Come Home Bad Boy (17 page)

I walked briskly into the prison, my adrenaline starting to pump again.
My brain is going to be fried.

My feet, still wet from the snow, hit the marble tiles. With a sharp gasp, I twisted, trying to keep my balance. Gripping the wall, I puffed out a breath, smoothing my shirt. I had been distracted trying to adjust myself that I almost didn't notice Warden Lynch.

He was rested against the front desk, talking with the clerk. I could already feel a headache brewing, the last thing I wanted was to see him, or to explain why I was late. He would most likely think it was ridiculous and irresponsible for me to put a stray dog before my obligation to
'his'
prison.

He held his coffee mug up to gesture hello at me, then continued with his conversation.

I smiled and hoped that would be the extent of his greeting. When I passed him without any questions, I breathed a sigh of relief.

I made my way down the corridor towards my office. I had started to approach the community room and could hear some loud yelling coming from inside. When I reached the glass windows that overlooked the area, a large mass of men were yelling and fighting.

The guards posted inside were standing motionless. I tried to understand what was happening.

There was a small man cornered against the back wall by seven men. A large crowd of other prisoners surrounded them, antagonizing the group on.

The guy in the middle was definitely the leader, he was laughing and jabbing the defenseless prisoner. The others around him followed in suit. Each one took a turn to spit on the smaller guy.

He looked frightened and kept glancing up at the guards as if waiting for them to do something. I felt the same as I looked down on him.
What are they doing? Why aren't they stopping this?

The man that led the attack had a ragged scar across his throat. He seemed to be encouraging each of his cronies. He would point at one of them and they would take their turn.

Each assaulted him in some way as he covered his body, trying to block the blows. The man in charge ran his hand over his greasy black hair as he laughed uncontrollably.

A short, fat guy with a shiny bald head grabbed the injured prisoner by the back of his neck. He pulled his arm back and released a punch into his stomach. The leader patted the fat man on his back as he stepped away, making room for someone else.

This is awful! He can't defend himself against all of them. It's disgusting that they're all finding this funny. Where is the humor in this?

I couldn't believe what I was witnessing. The guards all watched from above and said nothing. They made no attempt to intervene. I raised my hand to the window, about to pound on it to get their attention. I wanted to yell to the guards to do something, or even just draw the attention away from the weak prisoner and onto myself.

They should be controlling the situation. How can they just stand and watch so carelessly? Do what you're getting paid for, assholes!

Right as I lifted my hand, I saw the group of observers part like the red sea. A figure walked effortlessly through the mass of men.

Those who where following the main instigator backed up completely. The leader didn't notice at first and continued to throw blows at the cowering man.

The room fell silent. I heard the soft muffle of a voice. The unknown figured had turned and I could see his side profile. 

Owen. That's Owen.

My heart skipped a beat. He pointed at the scarred man who had been beating on the prisoner. The two of them exchanged words. I couldn't hear what was being said, but the gestures said it all.

Owen pointed towards the hurt prisoner and then at the big man in front of him. His eyebrows were crinkled low over his eyes, he definitely didn't approve of the behavior these guys had displayed.

The aggressor tried to get close to Owen's face, he shoved him and Owen barely moved.

I was in awe of his strength, to be there taking a stand, to not back down to the other man and hold his ground.

In a burst of speed, Owen thrust his open hand into the guy's left shoulder. Then, he began yelling and pointing towards the beaten man who was now curled up on the floor in pain.

He's protecting him. He stopped the attack.

My body got chills. Here I was, standing and watching this supposed bad boy show a tenderness that I had not expected was there. I was mesmerized as he shoved the other guy across the room.

No one else joined the fight. Even the guards just observed, not willing to give any assistance.

Owen was in charge.

As the fight ensued, the leader raised his fist and took a swing at Owen. He was clearly enraged by the fact someone would stand in the way of him and his victim.

I found myself cheering inside my head for Owen, hoping he would knock this guy out. My face was pressed against the glass, knuckles turning bone-white.

What am I doing? This isn't me. I don't like fighting.

But his body language, his sternness, was giving me butterflies.

I'd seen several fights at my old job, but this was different.

This didn't feel pointless.

Owen grabbed the man by his arm and threw him down. He jumped on top of him and repeatedly punched him, one fist after the other. It wasn't until that moment that the guards finally intervened.

They swarmed the two men like flies to a piece of meat, their guns raised in an effort to gain back their control.

It took three guards to get Owen to the floor. He was cuffed and brought to his feet, glaring down at the now bloody and bruised scarred-man. He mouthed a series of words that I couldn't make out.

I wanted him to look up at me; I pressed my palms against the glass, willing him to look in my direction.

He never did.

The main attacker stumbled to his feet, wiping the blood from his nose. It smeared across his cheek as he spit more onto the floor. His eye already showing signs of swelling under the lights.

A smile crept across my face. I wasn't a fan of violence, but that guy got what he deserved. It made me happy that Owen had put himself in danger, just so he could protect someone in need.

Maybe he isn't such a bad guy. Maybe there's another side to him.

I was more intrigued by Owen than ever before. I was anxious to talk to him, to ask him why he'd saved that prisoner from the others.

Why did he put himself in that position? He didn't need to.

I replayed the scenario in my head. The way he'd stood as still as stone, refusing to back down. He took control when the guards who were here to maintain order couldn't. I could see his muscles tense while he spoke, enhanced by his dark mood.

I ached to have those arms use their strength on me. The thought gave me chills.

Never in my life have I been so wrapped up in someone, and a damn murderer at that!
I pulled myself away from the glass, I had to find the warden. Maybe he'd allow me to have another session with Owen. I didn't want to wait a week.

I needed to see him now.

