by Gage Grayson
She stares deep into me, expression unchanged.
“What exactly are your standards then, Mr. Covington?”
I stare at her for a moment, quiet awe stealing over me. I lean forward, just a little, and move my hands toward hers.
She doesn’t move. She just keeps staring me down.
Oh yeah, I like this one. I want to play with it for a while. Maybe even keep it.
“What’s your favorite book, Alison?”
She sighs and goes through her papers.
“I can label you as uncooperative.”
“But I’m not.”
“Do you have a problem with me?”
“No.”
“Do you have a problem with being assessed mentally?”
“No. I’m a big believer in self-discovery, embracing your own demons, and all that. You have no idea!”
“Then, I would like for you to answer a couple of questions for me so I can at least file a decent assessment of you.”
“You mean, if you stamp me with the big red button that says ‘sane’, I won’t get to see you anymore?”
She smiles, marking something off with a pen. I hear her shoe clip against the floor and realize she’s stretching, relaxing.
Getting used to my company. Good.
“That may be so.”
“Then, I might have to act crazy for a while then. This has been the highlight of my stay here in Castle Crim.”
I notice a slight smile curl at the edges of her mouth before she goes back to her papers. One hand flicks at a tendril of hair spilling against her face.
So beautiful. So smart. Got to play this one carefully.
I’m getting there, though.
“So, Mr. Covington, do you have any violent tendencies?”
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“Answer mine, and I’ll think about it.”
I grin at her. Tricky, tricky. Oh, I love a tricky one.
“Do I have violent tendencies? I don’t think so.”
Memory of blood splashing my face. How good it feels.
“I lose my cool occasionally.”
Pulling out a knife under Senator Dick’s face.
“I get upset. I’ve struck out, made mistakes. Seen red. Perhaps I could use help with my anger. But violent? No. I don’t think so.”
“Hmm…” She leans over with her pen and marks the book. Looking down at the page and not me, she speaks softly, “Vanilla and honey ice cream.”
“I’m sorry?”
She looks up, eyes lit by the cutest, cheekiest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Vanilla and honey ice cream. On the couch. My favorite.”
I let out a laugh. “Honey, you aren’t living. You need to try some chunky rocky road.”
She laughs with me. Excellent. Bonding.
And what a sound her laugh is.
The sounds of the room had become nonexistent to me, but suddenly I can hear someone chanting. Sounds like ‘little jack sprat’.
Are you kidding me?
I turn and look. This big fucking lummox is staring right at me.
He cut in front of me at breakfast this morning. He’s eyeballing me like a wild dog.
“What’s a matter there, ole Jack boy? I hear ya don’t like being called Jack. Why not? Little Jack?”
My chest goes cold and still. So does the big lummox. He’s starting to realize this is a mistake, and he’s not sure why.
I feel my lips turn up in a mirthless smile. I don’t feel myself move across the room. All I see is the big fucker and his dull, stupid eyes getting closer.
I smash him with both fists, and we roll across the floor. He tries to come out on top, but I force him over and straddle the fat fucker. I pound him with my fists until they’re bloody.
It must have happened so fast; no one else had moved. The guards drag me off him, leaving his face a bloody pulp.
As they manhandle me from the room, I see Alison watching. She hasn’t moved. She’s sitting quietly with her papers, watching me.
She glances down at a drop of blood that flew on one of her papers, and a slight smile curls across her face as I watch it soak into my name on her sheet.
She looks back up at me and watches me get dragged away.
The cold appraisal of her eyes seriously turns me on.
Alison
I’m prepared for him to manipulate me. He does exactly as I expect by trying to take over the interview.
What I don’t expect is how much fun I’m starting to have. It’s as if we’re truly speaking to each other in a very real way. It’s a connection on a deeper level than anything I’ve experienced.
He’s intense. He’s charismatic. He’s also funny and charming.
As he runs his hands across the tabletop, I imagine them stroking me along my arms, my sides, my legs. Does he have that purposeful calm even when he’s making love? Does he ever let it go?
What do I have to do to see the real Jaxon Covington?
I keep this in mind as I continue the interview. I can immediately tell that he’s certainly high on the spectrum. He’s very aware of my body language.
It’s definitely some type of narcissism or personality disorder. He doesn’t play by society’s rules.
Most of the people I interview stutter out their answers truthfully simply because they can’t be bothered to lie. It’s too difficult for them.
But Jaxon has made an art from his mask. Everything is a game where he’s the only one that knows the rules. It’s the way he likes it.
This points to a severe dissociative disorder. Issues of control. If there’s a childhood trauma behind it, he’ll be relatively easy to treat.
But if he doesn’t have psychological scars or PTSD, then the game gets a lot harder.
It means he was born like this, generally with a strong history of self-reliance and feelings of abandonment.
I’m picking him apart, piece by piece. He’s a puzzle that I have to put together. My psychology is not as strong as my psychiatry—I could offer him a dozen medications that might alleviate his symptoms.
