Toxic Page 3

  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.

  He’s quiet for the rest of the shift. Almost eerily so. I keep peering up at him as he disposes of medical waste, changes sheets, and mops around each patient, waiting for him to press me for more information. He doesn’t, which can only be part of whatever game he’s playing.

  For the first time in maybe forever, it’s almost a relief to leave the infirmary during my lunch break. The escape I get from my work is one of the only aspects of my life to bring me joy. To have it ruined puts a sour taste in my mouth as I try to force down the leftover sautéed chicken and vegetables I brought from home.

  I let the sounds of the staff cafeteria wash over me and try to forget the four tense hours I spent skirting around what felt like a live grenade. A few more weeks of working with him and I’m going to be as taut as a bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Vic will certainly enjoy toying with me about it.

  Appetite thoroughly thwarted by the thought, I dump my trash in the bin and make my way back to the infirmary. As I grow closer, the few bites I did manage to get down churn in my stomach and threaten to make a reappearance. I lick my dry lips and silently berate myself for not getting a bottle of water from the vending machine. As I pass the hall to the exit, I give a fleeting thought to pleading off work for the rest of the day so I don’t have to go back and face him, but I don’t. I’ve been absent long enough. Another day would probably raise suspicion, even for me and it would certainly piss Vic off.

  Medical is busy with regular patients taking their after-lunch medications. I nod to one of the new nurses, Annie, and a veteran, Patricia, who both smile, if a little absently, in return. Their gazes slide over me, and my attention falls on the doors to the infirmary. I paste on a relaxed smile in case anyone is watching and force my feet to carry me the rest of the way to the door.

  The room is empty.

  I don’t dare call out for him, too afraid to break the tenuous silence. Doing so would only admit to a part of me wanting to see him again, which is ridiculous. As I take my seat at my desk, I decide that the less time we spend together, the better.

  I pull a stack of paperwork in front of me, my hand poised to write, but the tip of the pen stops, hovering just above the page of scrap paper sitting on top of my file. I blink several times, trying to comprehend what I’m seeing. Then I realize, awestruck, the face I’m looking at . . . is my own. I push away from my desk and run both of my hands over my hair, my breathing is erratic and harsh even to my ears. My face feels hot, and the tips of my fingers are numb.

  I rub my eyes with my knuckles, but there’s no mistaking the exquisitely rendered drawing in front of me. It must have been done today because my hair is in the same braided twist and I’m working on Salvatore, whose frame is but a shadow in front of me, my expression a quiet study of concentration.

  When had he done this? I’d kept him busy, so he didn’t have time for any more probing questions. It must have been after I left for lunch.

  In it, I look almost beautiful. Serene. Is this what he sees when he looks at me? At the bottom corner in a slashing masculine scrawl is one word: King.

  I don’t know how to handle my response or what to do with this information, so I carefully fold the drawing into a small rectangle and tuck it into my pocket. I’m not too closed off that I don’t acknowledge the rush of tenderness I felt the moment I realized he’d paid such attention to me, but that’s a dangerous emotion. So, I tuck away my emotions along with the drawing for examination when they don’t feel so terrifyingly close to the surface.

  A knock comes at the door, and I whirl around with my heart in my throat. It sinks when I realize it’s just Annie. “Got one for you!” she says, cheerfully ignorant of my inner turmoil.

  “Thank you,” I say and lead the groaning inmate to a bed.

  The next inmate assigned to the infirmary work detail arrives shortly after that, and I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed when it isn’t King.

  It turns out, Vic hadn’t placed King in the infirmary to torture me. Whoever had King assigned to the infirmary was either powerful or well-connected. Vic complained about it for days afterward, and he did his best complaining with his fists. As warden of Blackthorne, he enjoyed controlling his little kingdom down to the smallest detail. When he didn’t get his way, I was the one who paid for it. This time, he was careful not to mark me up where anyone could see. But he couldn’t hurt me where it really mattered. With the constant promise of seeing King again, there was a bright flame of hope inside me that not even the pain Vic inflicted could diminish.

  Still, each day I worked with King in the infirmary, there was a heavy silence between us. A week later, the flu swept through one of the blocks, leaving little time for me to notice the tension. After seeing the sketch and knowing how he viewed me, the urge to let him get just a little bit closer has been almost stronger than my self-preservation. It’s a constant battle to keep my mouth shut and our short chats solely on work.

  Vic’s relentless whining, badgering, and beatings don’t help, either. I can feel myself unraveling with each passing day, and I certainly look
it. The smudges under my eyes from lack of sleep make my olive skin tone appear wan and drawn under the fluorescent lighting. I haven’t been able to stomach much food in the past couple of weeks, which has made my cheekbones sharper, my eyes hollow. Hell, even my clothes hang on my frame instead of hugging my curves. I’m fading away right before my eyes, and if I don’t do something soon to save myself, there won’t be anything left.

  “Why do you stay?” King asks me one day.

  I turn slowly, mindful of my ribs. “Stay where?” I ask, even though we both know what he’s talking about. I knew he’d been biding his time to poke into all my soft spots. I should have known he’d choose a moment when I felt most vulnerable.

  My eyes go to the door, but for the first time since the flu blew through, there are no patients. I never thought I would miss the chaos of full-grown men throwing up and complaining like children about hot and cold flashes. Now, there’s a somber, almost mellow feeling in the air. If I weren't stranded with temptation personified, I would have classified it as a good day.

  He gives me a look that says drop the bullshit, and I almost smile. Warmth unfurls inside me in places long since frozen.

  “I’m afraid of what he could do to me if I leave.” I shouldn’t be surprised at my own admission, but I am.

  He plants his legs wide and cracks his knuckles at his sides. His green eyes turn flinty and hard. I don’t know why he’s in prison, but it wouldn’t surprise me if his rap sheet contains a long list of violent crimes.

  “You should be more concerned about what he’s doing to you now.” A vein pulses at his temple, and his jaw flexes as he grinds his teeth to keep from saying any more than he already has.

  My own back snaps straight at his accusation, warm fuzzy feelings forgotten. “I handle myself just fine.”