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I think back to the phone call I had with my best friend Brie last night. I was sitting on the couch, sipping a glass of wine to try and unwind my nerves because I was feeling anxious and tight as a rubber band, and I found myself posting an offhand, cryptic comment about the assault on Facebook: "Sometimes, kindness doesn't win; it breaks you," it read. I wasn't ready to lay it all out there and explain everything in detail, but I at least needed to get that much off my chest. Within minutes people where commenting and wondering what I meant by that. My closest friends were especially concerned, and then my phone rang. I debated whether or not to pick it up. I prefer text messages, but I saw that it was Brie and it's rare that she ever calls, so I thought I better answer.
"Ker—are you okay, girl? I saw your post. I have cat-like reflexes when something sounds wrong because I've known you for so long. So tell me the truth. You know I'm here for you."
"I'm fine—really, it was just work. Some psycho inmate tried to attack me."
"Oh my god, what happened?"
I proceed to recount the events for her and I could almost imagine her shaking her head on the other end of the line. "You've got to get out of that place. Seriously—and before you protest—I know you're tough—there's nothing to prove—but that place is a shithole. Come meet me in Florida. I'll set you up with something better."
"I wish I could, but I can't."
"Okay, let me stop you right there, and I swear to god I'm not trying to sound cheesy, but Ker—you know the old saying that the only thing holding you back is yourself? I hate to say it—and don't get defensive—but that's you right now. You CAN get out of there. It's simple. You just pack your shit and leave."
"I'm not ready to pack up and leave."
"Why? Because you've suddenly grown a soft spot for psycho inmates?"
She had no way of knowing it, but that question had some serious truth to it. I hesitated, and wondered whether or not I should tell her about Lucien. Would she even understand? I decided that if I were going to share this with anyone, it would be with Brie.
"Yes and no," I said.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I might have a soft spot for an inmate, but not for the one who attacked me."
"Get the fuck out of here! You have to be joking. Please tell me you're joking, Ker."
"I wish I were, but I'm not. I'm serious as a heart attack."
I could hear her let out a long breath. "Well, shit. Who is he? He's hot isn't he? I can tell by the way your voice just went up an octave."
"It did not go up an octave," I say, rolling my eyes and thankful she can't see the warm flush creeping across my face. Maybe I'm just feeling warm from the wine.
"Just admit it," she prodded again.
"He's hot for a convict, okay? He's a little rough around the edges and I know he's not someone I should be falling for, but seeing him lying there on the exam table—"
Brie cut me off. "Wait—so you've seen him naked and sized up the whole package?"
"Well, I—uh, I may have done a little more than that."
"Shut up! You fucked this man?"
"No, no, no! I didn't mean that—I mean, he saved me from being attacked, and of course I've had to examine him, and—you know what? Never mind. Let's pretend I never mentioned it."
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A warm flush spread across my entire body as I remembered him laying there, his chiseled abs like mini mountain ranges just begging to be explored—and my hand on his— I cut the memory short when I realize I still have Brie on the phone. I shift uncomfortably on the couch when I realize that the thought of him is sending an electric jolt right between my legs.
Brie laughs. "Whatever you say. Just don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Now that's funny. Brie changes men as often as most people change shoes. Every season, she has a new flavor.
"Don't worry. Nothing will come of this. He's serving a life sentence, and I know that anything we do will put my job in jeopardy."
"Oh god, a life sentence? What is he, a murderer?"
"Well, he says he didn't do it."