There was more to his story than what he'd let on. A stone-cold, egotistical man would be unconcerned about what others did around him.

What motive did he have to intervene?
Why?

His noble action deserved praise, he should be commended for saving someone else.

I don't understand, in the past I would have been disgusted by anyone who thought fighting was the answer. But watching Owen just made me want him more. I can't figure myself out, I have no idea why this made me excited. What is going on with me?

The desire to talk to him was overwhelming. I entered my office and immediately called the warden, Lynch. I waited impatiently for him to pick up his line. I hoped he wasn't still congregating in the foyer.

Abruptly, the line clicked as someone picked up. “Hello?” Lynch asked, sounding bored.

“Warden? It's Charlie. I need to set up an extra session to see Owen Jenkins.”

“I'm sorry Ms. Laroche, but Mr. Jenkins is in the hole for the next two weeks due to his little stunt in the common area.”

My heart stopped. “Wait, what? Why? He didn't...”

“Ms. Laroche, it's our policy here that any inmate who takes part in a fight spends a designated amount of time in the hole. You will return to your normal schedule and see him on your regular day in two weeks.”

Gritting my teeth, I went to argue. Before I could try, the dial tone filled my ear.

I was baffled. Owen didn't start that incident. How could he be sent into solitary confinement for something he'd stopped? It didn't make sense to me. The warden didn't have the whole story!

Some lie had been told to the man, maybe a guard covering for his own lazy ass. I'd had a birds eye view of the whole situation, and Owen hadn't started any trouble. He'd put himself in the middle of danger to help someone.

All I wanted was to see him. I needed him to know I'd seen what he'd done. I was overcome with wanting to help, but I felt impotent.

I stared blankly at my desk. Absently, I let the phone fall back on the receiver.

How has this day gone so wrong?

The suddenly loud ringing jostled me out of my daze. On reaction I picked up the phone. Holding it to my ear I asked, “Hello?”

A piece of me hoped I would hear
his
voice on the other end. I craved the deepness of his gritty baritone.

“Hello, is this Charlie Laroche?” It was not a voice I recognized.

“Yes, this is Charlie.”

“My name is Dr. Phillips, I'm calling about your dog. I don't have a name down here for him, but I wanted to let you know he was doing well. He sustained a broken back leg and some bruising to his ribs. Let me just say you, have one tough dog.”

I sat up straighter in my chair. “Oh, thank god. You have no idea how happy that makes me to hear that.”

“You should be able to pick him up in three days. We'd like to keep him till then, just for observation. So long as nothing pops up, he can go home.”

Chewing my bottom lip, I sat forward. “Well, actually, he's not really my dog. I explained all of this to the staff earlier today. I don't know who he belongs to, I just happened to be there when he got hit. He could be a stray or maybe a pet that got loose?”

“Ah, okay. Well, we'll post some things and contact the animal shelter.”

Animal shelter? I know what happens to unclaimed dogs there. They don't last long. I don't want that! Maybe I should take him in? Could I take him? No. I barely have enough time for myself, he'd be alone constantly.

I was relieved to know he was fine, he was lucky it was just a broken leg. I tried to move my thoughts onto the only good thing that had finally shined through today. My heart rose a bit to know his injuries were minor.

The dog had a chance at a new life. I was sure some nice family would adopt him and he wouldn't be fending for himself anymore.

The man on the line said, “I want to thank you for doing this for him. He wouldn't have made it out there alone.”

“It was nothing,” I said warily. “Call me when he's better, okay?”

“Of course. Have a good day, Miss.”

The call ended, and instantly, I rested my head against my hands.
I'm always in limbo.
I had to wait to find out about the dog, and about Owen.

My thoughts returned to him, how he was in the hole and I could nothing about it. Even as his therapist I had no authority and no say in what happened to him.

My fist came down hard on the desk.
How does this help his rehabilitation? It just isn't fair to him. That warden has no idea what this could do to him. Complete isolation for that long could take hold of him mentally!

The purpose of the program was to help give Owen the tools to be part of society again. The treatment was meant to ensure he had the ability to make proper decisions.

How can I do my job when they don't even evaluate a situation like the fight? They just automatically throw people into solitude without knowing why.

This didn't sit right with me. I had a natural instinct to help those in need.

Owen needed me.

And I need him.

Owen

I
couldn't see a foot in front of me.

The only light I had came from a small crack beneath the door. My food was pushed in through a slot, it came at random times. No contact was allowed with anyone, not even the guards.

It was my own private hell.

As I sat in the shadows I could hear a constant dripping of water around me. Echoes of it rang off the pipes and filled the air. It definitely seemed louder than it should be.

I felt so alone, I couldn't even see my own shadow. There could have been another person sitting directly in front of me and I wouldn't even know it.

Punished, again, for trying to do the right thing.
That seemed to be a common event in my life.

I'd been shoved into exile for taking a stand; that was a real punch in the gut.

This is why I stopped trying to help.

It always backfires.

And I always fucking pay.

I could feel the pain bubble up again. I hated thinking about what had brought me here to begin with. Desperately, I shoved it back down into the pit of my soul.

But my past kept clawing back up.

It had been my desire to help that had kept me by his side. That, and my damn need to be appreciated—told I was worth something.

I used to tell myself that there would be a time that
he
would take me seriously. He would finally see I knew what I was talking about. I'd thrown myself into harms way a multitude of times for the only one I ever truly felt connected to. The amount of dedication I had to him was numbing.

I'd held him high above me and ignored the voice inside my head.

Look where that got me. Who's here for me now? Not a soul.

As I sat alone in the dark, realization sank in that I'd been my worst enemy. I was blind to those around me and their motives.

How could I have been so fucking stupid?

I should have never gone that night.

My instincts had been right, they usually are.