Toxic Bad Boy
Book Three of the
Beware of Bad Boy Series
April Brookshire
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2015 by April Brookshire
All right reserved
www.aprilbrookshire.net
ISBN: 9781310979668
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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CHAPTER ONE
“Sometimes it’s the smallest decisions that can change your life forever.”
-Keri Russell
NOVEMBER
one month down, nine to go…
CALEB
Three cracks in the ceiling of my cell reminded me of the fractures in my own life. The shortest crack represented the rift between who I was before being incarcerated and who I was forced to be in this place. The next crack illustrated my loss of freedom, the right to do as I chose. The largest crack symbolized the loss of my heart, the loss of her.
Tilting my head, I gazed at the pictures taped on the underside of the bunk above mine. The same set of blue eyes stared back at me in each of them, projecting amusement, irritation and even embarrassment.
My chest tightened with longing and need. Being apart from her was killing me. Did she feel the same ache?
The guy on the bunk above mine sang off-key about being locked in a cage. My head pounded at the grating timbre until I couldn’t take it anymore. “Shut the hell up, Ian!” I shouted, kicking at the mattress above mine. “How the hell did your lawyer get us in the same cell, anyways?”
“Money talks,” he answered in the smug voice of someone who’d often taken advantage of its persuasive properties. “A hefty donation from one of my father’s charity foundations to the Colorado Division of Youth Corrections. Don’t forget it was my lawyer who argued with the judge so we wouldn’t be stuck down in Pueblo. You don’t have to thank me, roomie, but I’ll take your dessert at dinnertime.”
“I’d pay not to share a cell with you.” On edge, I sprung off my bed and paced back and forth in the narrow space. The enclosed area contained a desk built into the wall with shelving above it, a stool bolted to the floor, a sink and a toilet. The metal fixtures reminded me of living quarters on a spaceship. The cold concrete floor never let me forget it was a prison. Even if we were in a Denver facility, we might as well be down south in Pueblo.
A barred, plexiglass window looked down onto the basketball court outside. It snowed the night before and a couple inches of powder covered the turf and grass. The sun had just risen and was still low in the sky. That little bit of snow would likely melt by afternoon.
Moving to the door of our cage, I peered out the small rectangle window to view the middle common area of the male residents’ cell block. Armchairs and desks were scattered, along with ping pong and checkers tables.
The facility was named Peak View Youth Services Center, but that was just a nice way of saying prison for teenagers. I’d been in juvenile detention centers before, but only for short periods of holding. My extended stay at this juvie was like being locked in school with extremely suspicious teachers and mandatory visits with the counselors.
Ian sat up, running a hand over his mussed blonde hair as he hung his legs over the side of the top bunk. “She’ll write.”
“It’s been a month,” I pointed out, rubbing a hand over my chest in a pointless effort to soothe the ache.
After an entire month, Gianna still hadn’t replied to any of my letters. My first letter to her posted the second day of my imprisonment. I’d mailed every one of them to Dante’s address so he’d get them to her through Cece.
“It’s only been a month. Give her time. She’s had a lot to adjust to.” Ian’s advice was unwanted, like most of what came out of his mouth.
He had no idea what her silence did to me. I’d compare it to a dark void where color and light had previously thrived, leaving their absence all the more stark. I threw out an arm, indicating the walls around us. “As if I don’t have plenty to adjust to?”
His head shook lazily, lips quirking in amusement. “Just be grateful the judge didn’t send us to one of those private youth corrections places where they’d make us live on a farm, milking cows and shoveling shit.”
“Or the place they sent Josh,” I added, thinking about the sick bastard who’d hurt Gianna.
After being released from the hospital, Josh had been sent to a facility north of Denver for high-risk juvenile offenders. Unlike our co-ed facility, there were only male inmates where Josh was locked up. Same as Ian and me, his sentence was mandatory, but he’d be detained there until he turned eighteen. So much for a football scholarship or going to prom. I enjoyed immense satisfaction from knowing his popular high school life was over.
Ian’s stomach growled and on cue our cell door opened. The staff referred to the cells as our rooms. Solitary was called a time out and fights or riots were called group disturbances. The guard moved to the next cell, going down the line. We left the room, standing just outside it until we had the okay to move in a single file to the cafeteria.
Near the entrance to the cell block we passed by a glass door with an inmate on the other side. The kid had threatened suicide to the psychiatrist yesterday and got put on what was labeled Close Watch, which was essentially a softer way of saying suicide watch. In his special cell the kid was given a mattress and nothing else, not even bedding. Food was brought to him and he’d remain confined until the psychiatrist decided the suicide threat was over.
“The thing I hate second most about this place is not eating whenever I want,” Ian muttered.
“What’s first?” I asked in a bored tone. Ian’s complaints had been numerous since arriving here. Life here must be especially torturous for someone like him, having come from a wealthy background.
“Not getting laid.”
