We fall into a companionable silence, letting the Texas roads take us toward the side of town where our customer lives. My mind drifts back to Dr. Abraham Barlowe and the dank therapy room where he and I first met.
I’ve just been dragged from solitary confinement to this…I dunno. Interrogation room? It’s slightly nicer than I’m used to, but I’ve been handcuffed to a table. Meanwhile, my knee is killing me, and there’s still a gash in my side.
I’m here because I fought back against one of the Aryan assholes I avoid like the plague. He’d approached me in the yard, telling me what he’d like to do to my hole. I told him to get the fuck away from me, but I knew it was bad news and spent the rest of the day on edge.
Sure enough, he was waiting for me in my cell after dinner, leaving me to wonder which guard sold me out. This particular motherfucker’s upper arm is full of tally marks counting the number of men he’s punked—raped—in here. I doubt he’s any shade of gay and every shade of violent psychopath.
No fucking way was I going to let him punk me without a fight. He came at me fast, shoving a shiv into my side. Blocking out the pain, I brought him to his knees with a sucker punch, then brought my knee to his face, obliterating his nose.
Fucking lights out.
I grabbed the shiv, just in case, but tossed it when the guards came in. I kept my mouth shut and cooperated, letting them throw me into solitary without a peep.
So now I’m in whatever the fuck this room is, waiting to see which kind of fuckery they’ve got in store for me.
After several minutes, a clean-shaven white guy with brown hair, an Adonis jaw, and a killer body walks in. He’s classically fuckable, wearing khakis and a white button-down under a dark blazer stretched across impressive arms.
He walks past me, and damn, that ass. He’s got cake for days, and I bet it’s all muscle. That, plus his stiff demeanor, makes me want to pick around the perimeter, see if there’s an edge I can exploit, a desire I can get a fingernail under and unravel all his corporate composure.
Some stiff necks need you to fuck ’em to relieve the pressure, but not this dude. He’s in the room for thirty seconds, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that this guy irons his sheets and is absolutely a controlling beast in the bedroom.
He wouldn’t even have to get undressed. Just unzip and take me against this table, that wall, whatever. I bet his perfectly styled hair wouldn’t even move.
Silently, he sits across from me and places his clasped hands on the table. I slouch back, unbothered. I’m not sure what his deal is or why he isn’t saying anything, but the one thing I’ve learned in prisonlandia is that you don’t let the assholes with all the power know you’re uncomfortable.
Or that you’re hard as a fucking rock.
Letting my eyes wander down his body, I slowly lick my lips and send him a wink. His composure remains ice-cold.
Yeah, I would bottom so hard for this one.
Finally, with the smallest raise of his brow, he introduces himself. “Hello, Ignacio. My name is Dr. Barlowe.”
There are about fifteen ways to say my given name, but he’s managed to land on the version I use—Ig-nah-see-oh. I know for a fact, however, that there’s a note in my file instructing staff to call me Nacho.
Wondering what his play is, I lift my chin.
When he realizes that’s the entirety of my answer, he continues, “I’ve been asked to talk to you about the incident in your jail cell.”
“You mean when that Hitler motherfucker tried to punk me? Or when I was put in solitary with a stab wound and not even a fucking Band-Aid?”
His prominent Adam’s apple slowly rises and lowers. “I was not made aware of any injuries. I will have the doctor examine you after we’re finished here.”
“You’re a doctor. You’ve got strong-looking hands. Why don’t you examine me?”
“My doctorate is in psychology, with a focus on trauma.”
“So, no prostate exam then? Pity.”
His expression is a solid stone wall. Nothing’s getting through this one. Fuck, that’s sexy.
“I’m here because I was asked to inform you that Mr. Hightower died from his injuries.”
My throat constricts. Fuck. I want to vomit all over this table. But I can’t let this Frosty The Snowman motherfucker see any of that.
“That doesn’t make any sense. I broke his nose. You can’t die from a broken nose.”
“You can if your airway is compromised. He was deprived of oxygen until he could be transported to medical, which was delayed because several fights broke out after you were taken away. By the time they got him to medical, it was too late.”
