Something to Die For by Kaye Blue

One

Angel

“This is a shallow bite.It should heal up nicely. Next time you may not be so lucky,” I said.

I kept my eyes on the wound, not bothering to make eye contact with the patient.

Instead, I stared at the now-familiar indents caused by teeth pressed into flesh.

“You’re not gonna stitch it up?” he asked.

“No.”

I looked at him then, saw rheumy blue eyes that might have once been attractive if not for the drinking and drug abuse that had continued even though he was confined to state prison.

And even the withdrawal that he was starting to experience couldn’t hide his contempt for me.

Of course, if his eyes hadn’t have given it away, the tattoos that covered his body would have.

But I wouldn’t let that get to me.

I was a professional, and being courteous to patients, even racist assholes, was part of the job.

“Where’s the other doctor?” he asked.

“I’m it,” I responded, keeping my voice firm but light.

I kept my gaze on his but didn’t otherwise make a move. Even at the worst of times, I didn’t intimidate easily, and there was no way I was going to look away.

It was hard being a woman working in a male prison, but I held my own.

I treated all of my patients with respect and demanded the same from them. This one wouldn’t change that.

“I want a second opinion,” he spat, his eyes narrowing and face shifting into an almost pout.

I wanted to laugh but suppressed the urge.

Instead, I said, “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Stephens, but I’m the only doctor here. Would you like me to dress this wound, or are you voluntarily leaving the infirmary without treatment?”

He blinked, a small victory, one that made me far too happy. He then stared at me, or more like through me, but then glanced away.

I knew exactly what—who—he was looking at.

After a moment, he met my eyes again.

“This is bullshit. How do I even know you know what the fuck you’re doing?”

“If you’re unhappy with the services the state provides, I suggest you write your congressman. Otherwise, I have patients who need assistance,” I said, my voice even, the calm in it only seeming to aggravate him.

Not my intention, but again, I wouldn’t give in to a bully.

“Look here, bi—”

“Shut the fuck up, Stephens. Let her patch you up.”

He cut off instantly at the sound of the second voice and leaned back, now docile. I gritted my teeth, pretending I hadn’t heard, and then went back to work.

I quickly washed and dressed the wound, but my mind was barely there.

Instead, I was thinking about that intrusion, both annoyed and grateful for it.

Getting into petty fights with people like Stephens was a waste of my time, but having someone like Lucas Crowe intercede wasn’t any better.

“You ain’t even gonna put a fucking Band-Aid on it?” Stephens said.

I didn’t respond immediately, instead mentally counting to ten.

Then I met his eyes again, figured he wanted to get back to his cell. He’d already tried to haggle for fentanyl, then hydrocodone.

I’d given him a Tylenol, and I could tell he was jonesing for something stronger.

“No.”

“Why not?” he asked, his disdain clear.

“A human bite is one of the most dangerous, and frankly disgusting, injuries you could have. If I stitch that up, put a Band-Aid on it, who knows what kind of bacteria will grow? So I’m going to leave it open, put antibacterial cream on it, and hope that it doesn’t turn gangrenous,” I said.

There was the slightest edge in my voice, but after a moment, Stephens leaned back.

“I hope the other doctor’s here tomorrow,” he said, his pout undeniable now.

I did too.

I’d worked eighteen days straight and was at my wit’s end.

“Mr. Stephens, you can go back to your cell. If the wound causes you any pain, feels warm, or starts to ooze, let the guard know and come back to the infirmary,” I said.

He nodded, and I stepped aside and allowed the guard to uncuff him.

I usually tried to avoid cuffs in the infirmary, but the prison was already short-staffed, and everyone was running on fumes.

When the guard had insisted, I decided not to push, saving that influence for something else.

“You gonna be okay in here?” the guard asked.

I glanced over at the other gurney where Lucas Crowe was handcuffed and then looked back at the guard and nodded. “I’ll be fine,” I said, sounding completely confident.

Wishing I was.

He lingered a moment then nodded and took Stephens away.

Another break in protocol.

We were always supposed to work in teams, but with half the staff called out sick, exceptions had to be made.

Which meant I was alone with the most dangerous criminal in the prison.

Lucas Crowe.

Even before I had started at the prison, the warden had taken me aside, pointing out special inmates that I needed to be particularly aware of.

Usual stuff. Sex offenders, murderers—and Lucas Crowe.

Funny, because his official conviction had been for a gun charge, but according to the warden and the Google research that I had done, he was head of one of the largest militias in the Southeast, responsible for all manner of criminal activity.

Not someone I ever wanted to be alone with, but much like Stephens, I wouldn’t let him or anyone else intimidate me.

“How are you feeling?” I asked as I stepped toward him.

He was double cuffed to the gurney, leg shackles attached to the bed, his arms cuffed on either side.

For a moment, I wondered if that would be enough.

He was massive, intimidatingly so, and even here, where working out was one of the few things to do to pass the time—other than the fights, drug deals, and other things I pretended not to know about—he stood out. He was at least a six and a half feet tall, two hundred and sixty pounds, maybe more, of solid muscle.

But beyond how to physically imposing he was, there was an aura about him. And it wasn’t fake like so many others in the prison.

It wasn’t exactly malice. More like an unspoken warning.

For the most part, he was compliant, and I seldom heard of him getting disciplinary write-ups, but I suspected his compliance was only because he chose to give it.

If he chose otherwise, we’d all have hell to pay.

Hopefully, today was a day for good behavior.