His words brought X-rated images to mind, all featuring a certain beautiful blonde. The thin navy jumpsuit we were given to wear would do nothing to hide a hard-on. I quickly moved my thoughts to non sexual subjects. Picturing Julie, my hateful stepmother, solved the problem.
It was interesting that Julie rhymed with juvie. Both were hateful and oppressive.
Entering the cafeteria for breakfast, Ian listed off all the places he’d rather be. Grabbing a tray and accepting what the facility so generously offered us delinquents, I sat down with Ian at a table. The scrambled eggs and sausage were still warm. I scarfed down the meal and finished my orange juice.
The female inmates, or residents as they liked to call us, were seated with their trays across the room. Their jumpsuits were green and their cells on the opposite side of the building. Although the girls and boys were together in class and at other times, we weren’t allowed to interact with each other. Not that I wanted to talk to those chicks.
I scanned the guards stationed at the doorways, three males and a female. We were always being watched, except for when locked in our cells at night or showering. The guards escorted us everywhere like preschoolers, usually in groups of five or more. After a couple days into my sentence, I didn’t need to be reminded what to do and where to go. Everything was routine down to when we went to bed each night.
Ian and I hadn’t socialized much with the other prisoners. Besides a guy named Ricky Moreno, we’d made no friends. Ricky claimed to be in here for hacking into a government website. The kid
was obviously full of crap, wanting to make himself seem cooler than the average delinquent.
After breakfast we were led to a classroom with other fifteen to seventeen-year-olds. Teachers from the local school district were brought in to instruct us in all the core subjects based on our grade level. After lunch it was time for our electives. The offerings were less varied than at a normal school, but I’d signed up for art class.
The classrooms we spent our mornings in were equipped with desks, bookshelves filled with textbooks, computers and all the other tools of learning. The science room had a lab setup so those of us taking chemistry were supervised by a guard as we followed the teacher’s instructions during labs.
It happened while I was doing my trigonometry problems midmorning. Ian, sitting at a desk next to mine, passed me a note with my name on it. Narrowing my eyes, I held the folded piece of binder paper. I hadn’t taken Ian for the note-writing type. Unfolding it in my lap, I scanned the scribbled words and counted numerous misspellings.
Two sentences in, I realized the note wasn’t from the snickering Ian next to me, but from a girl across the room named Genesis. Apparently, Genesis thought I was so hot and wanted me to sneak off with her at the soonest opportunity.
Who the hell was Genesis?
My eyes roving the room, they landed on a skinny girl with bleached hair and a good two inches of dark roots. Winking at me, her tongue licked a thin upper lip. Cringing, I averted my gaze from the unpleasant image I didn’t want to carry with me throughout the day.
“Lucky guy,” Ian teased, his shoulders shaking.
“Good thing there’s a guard to protect me,” I whispered back.
Ian barked out a laugh and I elbowed him to shut him up. The guard at the front of the room glowered at us as the math teacher assisted a kid in the back.
I’d steer clear of that Genesis girl. The male and female inmates weren’t allowed to speak to each other and I didn’t want to get in trouble over some chick hard up for attention. Even if I were single I wouldn’t touch that teen pregnancy waiting to happen.
Nine more months and I was out of here, never to come back again. No way would I do anything to mess up and be separated from Gianna for longer than my required sentence.
Nine more miserable months and I’d have my girl back. Closing my eyes, I imagined the feel of her in my arms, the taste of her lips against mine. Pure heaven.
After lunch Ian and I parted ways. “Have fun in arts and crafts therapy, Caleb!”
“It’s art class, dumbshit!” I called out after his retreating back.
The well lit art classroom held boys aged twelve to seventeen. The easel I’d claimed as mine was set up next to a kid around thirteen. The little brat had better not copy off me again. The room smelled of paint and chemicals. It brought memories of watching my mom work in her studio when I was younger.
Ms. Singh, an art professor from the University of Denver, came in twice a week to do volunteer work with us troubled youth. The guard stood at the closed door and escorted her in and out of the facility, making me feel like Hannibal Lecter.
I didn’t feel as if I posed a danger to art professors or society in general. Just Josh Larsen and anyone else who dared lay a finger on the girl I loved.
I’d quickly become Ms. Singh’s favorite pupil. Not that there was much competition. The little punk next to me liked to paint stick figures having sex.
At the end of the hour, Ms. Singh surveyed my progress. “Amazing, Caleb. You have a natural talent.” Her gaze moved to the stick figure painting next to mine. The disgusted expression on her face was priceless. With a flick her flowing skirts, she drifted to where the guard stood. “See you all tomorrow.”
I encountered Ian on the way to my next elective, health class, where he’d just gotten out of. I knew this time of day was when he met with the psychiatrist and I couldn’t resist mocking him. “Have fun talking about your daddy issues.”
Strutting past me, his shoulder bumped against mine. “At least I don’t have an Oedipus complex about my stepmom.”
“Narcissus.”