The trouble is, he doesn’t see these issues as symptoms. He considers them strengths…and weapons. He won’t let me just take them away.
The trick will be convincing him that he can live happier and achieve his goals more effectively without these crutches—that success for him doesn’t have to mean hurting others.
This would not be easy, even on a standard patient. For him, I’m not sure where to even go next. I doubt I’ll get into the first five of the pages of questions, and that bodes badly for his official assessments.
Patients who can’t get through the questionnaire are either highly intelligent and deeply emotionally damaged, or…actually, physically brain damaged.
He’s clearly not brain damaged.
I mentally keep lashing myself to get back on task and handle him. It’s my job, after all, and I’m damn good at it.
I’ve never met a patient I couldn’t get to trust me. I find myself enjoying the banter and the sense of companionship our casual flirting is bringing to the meeting.
Flirting. Okay, now this has gone too far.
I’m actually considering him as a potential date. I know I should excuse myself.
Right now.
I can’t possibly be objective in my assessment, or fully effective as his doctor, if I have feelings for him.
But something about his dark vibes calls to me. There’s a shared sympathy between us. I can feel it.
It’s selfish, compulsive, and potentially damaging to the both of us. But I can’t just put this case down.
I must see him again. The idea of never seeing him again sparks a nasty, stinging panic deep inside me. I relish this—I hang on to it even as it starts to eat me up inside.
I feel this. It rocks me.
Panic. Anxiety. Loss. Fear.
I can feel it. It’s more than the pale, watered-down emotions of my every day. It’s a connection.
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I can tell—by the way he’s looking at me, playing with me, and toying with me—he feels the same. He’s never met anyone that can play the game by his rules before.
It’s thrilling, not just to be playing the game, but to be holding my own.
I look into those pale-blue eyes. Almost gray. The dark edge of the iris suggests depth and focus.
I watch his mouth curve just lightly as he smiles, and I know there’s real emotion in it.
I want to touch him. Even while he’s pissing me off.
What is it like to touch someone…like this? What does it feel like to have them touch me?
The pent-up and repressed lust of the recent years of my life comes roaring back to me. I’m sure I must be blushing, no matter how hard I try to control my body language.
If he did actually touch me, I might scream.
In delight? Fear?
I’m not sure. It’s a hot, messy web of emotions in me that are bubbling up from a dark well, swallowing me, destroying my good sense.
The routines of my work are so well ingrained that I manage to work my way through the correct responses and prompts without much difficulty. Another few minutes, I might actually let him derail me.
I want to ask what his favorite food is. Favorite movie. Book.
I want him to force these questions on me.
The dull sounds of the other inmates around us has fallen from my notice. Jaxon seems to carry a silence around him, a deep stillness. I fell into it as I walked toward him.
It swallowed all the noises of the room.
Until I hear the childish, sing-song voice. Almost at the same time he does. He turns away to focus on the sound.
With shock, I realize the large man on the other side of the room is pointing at Jaxon and taunting him.
I feel a nasty shock, and I’m almost upset for Jaxon.
He’s clearly a refined man—a man of careful deeds and controlled emotion. To have this dullard teasing him like kids in the schoolyard must be embarrassing beyond belief.
“Jack,” he taunts, “don’t like being called Jack.”
I have notes about that in here somewhere. From his arrest. He really, really doesn’t like being called Jack.
I see a smile curl on Jaxon’s face, and my blood runs cold, but the rest of me feels hot. That crazed look is driving me wild. But what happens next is something I don’t quite expect.
I feel compelled to look away. I can’t keep looking at his face—that cruel, tantalizing smile. I stare down at my papers when Jaxon hurls himself across the room.
He clears two tables on his initial spring, landing in front of the big fat guy. His momentum carries him across the table and into the larger man. They come down on the floor rolling, growling, and swinging.
I wasn’t expecting him to react physically. He’s so controlled, so sure of the game. A break like this, over something so small, is shocking to behold.
I’ve never seen firsthand violence before.
It’s more intense than his charisma. It’s hotter than his gaze.
I’m getting turned on. I can’t help it.
Time seems to have stopped. Everyone in the room is frozen. We’re all sitting, watching Jaxon beat the fuck out of the guy.
The sensation is powerfully erotic. My newly awakened lust is rushing to the obvious places—my nipples and my clit. I squirm uncomfortably, feeling the heat rising from between my legs.
The look of his broad shoulders straining against the crappy prison jumpsuit. The speed and decisiveness he uses to throw the punches.
I’m shocked at my own reaction. I would’ve expected, from my own self-analysis, to be mortified, upset, or frightened.
Oh yes. I’m frightened. Certainly.
Bad enough that he can play the part and emotionally manipulate anyone. To see him turn so quickly to violence is terrifying, not bound by any social expectations—not at all.
Imagining those big, strong hands running over me, seeing those pale eyes staring into mine as he touches me. Tears off my clothes. Violence running under his skin, barely restrained as he fucks me.
I’m frightened. Shocked.
