Toxic Read online

  Once I come to the end of the medical history, I stop worrying about him trying anything. If he were going to hurt me, he would have done it by now. I’ve done these intake screenings a thousand times, so once I get in the groove, it gets easier to forget my first impression of him along with my intrigue and go through the motions.

  “Let’s get you on the scale now so I can get a record of your current weight.”

  He grunts, which I take as his agreement, and I nod to the scale by the office door. Despite his bulk, he moves with the grace of a feline as he crosses the room. The scale clangs as he steps up, and I busy myself with adjusting the measurements and making notes on the chart.

  When I glance up again, I have to stifle a gasp because he’s staring at me with startling intensity. Blatant curiosity makes his gaze sharp and causes my stomach to flip with nerves and arousal the likes of which I haven’t felt in, oh, years. It’s a reaction that, if I were to act on it, could land me in ten different kinds of federal trouble.

  “Uh, let’s get your height now.”

  I indicate the measuring tape affixed to the wall next to us, and he shuffles over obediently, all the while he eyes me with a puzzled expression, as if I’m a problem he’s determined to solve. He submits to my handling as I record his height. Six feet of animal male towers over my five-foot-six frame.

  Without thinking, I shove up the long sleeves of my scrubs as I record his measurements and check the clock as I desperately countdown to my first break. I just got here and I’m already impatient for ten thirty to roll around so I can get fifteen minutes of solitude.

  A shiver runs down my spine, and like the prey I am, I freeze before forcing myself to look to the doorway. I expect to see Vic standing there, watching me. That’s the only explanation I have for the way my whole body freezes and the urgent need to flee takes over. I scan the room, certain he’s there waiting for me to do something wrong. Like breathe without his permission. Instead of my husband’s eyes on me, it’s the inmate’s attention that’s causing my panic. My gaze follows his, and when I move to hide my wrists, his muscles go rigid.

  Dark, purpling bruises encircle my wrists from the vicious grip Vic had this morning in bed. Sweat beads on my upper lip, and my ears ring. Frozen in stasis, I can’t think of an appropriate response or excuse—not that I need to give him, of all people, an excuse. After a moment of suspense-laden pause where my eyes flit to his narrowed ones, I turn my back on him and head to the infirmary to call the officers back for their prisoner. Since we always seem to be understaffed, it isn’t uncommon for them to split between both rooms, and right now, I’m cursing that for all it’s worth.

  I don’t make it that far.

  I should have known better. Every instinct since I stepped into the room has been telling me to keep my guard up because the moment I took my eyes off him, he’d pounce.

  And, fuck me, it’s exactly what happens.

  In the long space of a protracted moment, he’s so close to my back his warmth surrounds me. He pins me between his body and the wall, his front to my back. A stab of profound fear engulfs me, and I can’t control the whimper that explodes from my throat.

  He doesn’t make the mistake of touching me, but the threat is there nonetheless. Which is exactly what he wants me to know. He may be the one behind bars, but he’s the one with the power right now.

  He speaks for the first time, and my body turns to ice. At least I hope it’s ice. The only other explanation is one I won’t even consider.

  “Did someone hurt you, little mouse?” His voice is as empty and hard as his gaze was. An abyss of secrets and lies. He shifts but still doesn’t touch me as he leans forward and inhales.

  Is he smelling my hair?

  “Is that why you look like you want to crawl back into a hole?”

  Words are an impossibility.

  It doesn’t seem to matter to him because he goes on speaking. “What’s a girl like you doing in this place anyway? Hmm?”

  He doesn’t expect me to answer, so I don’t. I don’t think I could if I tried.

  He nudges my shoulder, touching me for the first time to indicate he wants me to turn around. So, I do, making sure to keep a wary eye on him. Breath stutters past my lips in staccato bursts. My hands clench into fists by my sides.

  His hands raise, and I flinch. My reaction is so subtle that I wouldn’t expect him to even notice, but his eyes flash to mine in abrupt understanding. There’s a tug at the breast pocket of my scrubs, but I don’t dare look away from his gaze.

  I can only wait.

  White edges into my vision as he raises my ID card to his line of sight. I shiver from the ice collecting in my stomach as he studies my picture and name.

