The scrawny skinhead writhed against the manacle of Knox’s bicep, his brethren hovering close. One move from them and Reid would intervene. They knew it. Everyone did. The hatred between Reid’s crew and the White Warriors was mutual and ran deep, but they weren’t interested in dying today, so they held back.
Knox stretched out his hand. “Give it up.”
Spit flew from the guy’s lips. “Fuck you, man.”
It wasn’t about the biscuit. It was more than that. It was about Knox’s continued survival in this prison. He couldn’t back down.
This shit never changed. But it sure as hell got old. At least there was an end in sight. He’d already served eight years of his eight-to-fifteen year sentence for manslaughter. He wasn’t granted parole at his first hearing four months ago—not with his frequent trips to the hole—but maybe in another year or two. If he didn’t fuck up too much more.
When he and North went to prison for killing their cousin’s rapist, their lawyer said it could have been worse. They could have gotten a more severe sentence. The jury had sympathized with them. Or more importantly, they sympathized with Katie, who had taken the stand and shared what Mason Leary did to her.
They killed a man. It hadn’t been their intention, but they did it. Knox accepted that he deserved to be here, but it still didn’t make it easy. Every day in Devil’s Rock sucked a little bit more of his soul away.
With an inward sigh, he did what he had to do. Curling his hand into a fist, he crashed it into the guy’s face, surrendering to the violence that governed his existence.
He felt a ripple surge through the crowd. A current of air behind him. Before he had a chance to turn, pain exploded in the back of his skull. He and the kid went down. Ears ringing, he shook himself, shoving away the pain as he pushed back up from the concrete.
Warm blood trickled into his eye as his gaze locked on another skinhead charging him, his face lost beneath a myriad of ink. The skinhead lifted a tray, presumably the one he’d already struck Knox with, ready to bring it down again.
Still no one intervened. Two against one were odds Reid expected any member of his crew to easily handle.
Knox sent a quick glance to his brother, telling him to stay with a warning look. If he didn’t, North would intervene—screw what Reid wanted. Blood before all.
Knox lashed out, kicking the other inmate in the knee as he charged. A satisfying pop cracked in the air. The crowd hissed, knowing how much that had to hurt. The inmate went down with a howl. Knox snatched up the discarded tray and swung it into the face of the punk who first grabbed his biscuit and started all this shit in the first place.
Four bulls burst through the crowd, pulling up hard at the sight of the two skinheads groaning at Knox’s feet.
Knox lifted both hands in the air, palms up, in an attempt to show he didn’t plan on causing any trouble. Well, any more trouble.
Chester, one of the more brutal of the corrections officers at Devil’s Rock, took one look at Knox and batoned him in the ribs twice. Knox could have guessed it was coming. The SOB loved taking down inmates. Whether necessary or not, he was all about cracking heads with his baton.
He bowed over, a whoosh of air leaving him as pain exploded in his side. That bastard really enjoyed his work. Guards came at Knox then, shoving him down to the concrete. He didn’t resist, but that didn’t stop Chester from dropping his knee and grinding it into his spine. He bit back a cry of pain, not about to give Chester the satisfaction of knowing he’d hurt him. Instead, he smiled as they cuffed him.
Yanking Knox to his feet, the guards shouted for everyone else to disperse. He caught a glimpse of his brother’s scowl and sent him a shrug and a cocky grin meant to reassure him.
“Move it,” Chester snarled, pushing him roughly after the other two inmates. Knox stifled a wince at the sudden movement. The prick had done a number on his ribs.
North nodded back at him, trying to convey that he would be all right, that Knox shouldn’t worry. They knew the drill. Knox would get nothing less than a week in segregation for the fight. A week was nothing. He’d done longer stints in the hole. Weeks where he doubted his sanity within the gray, enclosed space.
Out in the hall, Lambert, the head bull on duty, looked them over with a bored expression.
The inmate Knox had kicked sniveled, unable to stand. Two guards supported him.
“What happened?” Lambert demanded.
Knox held his gaze, schooling his face into something blank and impenetrable. “We were just fooling around.”
No one ever admitted to fighting. No one ever pointed fingers or blamed anyone. It was an unwritten rule, even among enemies. Fighting, whether one was the attacker or the victim, got you a longer stretch in the hole.
Lambert snorted. “That so?” He tapped the skinhead kid’s knee with the tip of his baton, which only earned another howl. “Looks broken.” He sent Knox a hard look before returning his gaze to the kid. “Callaghan do this to you?”
The guy brought his sniveling under control and lifted his chin, his expression under all that ink once again fierce. “Like he said, we was just fooling around.”
Lambert rolled his eyes, clearly finished with them. “Fine. Whatever. Take them to the HSU. If that knee is broken, arrange transport to the hospital.”
The skinhead’s eyes lit up, broken knee and all. Out was out. God knew the food would be better in a hospital than the slop they ate here.
“C’mon, Callaghan.” Chester prodded Knox in his already tender back, getting him to move after the other two inmates.
He shot a glare over his shoulder. It was all he could do. His restrained hands tightened into fists, his knuckles whitening around the raw and bloody scrapes.
