No Limits

by Knox, Elizabeth

  I run my fingertips over his photo, the green eyes staring out defiantly, and cheekbones giving his face an edge that terrified me. Why couldn't I get him off my mind? I saw him on my rounds and during bunk inspections but that was about it. So why was he under my skin? Neither my father nor my brother had mentioned him again and I needed more information. It was like a compulsion, I wanted inside the monsters head.

  I look around my shoebox apartment, an easel and half-finished canvas nestled away in the corner, painting textbooks stacked up on my coffee table and I sigh. Sometimes I felt like I wasn’t getting anywhere with my workshop, I needed to change it up a little, add a little excitement otherwise the inmates would just get bored. The job is much harder than I thought and the payoff is very minimal, but I had to persevere. Even if it was just to prove daddy dearest wrong. I was a prison officer but also an art teacher heading up a rehabilitation programme and I didn’t fit in with either role. Checking my watch I see that it’s almost time for my shift, and an idea pops into my head.

  Like there's always a snitch in cop films, there's always a chatty officer in real life―the one who toes the line dangerously with their loose lips. In our case it was Officer Langdon Jones who worked in the Bird's Nest, which was what we called our security office. He was the eyes and ears in this facility; it was just a shame about his big mouth. If there was any gossip, anything worth knowing about Elijah Creed then Langdon would know it and he loved nothing more than to show off his knowledge.

  Grabbing an extra coffee at Starbucks I head into work and make a bee-line straight for Langdon. I had fifteen minutes before my shift began and I intended to use them wisely. After all, I’d be spending my shift doing paperwork, supervising yard time and teaching uninterested students about contemporary Modern Art, it wasn’t exactly like I’d get another chance to sneak into the Bird’s Nest today.

  I slip in through the door and say hi to Officer Langdon and Officer Gibbs. It’s not unusual for me to pop in; in fact I sometimes eat my lunch in here. Being the daughter of a Judge can get me some sideways glances and whispers in the staff room, especially when I’m kept from doing the more dangerous tasks. So instead I hang out in the office, watching the inmates on the monitor, casually chatting to Langdon as I sip on my mocha. When Creed’s face comes into view on the screen I sit forward to get a better look for a few minutes.

  Settling back into my chair I ask, “Why do they call him ‘The Left-Hand’?”

  “He's the Mafia’s top man.” Langdon strokes his moustache as he chuckles, “Like the left hand of God was supposedly the Devil.”

  I follow Creed with my eyes as he saunters into the mess hall. Although he’s trying not to draw attention to himself, it’s like there’s this force that surrounds him. There is no ignoring Elijah Creed. He dominates. Somehow he commands the room, even without meaning too. As other faces in the canteen turn towards him I can see it’s not just me watching.

  “I think he's more like a cretin,” Langdon mutters quietly to my right.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You see the way he keeps glancing around, he's scoping everything out. Checking guards, cameras and whatever else. He’s shifty as shit.” He’s firm in his assessment. He doesn’t like Creed and I can’t blame him, the man makes the hair on the back of my neck rise too.

  “Okay…”

  Taking a big gulp of his coffee Langdon squints at the screens, “I'm willing to bet my life that something is going to go down. Creed is like a tiger just waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce.”

  “So why don't you report it?” I suggest.

  He scoffs, “Report what Bishop? That one of the inmates is a dodgy mother fucker?”

  “Suspicious behaviour?”

  “Looking around isn't suspicious behaviour but I can read it on his face. That man is a psycho.” He sits back and strokes his moustache again, face clouded with concern.

  As he says that Creed looks up into one of the main cameras and grins.

  Chapter Seven

  Creed

  I feel like I'm living in some sort of shit TV show, you know the one, a reality show with some Z-list celebrity being followed around as the go about their day. There are cameras on me everywhere as I move down the halls and into the mess hall. I grin up one, sure to freak out whoever is on security―maybe I’ll get lucky and it’s the pretty Officer Bishop. Getting near her was next to impossible I quickly learned, it was either art class or nothing.

  I've been following the Lopez gang around for a few days now, watching and waiting for my opportunity. Tiny was typically on his own away from the others only after his gardening duties, something that finished around the same time as my maintenance duties. After that he was allowed a shower which is where I plan to catch him alone―I didn’t want to risk his little buddies getting involved. I need him out of the equation, just for a few weeks.

  In one of the visiting rooms I cleaned the windows, keeping a careful eye on the clock. There’s a small metal file tucked into my boot, I found it in the supply closet earlier and I wasn’t sure if it would come in handy. As it read 2:25pm I knocked the chemical glass cleaner off the windowsill and down my legs. I had padded out my overalls earlier, but it would only buy me a few moments before my flesh would start to burn so I need to work fast.

  “Officer,” I call out, adding some panic to my voice. “I’ve spilled chemicals on myself.”

  The prison guard on duty looks at me wearily. “Has it gone through?” he asks, probably trying to work out what he can do without having to really do anything.