  “Tessa Emerson, RN,” he murmurs, peering deeply into my eyes. “It’s nice to officially meet you. I suspect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

  Maybe it’s the morning spent underneath my grunting husband. Maybe it’s the all too self-assured gleam in this criminal’s eyes. Maybe it’s insanity. Whatever it is, it builds inside me. My skin pulls tight, and I almost expect it to crack and split, but it doesn’t. Instead, my arms shoot forward, and I shove at his chest with my palms. They come in contact with the wall of firm muscle, emphasizing how impotent I am. It doesn’t move his mountainous form, but he relents and gives me a few scant inches of breathing room, which I desperately need. The air between us is thick with tension, and I find myself drawing it in with greedy gulps, but it isn’t enough.

  My flare of anger seems to please him, though, because the creases at the corner of his eyes twitch and he bares his teeth in a feral grin.

  I find my voice, my irritation growing at his amusement. I’m the one in control. “Back away,” I order, willing a bit of steel into my voice.

  He holds up his hands in a show of uncharacteristic complacency as the officers choose the next moment to make their appearance. Their eyes swivel back and forth between the inmate and me until they finally stay trained on me.

  “Is everything okay here?” one of them asks.

  I could report his misconduct, but even as the thought occurs to me, I know I won’t. What’s worse is he seems to read my mind on the matter, and his smirk widens. Explaining what happened to an officer will only mean whispers will leak back to my husband and I’ll pay the price. For the first time, I resent this life Vic’s forced me to live. The officer who spoke impatiently sucks through his teeth. The sound skitters over my sensitized skin like an unwelcome insect, and I shiver.

  “Fine,” I answer a few seconds later, unable to stomach the uncomfortable pause. “Everything is fine.”

  Everything is most assuredly not fine.

  Blood drips from my nose, and I can’t see out of my right eye. The dark red liquid splatters on the pristine tile floor and races along the grout line. Vaguely, I contemplate how long it will take for me to scrub it out as my husband grips my hair and wrenches me back to my feet.

  “You made me look like a fool,” he says, spit flying from his lips.

  No doubt the handsomely compensated officers had run to Vic the moment they left the infirmary. It didn’t matter that nothing had happened between the prisoner and me. It didn’t matter that I’d never laid a hand on the man outside of trying to push him out of my personal space. What mattered was whatever fucked-up scenario Vic imagined in his twisted little brain. To absolve my imagined sins, he is subjecting me to his version of torture.

  Till death do us part, right?

  I'd gone to the police before to report his abuse. I went so far as to press charges. I was terrified, but I did what I thought I had to do to save myself. But the Honorable Judge Edward Milton—I’d never forget his name—dropped the case. Instead of Vic being punished, I was the one sentenced and written off as an emotionally unstable woman. Now I do the only thing I can...endure.

  My eyes move to the stain in the grout, and I start listing the ways to remove it.

  First, scrub the stain with a spon
ge and some cold water.

  Vic—he hates to be called Victor, as I learned the first night he hit me on our honeymoon—backhands me, making my head snap to the side. The force of the blow knocks me back, causing the hair still wrapped in his hand to rip from my scalp.

  If that doesn’t remove the stain, then use a toothbrush with baking soda.

  “I don’t want you associating with that inmate again, do you hear me? McNair and Summers couldn’t stop smirking at me when they found me. You humiliated me.”

  I swallow back the blood pooling in my mouth, my eyes still on the stained tiles. The metallic taste lingers in the back of my throat and burns its way down to my stomach. It settles there, a stone dropped into a pond of bile. Then he kicks me in the stomach for good measure, and the stone disintegrates with the force of my rage. “I understand,” I say, though the word comes out as a quaver. I let him assume it’s due to fear.

  His fist tightens in my hair, forcing my head back until his disdainful expression fills my vision. “See that you do,” he murmurs. “When you see him again, I don’t want to hear about you flirting with him. Do you understand me?”

  He knows there are circumstances when only one nurse is on call, but I nod anyway. There’s no use pointing it out. In times like these, logic only seems to feed Vic’s madness.

  “I want to hear you say it.” His words are grit as he spits them at me.

  “When I see him again, I won’t flirt with him,” I repeat mechanically, blood dribbling down my chin from where I bit my cheek to keep from saying what I want to say.

  He reels away, wiping his hands on his suit pants and sneering as I crumple to the floor. The cold tile pressed against my face grounds me, and I dig my fingernails into the piling of the rug instead of into his face.

  “Clean yourself up before you make dinner.” He pauses to peer into the mirror and preen. “I think I’d like steak tonight.”

  He leaves me in a ball, blood steadily dripping into the grout. It takes me a minute before I can pull myself to a sitting position. Every scream of a muscle fuels the same flush of rage that inspired me to shove at that inmate. I retrieve a sponge from underneath the sink and imagine what would happen if I did the same thing to Vic.

  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 twiste
d 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.