Toxic

by Nicole Blanchard

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 left bicep. My throat bobs reflexively as my eyes flash up to his. He doesn’t taunt me, but his smile speaks more loudly than words.

AHHHHH

“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?”

“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.

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’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.

As I study the drawing of myself, I start to think maybe I can be the woman he sees in me, like how a broken bone grows stronger once it heals. I carefully fold the drawing and place it in my pocket. As I do, something much more powerful takes root inside me, and as I continue my work, that something pulses just underneath the surface, a bubbling darkness much like the man who inspired it.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say softly. “I think you need to.” A tear crests my cheek, and one of his hands leaves mine to wipe it away. “Tell me.” When I don’t answer, he says, “Why don’t I guess, then?” I press my lips together and nod, sniffling. “He hit you?” he asks, and I lift a shoulder. His hand drops to my shoulder before sliding down my arm to rest on my waist where it tightens. “He hurt you again?”

“You seem to think you aren’t my business.” “Probably because I’m not. I’m not sure what makes you think you have the right to interfere, but I don’t need to be saved. I don’t need anything from you.” “That’s where you’re wrong. I think I’m exactly what you need.”

"C’mon," he coaxes as his lips grow bolder. "Let me give you this. One kiss. I promise you'll enjoy it. Let me show you a little something sweet to take away from the sour. One kiss, and if you want me to walk away after I will."

What kind of person wants more from a man like him? What kind of woman aches for another kiss from a criminal? Me. I want more. I want it all. I want it right here. Again. And again. And again.

Gracin’s lips come to the shell of my ear. He whispers, “They could walk in at any second and see just what a dirty girl you are.”

Then he’s whispering into my ear, his voice like the devil himself. “You want it. You want it so fucking bad I can almost taste it.” Needy, animal sounds are my only answer. “I wanna give it to you, Tessa.” The tempo of his hips slows, and I nearly scream. “Let me give it to you.”

“You won’t try to kiss me again or come see me,” I say firmly. “I did what you wanted. Now it’s over.” He nods, but I note he doesn’t confirm or deny that he won’t seek me out again. “Think what you want,” he says instead, “but we’re far from over.”

My ears ring as I focus on the version of me he drew this time. It’s how I must have looked right after he brought me to the brutal edge of a powerful orgasm. My eyes are still closed, and my mouth is full and soft and a little bruised. For the first time, he’s included himself in the drawing. Just his hand on the side of my throat, his thumb on the edge of my jaw. It wouldn’t seem significant to anyone else, but it’s everything to me. He signed it with his full name, and under the signature are three words: Come to me.

“Fuckin’ piece of shit,” he says, grunting with the effort it takes to heave a bobbing Vic back to his feet. “How does it feel, motherfucker?”

“Hey,” a soothing voice says. “Hey, no, it’s okay. Baby, calm down. You gotta calm down for me. It’s okay. You’re okay.” It’s a litany of comfort urging me to follow it back to reality. The pieces start to come together slowly but then all at once. Like waking from a terrible nightmare. “There you go. You got it. Come back to me.”

“I’m glad the bastard’s dead for what he did to you.” “No,” I tell him, pushing at his hands. “We can’t. Not here. Not like this.” He presses me down to the floor, and I’m so out of it, I’m unable to protest other than to hiss out a breath as my back comes in contact with the cool wood. “Yes,” he says against my lips. “Just like this. I want you to remember what it feels like when I’m not there by your side. I want you to remember how strong you were when you stood up to him. How you won’t ever let anyone treat you like shit again, not even me.”

“You think you don’t want this?” he asks, and I know he doesn’t mean what he’s doing to me, because I can’t deny that I do. Not when I’m screaming for him to do it harder, faster. “You shouldn’t.” His teeth bite into my shoulder. “You shouldn’t want me. I am not a nice man. I am not a good man. I do bad things for bad people.” He licks the bite, and his mouth skims up my throat. “I want to do bad things to you.”

He’s violence wrapped in a pretty bow. Danger made to shine. Only instead of the prison jumpsuit, his warning label is an Armani suit and a Rolex. Money is power, but on him, it’s also lethal.

“This doesn’t mean I don’t want to kill you,” I say against his throat. “I know,” he says solemnly. “I’ll let you kill me later, just let me hold you.”

“Make me forget,” I whisper, my tongue flicking out to sample the familiar taste of the skin at his throat. “If you’re going to keep me here and want to hold me, then you can help erase everything else.”

“Don’t fight it,” he says against my lips. “Let me give it to you.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It was mine, and I promise I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you.” He holds me for a long time. Until the tears dry and my emotions steady. “The only way you can make it up to me is to make sure they pay for what they did.” His gaze searches my own, and he nods. “They will.”

“But I do know I don’t know what would happen to me if you hadn’t made it that day.”

Gracin sighs like he’s dealing with a roomful of children instead of a couple of grown men armed with knives. He pulls the gun from its holster and points it at the man on my right, who pales considerably. “Step away from her,” he growls.

“Get Doctor Haversham. I don’t care if he’s on call for the goddamn Pope, I want him at the house in an hour, or he’ll be hearing from me personally.” He slams the phone into the cup holder, and I try to keep from smiling. “You realize I’m a nurse,” I say to him. “I can probably take care of this by myself. It’s really not that deep at all. Just a couple stitches.” “We’re going to have the doctor look at it, end of discussion,” he says, his tone implacable.

He leans his weight back on his knees between my legs and looks down at me. “Let me look at you,” he says. “I don’t want to rush this time.”

He rouses me several times during the night with one word. “Again.” And I open my arms, my legs, and my heart to him because what we have is dangerous and volatile, but it’s also inevitable.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he says against my hair. “Do you have your gun?” I hold it up and give a scathing look, which causes him to chuckle. Guess I hadn’t hidden it after all. “Good girl.”

“I decided I was right when I locked you here so you couldn’t get away and get yourself into trouble.” I bristle a little, but he places a finger over my lips. “I wanted you here so I could make sure you were safe. Seeing you in the warehouse like that . . . it isn’t something I’ll ever forget. I realized when you came running into the room, and Danny turned the gun on you that I didn’t want to spend another day that didn’t have you in it. Letting you leave would be doing just that, so I’ll chain your ass to the bed if I must to keep you in my life.” “And if I said I still wanted to leave, you wouldn’t let me go?” “No,” he says with vicious finality. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t let you go,” he says against my lips, “but I’d spend every day convincing you to stay.”

His thrusts are slow, measured, and when I open my eyes, I find him watching me. “Stay with me,” he says right before his mouth finds mine in a soft kiss. “Tell me you’ll stay with me. I can’t lose you.”

If he’s an addiction, I welcome the rush. Give me another hit, and another, and another, until it kills me or gives me a taste of heaven.