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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.
