercussions on herself I might not be able to prevent — starting with a trip to the locker.
“Come on,” Byron says to Jefferson. “I’ll take you to medical.” He tugs at the judge’s shoulder, but Jefferson doesn’t move. He glares at Quinn until I lift her off the floor, gripping her arms tightly behind her back.
“We’re going,” I snarl, struggling to keep her under control. “Move.”
Quinn isn’t listening though. She’d bolt right back at Jefferson if I let go; she bucks and screams in his direction, twisting hard to slip my grasp.
My ire surges, and I run out of patience. Tired of battling Quinn’s rage, I duck down, getting under her enough to sling her onto my back, holding her by her wrists and ankles.
“Holy shit, put me down!” she screams.
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
She’s homicidal. Regardless of what happened that night with Lance, Quinn is intent on killing right now. There’s no mistaking that. Did Lance’s fall give her a taste for blood? She drew plenty of Jefferson’s. He’s going to need weeks to heal, and I’ll be shocked if he doesn’t end up with scars etched across his face.
I shouldn’t be thinking about long-term consequences right now; making it through the next twenty-four hours will be difficult enough. Too much is happening all at once. Every step I take with Quinn over my shoulder feels like it gets me no closer to where we’re going. If I stop, though, the world could drop out from beneath us.
What will Darren do when he hears? We’ve never had a situation this severe within Walker’s walls. He could laugh it off and tell Jefferson to be more fucking careful, but maybe he’ll say enough’s enough, and order me to cut Quinn’s throat and be done with it.
No, he would never do that. He wouldn’t.
I’ve never had to do anything so violent to a resident, but I’ve also never failed to break one. Quinn’s case is personal, too — Darren wants to avenge Lance personally. What if this pushes him over the edge, and he just shows up and shoots her dead?