“I asked how you are feeling,” I said, repeating myself, something I hated to do.

He’d heard me.

I knew that because he was looking at me, his eyes dark, almost pupil-less. Daring me to challenge him. Practically demanding I look away.

I didn’t.

It was foolish to allow myself to engage in dominance games with a prisoner, but I’d learned very quickly that giving respect—and earning it—were key to my survival here.

And even though his dark gaze was disconcerting and shook me up in ways it definitely shouldn’t have, I refused to look away.

He nodded once, and I took it as my cue to move on.

For someone else, I would call it a reprieve, but with him, I suspected he had bored of whatever game this was.

“Did you lose consciousness?” I asked as I began my examination.

“No,” he responded, his word clipped, short, not at all revealing.

“Any pain?” I asked, lingering on the bruise that I saw forming above his forehead.

“No.”

Another flat, short response, which should have been my sign to end the questioning, but in my infirmary, I set the tone.

“And you were hit with a weight?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Any bites?”

“No.”

Such a sparkling conversationalist, I thought, but I kept it to myself.

Instead, I listened to his heart, which thudded strong, heard his clear lungs, and after checking him for a fever, something that had been going around the prison for weeks, I put my stethoscope around my neck and met his eyes, forcing myself to smile.

“I think you’ll live.”

I hadn’t expected any response and didn’t get one.

Instead he kept the same flat, almost dead-eyed stare.

But again, I refused to be intimidated.

Instead, I cleaned my stethoscope and then stepped away from the table.

“Mr. Crowe is ready to go,” I said, speaking into the walkie-talkie.

“Doc, I hate to ask, but can you take him back to his cell? My hands are full here.”

I heard some commotion, which wasn’t at all out of the ordinary.

But that request was.

We were short-staffed, and even though the warden had done his best to keep that quiet, I had no doubt the prisoners were aware.

Just as they were all aware that I never, ever, escorted prisoners back to their cells.

But I would today. Apparently, there was a first time for everything.

“Mr. Crowe, I think you’re fine. Are you feeling well enough to go back to your cell?”

Again, I was laying it on a little bit thick, my voice a little too bright, and I was certain I wasn’t fooling him.

“Yeah,” he responded.

I looked away then, gaze focused on the thick leather belt that hung on the wall.

I’d gone through training on how to handle restraints but seldom had an opportunity to use them.

Especially not with someone like Crowe.

But I could do this, would do this, if only to save face.

My mama always said that pride was going to be my downfall, but I hoped those words wouldn’t prove true today.

I cleaned up my supplies, the eerie quiet in the infirmary a contrast to whatever was happening outside.

I tried to do that, make this place different from the rest of the prison, but the effect was even more intense today.

Just this week, I’d transferred out seven patients with fever and had lost two others already.

And while the infirmary was almost always a hub of activity, serving people with long-term medical needs that I kept an eye on, and the other sporadic bouts of violence that required someone to be stitched up, things had been quiet for days, at least until the last fight that had brought Crowe and Stephens in.

In truth, I could have done with the distraction, would have appreciated someone else being here if only to break the tension that I felt as his gaze followed me around the room.

But no such luck, and I decided not to drag my feet.

Instead, after everything was cleaned to my satisfaction, I washed my hands, retrieved the leather belt, and then uncuffed his leg shackles from the bed.

“Can you stand up, Mr. Crowe?”

I was being far too polite, more polite than any of the guards would have been, but I was at a disadvantage here, and we both knew it.

He didn’t respond but instead swung his long, heavy legs off of the gurney and stood to his full height.

His height and stature were impressive as always, and though I was nearly six feet and nobody’s idea of a lightweight, even I felt dainty in comparison to him.

Dainty or not, I had a job to do, and I secured the belt around his waist, looped the cuffs through the large metal ring in the middle, and cuffed his arm restraints and then his leg shackles to the belt.

“Are you able to walk?”

He turned and took two shuffling steps in lieu of answering.

I could feel my frustration, more like annoyance, really, rising.

After all, there was no reason for him to act this way, but I swallowed that feeling down and nodded toward the door to the infirmary.

He started to walk, moving with an ease that should have been impossible with his arms and legs shackled, and I followed behind.

I had no weapon, not even a baton, but I wasn’t concerned.

Because of staffing shortages, the prison was basically on lockdown, so I shouldn’t confront any trouble.

And if I did, well, I’d have to hope I had enough goodwill to get out of it.

Crowe led the way to his cell and entered without complaint, turning to stick his hands through the bars, a practice that was probably as routine as breathing for him now.

I unshackled the handcuffs, the leg cuffs, and then finally removed the belt.

It was only after the bars had closed shut that I realized my mistake.

I had left myself exposed, left him with his arms unrestrained.

A major fuck-up, and when I glanced at Crowe, I could see that he had seen it, hadn’t missed my vulnerability.

Hadn’t take advantage of it either, and I sent up a prayer to God in thanks.

“Please let one of the guards know if you start to have any symptoms,” I said quickly.

He didn’t respond, and I didn’t linger.

Instead, heavy leather belt in hand, I rushed back to the infirmary.

I’d made a terrible mistake, one that put my life in danger, and my racing heart was proof of that.

Still, after I returned the strap to the wall, washed my hands, and again started tidying the infirmary, I’d started to calm.

I’d made a mistake.

Those happened.

No big deal.

I glanced at my watch. And in just three short hours, my shift would be over and I could put all this behind me.

I hoped.