Funny how he still felt this reaction. How some bull digging his knee into his spine or prodding him in the back and eyeing him like he was a piece of shit could still get a reaction from him. After all these years, you would have thought he wouldn’t care anymore. That he would have given up all expectations for anything more. Anything better.
He should have accepted that this was simply his life.
THREE
IF BRIAR WAS hoping for a quiet first day, it wasn’t to be. Thirty minutes before their first appointment, the door to the unit buzzed open.
Four guards entered the room escorting three inmates in full restraints, hands bound in front of them. Murphy quickly patted them down, checking for any hidden weapons. The chains clinked at their wrists as they walked.
She stood up from the desk where she and Dr. Walker had been reviewing the files of the incoming patients, already making notes and potential diagnoses based on Josiah’s assessments. They were hoping to see all the inmates Josiah had scheduled for today and maybe some additional cases, too. After glancing through the wait list and reviewing some of the inmates’ complaints, Briar and Dr. Walker had exchanged looks. It was alarming how many of these men were walking around untreated with conditions that would have put them in the hospital in the real world. In fact, she suspected Dr. Walker was going to recommend immediate hospital transport for one or two of them.
The room suddenly seemed to shrink at the arrival of these menacing men in restraints. Dr. Walker and Josiah moved forward, directing the guards where to place the inmates, but her limbs froze. A dull beat started in her ears as she surveyed them. She couldn’t move.
Two of the inmates were riddled with tattoos. They were scary looking men, ink covering every inch of their arms, necks, and faces. Her stomach churned. They were the type of men she would have crossed the street to avoid.
One of the convicts bled profusely from the mouth and nose, thick crimson dripping onto his white uniform. The other one hop-walked, supported by two corrections officers. Even though the tattooed pair were injured and it was her job to extend care, she couldn’t stop the small shudder from rolling throu
gh her.
Yet even as alarming as those two skinheads appeared, it was the third man that gave her the greatest pause . . . who made her heart stutter and then kick into a hard hammer that shouted: Stay away, stay away, stay away.
He was tattoo-free, as far as she could tell anyway, but that left the immense size of him and the harshness of his features to focus upon. His jaw looked like it could break granite, and his mouth was an unsmiling slash, bracketed by two short lines that could have possibly been dimples or smile grooves. Except she was certain that he never smiled.
A three-inch bloody gash at the corner of his forehead only added to the severity of his appearance. On someone else, it might have made him look weaker, but not this guy. He looked like a warrior unfazed and ready to plunge back into battle. She knew plenty of women were drawn to his type. A bloodied Viking. The Tarzan that dragged Jane into his hut and quickly made her forget that she was a good civilized woman. Raw and seething with power. He radiated danger. The edgy guy with intense, deep-set eyes and a shadow of stubble covering his square jaw. She could almost imagine brushing her fingers across that jaw. Almost. If she were crazy and into felons.
He stood a few inches over six feet, towering over everyone else in the unit. Even the guards, fully armed and so very competent-looking in their uniforms, seemed diminished beside him. She eyed the cuffs at his wrists, worrying if they were enough, if they would hold him.
“These beds here are fine.” Josiah waved at three gray-blanketed beds. They were side by side, the heads butting one side of cinder-block wall.
The ink-free inmate made a move toward one of the beds, but a guard stopped him, his baton arcing through the air with a hiss and whacking him across the flat of his stomach.
It was no gentle blow, and Briar flinched. Everything inside her rebelled at the ease with which the guard delivered the hit. And, if she were honest with herself, the ease with which the inmate accepted it.
She had been so careful to construct a life free of violence. Violent people. Violent situations. She led a safe life. At least as much as she could control.
The inmate didn’t even blink an eye. He merely stopped and turned a dead-eyed stare on the guard smirking back at him.
That same guard—his name tag read CHESTER—addressed Josiah: “I wouldn’t stick these two anywhere near Callaghan. He might decide to finish the fight.” He nodded at the inmate he’d just struck with his baton.
Callaghan. He held himself still, seemingly patient, but tension radiated off him. He reminded her of a jungle cat on one of those nature shows, ready to spring at any moment.
“Yeah. Not a good idea,” Chester added, idly tapping his baton against his thigh.
So Callaghan was the reason the other two looked the way they did. Did he start the fight? As soon as the thought entered her head, she shoved it out. It didn’t matter. It didn’t make him any less culpable if he didn’t start it. He was a convict. God knew what horrible thing he had done to land himself in this place. Not a good idea was the perfect sum of him.
“Okay.” Josiah nodded and turned in a half circle. He waved at the bed in the far corner near the desk. “That one, then.”
Nodding, Chester escorted Callaghan to the bed. The inmate sank down on it, still without uttering a sound. Not even a flicker of discomfort crossed his granite features.
Dr. Walker immediately started examining the whimpering skinhead with the hurt knee. Josiah squared off in front of the other skinhead, guiding him onto the bed. The doctor met her gaze and gestured to Callaghan. “You want to look at him, Nurse Davis? I’ll clean up this one’s face.”
Hovering behind the desk, she was closest to Callaghan, so it made sense for her to examine him. But she hesitated, her feet rooted to the spot. He exuded danger, a threat she was reluctant to approach.
