Page 2 of Toxic
It doesn’t matter how much I think about it, though. A tiny part of my mind knows that these prison walls are my reality. I push through the main employee entrance, toe off my sensible shoes, and hand them and my lunch bag to the officer manning the metal detector. He nods good morning but doesn’t engage me in useless conversation.His eyes barely even register mypresence.
Once I have my shoes back on, I retrieve my keys to medical from the control room. The officer on duty pauses before handingthemover.
I’ve learned it’s best to wait little power plays like this out, so I stare at the paunchy middle-aged man until he speaks. “You’ve got a patient thismorning.”
“Oh?” I say without inflection, though it does pique my curiosity that I haven’t been at work ten minutes and already someone’s waiting for treatment. “Whoisit?”
The officer pulls back, and I know I should have just kept moving. It isn’t as if I won’t find out who the patient is in a few minutes. I glance to the doors, hinting that I would like for him to let me through, and he relents without answering my question. The inner hallway is as silent as a tomb for once. The hush is so uncharacteristic that I keep looking behind myself, expecting someone to jump out from one of thedoorways.
The walk to medical is a long one, and I’m on such tenterhooks that I don’t even look up as I unlock the door. My eyes are on my feet as I put my lunch in the fridge in the small office they have for the nurses on call.I swing around to pick up the charts from the overnight patients and nearly gasp when I realize I’m not the only person intheroom.
I open my mouth to call out or to question his presence, but something stops me. Without a word, the man sitting on the examining table in front of me manages to do what it took my husband two years to learn: how to shut me up with just oneglance.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles as my body recognizes a predator in its midst. The layer of muscle underneath my skin contracts, preparing for flight even as I take a step closer to the prisoner in front of me.The other officers and nurses are in the infirmary, which is close, but at the same time an eternity away. There is nothing stopping this man from hurting me. It only takes one glance at him to know it’s entirely within his capabilities should it serve his means.Taut muscles, which are too large for the standard issue prison uniform, stretch against the confines of the top. Ropes of ink snake around his right forearm and his leftbicep.
My throat bobs reflexively as my eyes flash up to his. He doesn’t taunt me, but his smile speaks more loudly thanwords.
I’ve beena nurse at Blackthorne Correctional Institute for five years, so dealing with inmates, from the docile to the deadly, isn't new. None of the tricks of the trade I’ve learned work to calm my panic when he directs the full force of his attentiontome.
“Did they tell you to wait here for your receiving exam?” I ask, and I’m grateful when my voice doesn’t betray my suddennerves.
He lifts a shoulder, the material of his blood-smearedjumpsuit rustling in the otherwise quietexamroom.
Even though warning bells are going off in my head, I take careful steps forward until I reach the end of the examining table where he’s perched. Most of the men who come here for care know better than to mess with the staff, but there’s always the chance that today will be the day one of them changes their mind. So, when I reach for the clipboard hanging from a clip on the end of the bed that has his information on it, I do so with one eye on him. Something tells me it would be a bad idea to turn my backonhim.
After a few careful steps back to allow for some much-needed space, I hazard a glance at his chart. There’s no name on it, just his inmate number, which turns my insides to ice and washes away any doubts I may have had about how dangerousheis.
It’s probably theblood.
A lot of prisoners get into fights with other inmates or officers during transport, but someone must have patched him up sometime between. There’s a bandage on his nose and tape on the apple of his cheek. The blood on his mouth must be from a tooth that got knocked out, maybe? Or a cut in his lip. Either way, there’s nothing that needs my immediate attention, but it reminds me to becautious.
“It says here you didn’t do the medical history questionnaire with the officers before they broughtyouhere.”
Henods.
“Okay, we’ll start with that.” I move to my desk and settle myself into my space. “Are you seeing a physician for any ongoing illness or healthissue?”
He shakes his head, and I mark it down. Aside from the scrapes and bruises, I don’t need the evaluation to tell me he’s in perfect health. Vitality exudes from him, tempting me closer. Years of lessons at Vic’s hands force me to keep my distance, but I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have this man’s attention on me in a differentsetting.
I glance back down at the questionnaire to redirect my thoughts. As the gears in my brain grind to a halt, I tap the pen on the side of the clipboard, trying in vain to rally the remains of myprofessionalism.
“Are you taking any prescription or over-the-countermedication?”
He gives another shake of his head, and it occurs to me we may go through this whole interview without him ever sayingaword.
Wedo.
He answers every question with a nod or a headshake. I learn he’s never had a major surgery, has no allergies, and has no familial history of any major diseases without ever knowing his name or the sound of hisvoice.
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 themotions.
“Let’s get you on the scale now so I can get a record of your currentweight.”
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 thechart.
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 federaltrouble.
“Uh, let’s get yourheightnow.”