Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“So, what now? I’m here on a murder charge?”
Dr. Barlowe, or whatever, holds up his hands. “I don’t believe so. The state’s attorneys are involved, but my understanding is the video proves it was a premeditated attack and you acted in self-defense. It also showed that you took his weapon but released it when guards got there, which works in your favor.”
I roll my eyes, the vein in my temple pounding.
Breathe, pendejo. Focus.
“Let me guess,” I say, sounding cocky as fuck. “It also showed me getting stabbed and receiving no medical attention, so they want this to go away.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve been asked to provide support because your attacker died.”
“Not because I was attacked, but because the attacker died. Got it.”
“Violence has escalated in the two days since his death. Given the volatile nature of the situation, the warden has chosen to keep you in solitary for the rest of your sentence.”
I lean forward, a little dizzy.
Fuck, I really might throw up.
“So because I didn’t let him punk me, I get to be jumped, stabbed, and kept in the hole for a year? What the fuck?” I ask, yanking on my handcuffs, the sound loud against the metal table.
“Ignacio, I’m going to have to ask you to calm yourself. While our conversation is not recorded, this room is under surveillance, and guards will not hesitate to intervene if you are seen acting aggressively.”
“You have no idea how fucking aggressive I can get.”
“Your record indicates you’re a model prisoner with no marks on your record. I would hate for that to change.”
Fuck this guy and his resting bastard face. I fucking killed somebody, and I can’t fucking breathe right. Rising, I kick away the chair, satisfied by the deafening clang of metal on concrete. I yank ineffectively at the bolted-down table, ratcheting up the noise in the small room.
A guard pokes his head in, and Dr. Barlowe stills him with a single gesture.
“This is a therapy session, and Ignacio is allowed to express his feelings. He’s upset but unable to harm himself or me. I will call if I need your assistance.”
Disgruntled, the guard retreats.
“That’s right, bitch. Listen to your Daddy,” I shout after him. The guard slams the door, the metallic snap of the lock ringing in my ears.
Unruffled in the extreme, Dr. Barlowe’s voice is calm. And firm as steel.
“Sit. Down.”
“Fuck you, you Dom-looking motherfucker.”
“Ignacio.”
The deep, cold way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. I like it.
“It’s adorable you think you can tell me any-fucking-thing.”
“Check your attitude, Ignacio. Now.”
“Say please, Daddy.”
His eyes somehow grow colder, and I wonder if maybe I finally went too far. Tilting his head to the side, Dr. Barlowe reaches for his belt.
Oh shit.