Chester rounded the foot of the bed, inching closer to where she stood. “It’s all right, miss.” He tucked his thumbs into his gun belt and puffed out his chest. “I’m here.”
She had to stop herself from rolling her eyes.
Callaghan turned his head to look at her for the first time, and it was like being pinned in the crosshairs. Her lungs constricted, the air trapped there as he stared at her. She felt stripped of her skin. Like he was seeing inside her, assessing, weighing and measuring her. She had to resist hunching her shoulders and looking away.
The deep blue of his gaze was hard and flat. It reminded her of the cobalt glass her grandmother had collected. For years the little vases and bottles sat in Nana’s windowsill, catching the morning sunlight. They had always mesmerized Briar. She’d felt safe in that kitchen, her legs swinging from her chair, not quite grazing the floor as she ate her breakfast. Not like she felt here.
Callaghan’s top lip curled faintly in a knowing smirk, and she felt exposed. As though he knew all she had been thinking. Every low thought of him. Every fearful notion she had. Just as quickly as it appeared, the smirk vanished and his lips flattened, covering up his straight white teeth again.
Chester’s voice snapped her to attention. “I can stay here and keep an eye on him, miss.” He grinned at her with a cocky tilt of his head. “Make sure he don’t give you no problem.”
Her gaze flicked to Dr. Walker and Josiah, already attending to their patients. The other guards, with the exception of Chester, were leaving the room.
She squared her shoulders. She had signed on for this. No wimping out now.
“That’s not necessary.” She’d worked hard to put herself through college and become a nurse. She was a professional. It was her duty to care for the sick—not judge them.
She rounded the desk and grabbed some gloves from a box on a standing rolling tray of medical supplies. “You can go now, officer.”
His cocky smile slipped slightly. He nodded slowly. He glanced at Murphy, awake from his nap and standing somewhat more attentively near the door. “Right, then. Don’t hesitate to hit the panic button if you—”
“I won’t. Thank you.”
Chester’s chest lifted on a breath. He walked over to Callaghan and tapped him on the shoulder with his baton. “Behave yourself, boy. I’ll be back to fetch you later.”
She watched the officer swagger off, the resemblance to her father uncanny. Not his appearance. It was his posturing. Her father was that same good old boy. On the surface he acted so good-natured and courteous. Everyone loved and admired him, the gentleman looking out for the fairer sex, when behind doors he liked to use them for his personal punching bag.
Shaking off those ugly memories, Briar moved on leaden feet, dragging the rolling tray of supplies with her and stopping in front of where Callaghan sat on the edge of the mattress.
Even sitting before her, in full restraints, he seemed . . . big. Intimidating in a way that he shouldn’t be. He made her feel small. At five feet seven and a size twelve, that sensation had never plagued her. Besides, he was a prisoner. He lacked all freedom. Freedom to hurt her being paramount. That should take away his aura of power.
It should, but it didn’t.
She eyed the gash on his forehead. “That’s a nasty cut. What happened?” she asked before she could rethink the question. It was just habit. The thing she asked when she sat down with every patient. In this case, for a split second she simply forgot that he was not every patient.
At his silence, she lowered her gaze from his forehead to his eyes. Her lungs tightened again as she fell into a sea of cobalt. She resented that—that he should have such stunning eyes reminiscent of a part of her childhood that was pure and untainted.
“Do you know where you are, honey?” The deep rumble of his voice felt like gravel rolling over her skin, and she blinked, confused by the question—and irritated by the “honey” designation. It was an endearment, but something in the way he said it made it feel like an insult.
“Of co
urse I know where I am,” she answered.
“Then you can probably guess what happened to me.”
She flushed. “I’m sure it was a fight, but I was looking for more specifics.” She dragged her gaze away and picked a cotton swab off the tray. Dousing it in astringent, she faced him again. She was careful to keep her attention trained to his wound and not his face—not those eyes.
Dabbing the swab against his forehead, she fought to keep her stare from dipping down. Wiping away the blood, she could see he was going to need sutures and said as much. “Dr. Walker is going to want to take a look at this.”
A glance over her shoulder revealed Dr. Walker still examining the inmate with the injured knee. From his concerned expression, she knew he would send the man out to Radiology to get his leg X-rayed.
When she turned back to Callaghan, she found his unswerving gaze trained on her face. Her cheeks caught fire and she knew she was tomato red.
She sucked in a breath and shivered, rebelling at the idea that she was actually this close to an obviously dangerous criminal. Close enough to note the dark rings circling his irises. So close she could count the eyelashes framing his eyes. Dark lashes far too lush for any man to rightly possess. She held her breath, frozen for a long moment. Pinned beneath his scrutiny, watching him watch her, detecting the direction of his gaze, every inch of her face his eyes touched. Her eyes, nose, mouth, and hair. He missed nothing.
She tore her gaze away and finished cleaning his wound with unsteady hands. She reached for the butterfly strips, deciding to use them until Dr. Walker was able to suture. He didn’t move as she carefully applied the strips.
Finished, she stood back, stripping off her gloves. “Why don’t you rest back on the bed until the doctor can examine you?”