  I nod but he just continues to stare at my damp legs, trying to think. Think faster you moron.

  “Sir, it fucking burns,” I say with a twitch of my jaw. The man is an idiot.

  Finally he replies, “Go wash it off then Creed and report to medical once you're done.”

  Everything is slotting into place as I stride into the bathroom. There’s an officer outside keeping guard but he’s one of the lazy ones, not unlike the fucker on maintenance. He barely glances up, his headphones firmly in as I walk in and strip off my overalls. I get rid of the extra padding and adjust the file in my boot so that I can just grab it if I need it. There’s nothing worse than fishing around in my shoe, wasting time, while someone beats on me.

  I see Tiny step out of the communal showers, towel wrapped tightly around his waist. I know he knows who I am. He watches me carefully out the corner of his eye as he heads towards his clothes. I have a quick look around and can’t see anyone else so I step up to him.

  I call out, “Hey fuckface, don’t take this personally but I need you to drop out of Office Bishop’s art workshop.”

  “Fuck off Creed. You’ve got no power here,” he growls as he pushes me aside.

  “I may not have Mafia power here but how do you think I rose to the top?” I ask with a sinister grin.

  “Shit floats. Everyone knows that.”

  “Tell Carlos Lopez Jr. I tried to keep this civil, but you wanted to do it the hard way.”

  With that he spins and glares at me, his eyes narrowed. Then he tilts his head back and laughs. “You think you can take me?”

  “Oh I know I’m going to.”

  “Bring it on Pirates of the Caribbean. The Left-hand of nothing,” he spits, trying to rile me up, but it won’t work. I want this. I need it.

  He stands with his arms open, chest bare, as if he was welcoming a lover instead of an enemy. His ink covers the majority of his skin and near his heart I can see his tally score. He’s a death collector. That suits me just fine, I love a challenge. Running at him I wrap my arms tightly around his waist, gripping my wrists behind his back and I keep pushing until I force us both against the wall hard. I hear a tile or two crack and the air whoosh from his lungs. Quickly I get a few punches in, a jab to the ribs, a right-hook that crunches his nose and sends blood pouring down his face but it isn’t enough as he pushes me away. He lands a few good punches, I can feel a rib cra
ck but he doesn’t realise that I was built for this, trained for it. As I’m bent over winded, I grab my little file, narrowly missing the knee he aims at my face. Darting out I make several slashes along the underside of his ribs and the fleshy part underneath his right arm. They are only little cuts that look like scratches but I’m willing to bet they sting like fuck. Sick of my darting and diving around him, he grabs my head and with more force than I anticipate, he head-butts me. I swear I’m seeing stars, if only for a second.

  “Fucker,” he growls as little beads of blood mingle with the water and sweat still fresh on his skin.

  The only thing keeping me up-right, is him as far as he thinks, as his hands are bunched in my t-shirt, holding me in place. He’s not prepared when I drop my weight, bringing us both crashing to the ground. I launch myself towards him as we fall, managing to manoeuvre myself on top, straddling him as I grab his head and bash it against the floor. He shoves me away, giving him the space the roll over as he tries crawl away. But I wanted this. I need him on his stomach squirming before me. I quickly scramble back up his body like a monkey climbing a coconut tree. This time I angle his head as I bring it down on the tiles. Once. Smash. Twice. Crunch. Three times. Crack. He stops moving beneath me and I roll him over to make sure he’s still alive. Yep, alive but very mangled.

  A small noise comes from one of the toilet cubicles, bloody and sore I stand and kick open the door to find a prisoner called Kal Fonda sat on the shitter, trying to keep quiet. Kal is the man who can get you almost anything in here, he’s a contraband expert. Someone, it would be handy to have on my side.

  “Hey man, I didn’t see anything.” He’s holding his hands up in surrender. I almost laugh, he’s literally been caught with his pants down.

  “Yeah, you did. You saw, or rather heard, him come at me. He wanted to take down The Left-Hand,” I say with a fire in my eyes. “Got it?”

  He nods. There’s my alibi tightened right up. I do love it when shit comes together.

  Chapter Eight

  Anna

  “What I’m saying Anna, is that Creed should be given a place in your art class so we can keep an eye on him.” The Warden leans back against the edge of his desk.

  “I don’t believe shit went down as he described and the only thing he’s shown interest in since he came here has been your workshop. So I need to use that…” There’s a glimmer of fear in his eyes that sets me on edge. What was it about Elijah Creed?

  I nod. Warden Vickers was talking to me like I had a choice, but I knew he’d already made the decision. It wasn’t my place to question my superiors, only to follow orders. I was nervous, but I wanted this. I had been dying for an opportunity to get to know Elijah Creed and now it had fallen at my feet and I wasn’t about to turn it down.

  “Sir, if you want me to bump him the waiting list I can do that. I have a space so starting tomorrow he can attend if he wants.” I try to keep my voice casual, like I’m not buzzing with energy at the thought of getting up close and personal with Creed. This would be my only chance to get to know the monster behind the man.