“What’s your point, Caleb?” At least he could admit it. He turned a corner and I thought back to our first fistfight. We’d been scrawny middle schoolers fighting over something so stupid I couldn’t remember it. After years of antagonism and altercations we were almost friends.
In health class we were shown pictures of people with STDs. What a joy. I’d completed ninth grade health class and been through the lecture. I bit back laughter at the young kid whose eyes bugged out during the slides. Damn, they were gonna make him too scared to lose his virginity.
Looking at the kid, it amazed me I’d had sex for the first time around his age. A scrawny girl around thirteen sat at the front of the class and I pictured what Gianna looked like at that age. The female inmate was just a little girl, but with the background these kids had, most of them would already be sexually active. Although I’d been like them in that aspect, my home life had been relatively sheltered. I was grateful my girl’s had been even more so.
But that’d been shattered when Josh attacked her. Something he’d continue to pay for after they released him.
For now, he was in the same wretched position as me. He’d be locked up for a lot longer, which provided a modicum of pleasure. A decade in prison wouldn’t have been enough punishment for the fear, pain and feeling of violation he’d caused her.
Despite my resolve to remain strong, it was hard not to feel sorry for myself. Being locked up for ten months sucked and I still had nine more to go. The judge had been a bastard for making our sentence mandatory. A non-mandatory sentence could’ve seen me out of here earlier.
My release date seemed so far away and engendered a hopeless feeling I constantly fought back. I felt sorrier for Ian. At least my parents cared about me. My mom and dad had visited me twice in the past month. Together, which was a trip, since they’d done little together since the divorce.
Ian’s dad rarely answered when he called. After going through the motions without leaving a message, Ian used the rest of his phone time to call ex-girlfriends. I’d passed by once as he was on the phone and he’d been talking dirty to some chick.
I’d gagged.
At night I sometimes dreamt about Gianna. In one dream we were tagging. Like the time we’d almost got caught, except in my dream we did get caught and arrested by the cops. Gianna and I sat on a curb, handcuffed but laughing our asses off until Julie showed up breathing fire, literally.
In another dream we took off to Vegas again, but this time to get married. The oddest part was that Hailey was the person officiating the wedding, dressed in an Elvis costume. In my dream Hailey had beamed down at us, cheerfully admitting she’d been wrong about Gianna not sticking it out with me.
I’d woken from the dream feeling mixed emotions. I’d marry Gianna one day, but we were nowhere near ready for marriage. Hailey sure as hell wouldn’t be invited.
The nightmares were the worst.
The one where I cried at Gianna’s funeral had me waking up panicked, agitated and with no outlet for the rising aggression. I’d been tempted to drag Ian off the top bunk just to have someone to punch. Another nightmare centered on me getting released from juvie only to find out she’d fallen in love with someone else.
I hadn’t fallen back to sleep that night. Gianna was amazing. Other guys would be sniffing around while I was out of the picture.
After health class, it was my turn to see the shrink. Since taxpayers generously paid for my therapy, I figured I’d get their money’s worth. My therapist would get tired of hearing me bitch about Julie by the time my sentence was up. Maybe she’d recommend early release to the judge to get rid of me.
I met with the psychiatrist for individual therapy three times a week on Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. My group therapy was once a week on Friday afternoons. Thank God Ian did group therapy a different day. I heard enough of his yapping in our cell and at mealtimes.
/> The shrink insisted on discussing my parents, their marital problems before the divorce and how the divorce affected me. It became tiresome after our second session. I was from a broken home, poor me. I got into so much trouble because I didn’t have a father in the house during my formative years. Bullshit. I was offended when my therapist went this route, because it was like saying my mom hadn’t been a good single mom. This wasn’t true at all.
I owned up to my mistakes. My parents were a hell of a lot better than what most of the kids had in this place. They’d never mistreated me, even when I misbehaved.
Each session, we talked about Josh attacking Gianna. Besides it resulting in my own attack on Josh, it had become apparent I harbored rage about the incident. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself from killing him if I ever saw him. Would I be able to keep myself from hunting him down after his release?
I’d been reluctant to talk much about Gianna directly. What we had, still have, was private. Those memories were precious, not for others to analyze. After a whole month with no letter from Gianna and not having her new cell number yet, today I broke down to my therapist, Dr. Erica Adler. My emotions were turbulent and I was anxious about the future of our relationship.
Feeling embarrassed at exposing my feelings, I hightailed it out of there at the end of our session and a guard escorted me back to the cell block. Ian sat in the common area, looking sullen. Maybe his earlier session hadn’t gone so well either. It almost made me feel guilty about my daddy issues comment earlier.
“Hey, man.” I dropped down into an armchair across from him.
“I’m hungry,” Ian muttered grumpily. “I hate how they make us wait until everyone checks in before we can go to dinner.”
Tapping my right foot, I was impatient to eat, also. My plain white tennis shoes were comfortable, if not a little generic. When the shoes were first issued to us, Ian complained they were poor people shoes. I’d laughed and told him no more name brands for the rich boy.