Kerri
Looking down at my clipboard I read the name "Stone, Lucien." I lift my gaze to the inmate sitting in front of me to put a face to the name. It's clear that this man has been in a fight. His hair is ruffled and I can see a small bleed on his cheek. His eyes are the color of granite and his jawline is just as chiseled. I think how fitting his name is. I glance down at his body and notice the muscular ripples in his chest and arms, and I wonder what he looks like outside of handcuffs. My pulse quickens for a moment and I quickly divert my eyes before he notices. What's wrong with you? I ask myself. Keep it professional. Its been six months since I left Jonathan and I couldn't be happier. It wasn't easy getting to this point; it's been a painful journey. But this job saved me. This is a good job. I can't allow myself to be attracted to a good-looking man locked up in this place.
Being a medical assistant in a correctional facility isn't easy. Being a medical assistant at San Simeon County Jail is something else entirely. This jail was built in the 1890s. And it’s got more nooks and crannies and idiosyncrasies than I can imagine. Despite the risk, the age of the jail is one reason I said yes to working there. Too bad it came with a patient base that were hardened criminals. It boils down to medical necessity. I can't make personal connections. In a hospital I can give the confused dementia patient a hug, or show empathy by sharing a funny story with the guy wearing a finger brace about the time I dislocated my own pinky finger in a bet that I wouldn't try out for my school's softball team. But in here? Forget about it. I can't do that. I have to stay focused on the care. It's all about boundaries. Without that, inmates can—and from the stories I've heard—will walk all over me. Without boundaries, I set myself up for being taken advantage of. I've been here for six months and I know all of this, but there's something different about this man sitting in front of me, humbled by handcuffs, but still proud despite his situation. His presence threatens to seep between my own limits.
I look at his scrapes, at the bruises that are just now threatening to form, and at the way he seems to be favoring one side of his body. I make notes in my clipboard. There's a good possibility that he broke a bone in that fight. It's not uncommon. I see those kinds of fractures all the time.
I notice that the cut on his face is starting to drip—not much, he won't need stitches, but still enough to pay attention to. So I leave the room to find a square of gauze. I squirt some iodine into the gauze and dab his cheek. The iodine makes his cheek appear even redder, but the bleeding stops and at least now his wound is sterilized.
"We'll need to do x-rays," I say. "I'm concerned about your limited mobility in your arm."
"Have you seen these handcuffs?" he says with a smirk. "Maybe they're the reason for my limited mobility."
"Very funny Mr. Stone. It's obvious you're favoring one side. I'd like to take a closer look."
"Anything you say."
"I'm glad you agree."
A security guard is standing in the room as a precaution and I look over to him. "Let's take him in for x-rays." The guard nods and he motions for Lucien to stand. I notice the slight grimace on his face as he takes a step forward.
"To get a proper x-ray, I'll need his handcuffs removed," I tell the guard. He agrees to remove them and stay nearby for my protection. I know I should be afraid of this man and a small part of me is cautious, but mostly I'm intrigued, and dare I admit, a little turned on at the depth of his gaze. What's his story? I wonder.
The guard removes his handcuffs and I instruct Lucien to lie down on the x-ray table. He complies and as I stand over him to adjust the x-ray machine from above, I can't help but look down at his full figure. He's tall, maybe 6'3" and solid muscle. I catch myself stealing a glance in the direction of his groin and inhale sharply as I notice that he's hard. Shit. Why did I look? I'm pretty sure I can make out the full shape of his huge cock and I find myself blushing. He smiles. Shit. Shit. Shit. I hate myself for noticing. I don't know what's come over me. This is just another inmate, I tell myself. He's just like everyone else. But as I tell myself this, I only have believed it.
The guard takes a step back and remains in the doorway so he's not exposed to the x-ray radiation. I fit myself with a lead plated vest, fasten the Velcro straps, and proceed to take pictures of his chest. He lies still and remains patient as I examine the images with the doctor.
"It looks like there's a fracture in your clavicle," I tell him, returning to the room.
"My what?"
"Your clavicle—it's this right here," I say, pointing to the bone in question. "It's your collarbone."
"That stupid son of a bitch. I should've done more than just bust his nose. I should've really whooped his ass," Lucien says, shaking his head.
"Well, you're lucky. It's not that bad," I reply. "It's just a hairline fracture. You won't need surgery. I'll give you a sling for your arm. That'll help minimize extra movements. The goal will be to just go easy on it for a while and let it heal."
"So I guess that ends my weight lifting career?" he laughs, and then grimaces again in pain.
"I'd say so. At least for six weeks, and then we can re-evaluate things. I'll be setting you up with an appointment to see an outside orthopedist."
"Well, ain't that a pleasant surprise. At least I get a ticket outta here, even if it's only to see another doc."
"That's one way of looking at it."
"Can you give me something for this pain, nurse?" he asks. "I ain't a pussy, but this shit hurts."
I think for a moment. In here, painkillers are given sparingly. It's how addictions are formed or fed, or maybe even both. But I can see he isn't pulling the wool over my eyes. He's in visible pain.
"Sure. I can give you something to take the edge off."
I look around the room for the syringe. That's another thing about being a nurse in this place. I can't leave anything in plain view for inmates—even something like a strip of tape or a paperclip can be stolen and used as a weapon. Not necessarily against me—I mean, everyone is on the defense in this place at any given time. They are mostly protecting themselves against each other. And as far as syringes go, we're always told to "count our sharps." They have to be closely monitored.
I ask Lucien where he'd like the injection.
"Where do you like it?" he asks, looking at me for a moment. "In your ass or somewhere else?"
"Well, for an intra-muscular injection, I would go for the butt. It's a big muscle, and lends itself well for that," I say.
"I thought you'd be the kind of girl who would take it in the ass," he laughs.
I realize the double entendre of his question and blush for the second time, and hate myself for it all over again. This is embarrassing. How is this guy making me put my own foot in my mouth? I look at him and see that he's still smiling. There seems to be a new, sharper shine in his eyes. He notices my embarrassment.
"I'm kidding," he says, noticing my embarrassment. "That's fine. Let's do it. Should I undress?"
"There's no need to uh, fully undress," I say. "Just pull your jumpsuit down past your waist."
I watch as he slowly removes his jumpsuit. It requires quite the effort to pull his arms out and he contorts his face in an acrobatics of pain. As he moves his jumpsuit down, I get a good look at his chest. He won the genetic lottery, that's for sure, I think to myself. I can almost visualize tracing my fingers down the mountain range of his abs. Shit. There I go again. I shake my head as if it was an Etch-A-Sketch and I was deleting the image, ready to start over.
He moves in front of me and turns around, holding his jumpsuit around his waist. I see the sculpted muscles of his back flex. He pulls his jumpsuit down lower and exposes the top of his perfect, muscular butt cheeks. "What are you waiting for?" he asks.
"I—I'm just grabbing some gauze and the syringe."
I find the gauze and sterilize the injection site. "It's in your best interest to relax. Don't clench your muscles like that, " I instruct.
"What makes you think I'm—ah, shit! Did you just stick me with a dart gun or something?"
"I warned you."
"Well, I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that. What other surprises do you have up your sleeve for me?" he asks.
I feel like I've engaged him too much already, so I don't respond. Why do I continue to open myself up for conversation? And damn it, here I am, blushing for the third time today. But I refuse to let him have this kind of power over me, and I motion for the guard to come back into the room and place his handcuffs around his wrists again.
I walk out of the room and look back at him one last time. We lock eyes and in that moment I feel a familiar coldness surge through my chest.