I’m also intensely aroused and more alive than I’ve ever been. This connection, this awakening, is something I’ve been waiting for my whole life.
I didn’t even realize it.
The guards pull him up and drag him off the other man, who’s lying still on the floor. His face is covered in blood. His features are a mess.
Jaxon is laughing quietly through his teeth. His eyes are completely mad. His clenched fists are dripping with blood.
His eyes rake over me, and I see his expression change, just slightly.
He likes that I’m watching.
I wonder how he’ll change the game the next time we meet. How will he answer the question of violent tendencies? I’m sure it’ll be a good explanation.
I can’t wait to write up his assessment. It’ll be very challenging for me. I have to word it just right.
I need to see him again. I have to make sure I don’t write anything too damning, but with enough affliction that he needs ongoing care.
By me. A few sessions a week, at least.
I gather up my papers and hurry to the door, asking to be buzzed out. As I leave, I watch medics working on the injured man. The smear of blood on the floor makes me feel sexual, powerful.
Only if I can tame the monster that did it. That is the only thing that matters.
Jaxon
The bastards haul me to my room, and not too gently, either. It takes four of them to wrestle me to my cell, and the only reason they can subdue me is because I’m laughing so fucking hard.
They toss me through the door and I slam against the cold, hard concrete. By luck or design, I have a room of my own. There’s a bunk bed and a hole in the wall to shit in. That’s it. I don’t know if I’m in my own cell because I’m violent or what, but if I hadn’t already been in my own room, I would’ve made sure they fixed that.
I enjoy my own company.
I lie down on the saggy mattress and look at my bloody knuckles. As always, at times like this, I feel conflicted. I love the violence. I love the pain. Yet, I feel I shouldn’t have lost control.
Everyone has a switch. One that completely changes their minds when flipped. Some have more than one. Our reactions have to do with conditioning, and I use that fact as a tool. People have expectations, and using those against them is extremely easy.
Back in the days of my childhood, living in a Lord-of-The-Flies type deal, I needed the violence. It was expected. Adolescents are completely fucked up, and I was beyond weird to them. They did what they could to tease, to poke, to prod.
I made sure this didn’t happen then, and it won’t happen now, too.
I show them their fear. I shove their ignorance in their faces. Just by existing, I remind them what pitiful excuses of human beings they really are.
I should do more than petty violence to punish them for that audacity.
Perhaps Alison can help me with that.
“Alison.” I say aloud, rolling it over my tongue.
Beautiful. Goddamn sexy. And she doesn’t know just how fucking sexy she is. So innocent, wearing that body as if it was nothing. But when a man’s eyes are on her, she glows even without meaning to.
Women of her age should know how to work it.
Not Alison. She’s like a child in a way, with how innocently she moves and speaks. Everything is literal and plain. There are no hidden meanings with her.
Except with what’s really in her mind. I feel she’s chosen this profession not to understand others, but to understand herself. How strange that she should run into me, who sees her so clearly for who and what she really is.
Oh, honey. Your lack of emotion doesn’t make you less human. Your disconnection from the world is not a weakness.
It’s power. It’s strength. If you can’t feel…if you think the world doesn’t give you enough, fucking thro
ttle for more!
My fists are clenched so tightly the knuckles are aching. My cock is getting hard. This won’t do at all.
With a few deep breaths, I bring myself back on the level. I can hear the other inmates moving around outside, talking. Management will be deciding what to do with me.
If I wasn’t already in a nice, private cell, I’d probably be in solitary.
In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve recognized some of the guards as being on my payroll.
Money fucking talks everywhere, bitches. Over the years, I’ve built a vast network. I’ve never burned any bridge so badly that a couple of grand wouldn’t solve. Any of them who thought they had ‘integrity’ either sold out or compromised.
I grin at that, and my smile grows and lingers as I start rubbing my hands together.
Compromise Alison. Oh, yes. Not just to fuck her—as fun as that would be, any dick could do that. Get her half-aroused and then tear her clothes off and fuck her. Soft virgin cries against the hard fury of male.
That’s too fucking easy. I can get that anywhere, any time. There are plenty of virgin idiots out there who’d give me that edge of fear, that first-time astonishment. It’s luscious every time, I don’t deny it.
But that’s not what I want from Alison. I can tell she’s a virgin by that innocent, childlike manner. She wouldn’t consider it childlike—she would probably be deeply insulted by the idea. It shows though. The way she moves, completely unaffected by the gazes of men, shows me she’s never been touched.
God, she’s probably never even had a hot wrestle with clothes on.
Fuck. My whole body’s getting hard. I let it ride over me, fury, power, need…and I let myself think about her.
I want that soft white skin under my hands. I want that flaming red hair fanned out about her, flickering like inflamed lust. I want to see those blue eyes looking up at me…but not in fear.
In hunger.
I want to see her hungry, and mad, and clawing at me. I want to tear off that cold calculating mask and set her heart alight.
I want to show her she’s just as mad as I am. I want to see her glory in the demonic energy of the deranged.