  “Good. Good,” he almost whispers and if I didn’t know better I would think he was hiding something.

  I sit waiting for him to dismiss me as he’s lost in his thoughts. Warden Vickers was almost fifty, his white hair gave him a Santa like look but that’s where the prisoners underestimated him. They assumed he was all happy and jolly like the big man, but instead he was the opposite. He was quiet, precise and needed things to go to plan at all times. When it didn’t, he unravelled. I had only seen it the once, but it wasn’t a pretty sight.

  “Right, well, pop along to medical and see if he wants the space. He won’t say no Bishop, so be prepared.” He finally looks me in the eye and a shiver runs through me. What does he know that I don’t?

  I leave and walk slowly to the medical wing. Father was going to have a fit if I told him. Especially if I told him how the space became available. The report says that Tiny, a member of a rival gang to Creed’s, tried to take him out. But there were too many variables, things that didn’t sit quite right. Tiny was massive. He wasn’t typically a troublemaker, even if his friends were, and Creed never should have been near that bathroom. It looked like Creed had set it up, but another inmate Kal Fonda swore blind he heard Tiny start the brawl. Tiny, with his broken jaw and eye socket was out of commission for a while so could neither confirm nor deny what Fonda said. The whole situation just felt wrong. Why would Creed attack Tiny? What was the purpose?

  I pull aside the curtain to Creed’s bed and find him sat upright, shirtless and being stitched up by the doctor, near his ribs. His body is a mottled from bruising and covered in scratches and gashes, like an impressionist painting filled with hues of purple, blue and red. There’s anger etched into his skin, but there’s also this strange beauty that has me wanting to trace the marks of his sins. He has raised scars on his back, they’re old but I still flinch. I guess Augustine Creed really was the monster they said he was. His tattoos were clearer this close up and I was surprised at what I was able to make out. It was like the pages of a mythology book, a Kraken dominated his upper arm on the left, a goddess seemed to be controlling it as she wound her way around Creed’s forearm. Other demons and creatures intertwined the design, all terrifyingly striking. The right arm was a god, maybe Zeus, in the clouds casting judgement down on to more creatures, these ones broken and dejected. What was the story there? Why did he have such power, such fear, permanently inked onto his flesh?

  “Enjoying yourself there Bishop?” he chuckles from the bed, wincing as he moves a little too much.

  I blush, the skin on my cheeks on fire and spreading quickly because I had been enjoying myself. Creed was becoming my new obsession and I couldn’t stop it. The doctor stands and ignores me completely. I’m rarely in the medical wing, well… never in the medical wing. I teach art and I think thanks to my father I’m kept out of most dangerous situations, it’s still a prison so there’s always a risk but it’s like I’m wrapped in bubble wrap just floating alongside the danger.

  “Eli, I’ll grab some forms for you to sign but there’s not much else I can do here for you,” the doctor says, his voice serious and low. Does he know Creed?

  Creed gives a tight smile and pats the doctor’s arm. “That’s fine John, you patched me up―what more do I need?”

  “Eli…” the doctor starts to say but Creed nods back in my direction and he stops. Okay, so he definitely knows the doctor. Just what connections did this man have, I pondered as we were left alone.

  Creed stands and stretches out, his green eyes never leaving my face. He steps closer, and I’m painfully aware of just how big, how crowding this man is.

  “I believe I asked you a question earlier Bishop.” His face dips lower so his mouth is almost touching mine and I don’t know why, but I can’t move. “Are you enjoying the view?”

  I could lie.

  I have to lie.

  I can’t lie.

  It’s like some sort of superpower and he’s using it against me mercilessly. He’s trying to get under my skin and control me like a lust driven puppet master.

  “Yes,” I breathe and I can feel his face split into a grin.

  “I see... Bishop, are you a little wicked?” His hand has come up and cupped my face.

  He runs a thumb over my bottom lip and it’s like I’ve taken leave of my senses except I can feel everything. I want him to touch me everywhere. This man is sex and power. And so very fucking dangerous.

  Chapter Nine

  Creed

  She smells like cherry blossoms and rain, a light airy mixture that seems to be going to my head as I forget just how many people are milling around on the other side of the curtain. I was playing with fire going all in so early on, I planned to seduce her, to own her, to break her and I had expected resistance. I hadn’t expected this. She watches me with those big brown eyes of hers and I instantly think of warm, melted chocolate being drizzled
. This sweet as sugar women was almost panting at my feet. I hadn’t expected it to be so easy.

  “Why are you here Bishop?” I murmur.

  I keep repeating her name deliberately, reinforcing the fact that I know exactly who she is even though we’ve never met. Plus every time I say it she shivers a little and I like that. My thumb is still on her lip and I’m surprised she hasn’t moved away. Slowly, she turns her head away from me breaking all contact.

  “A spot has opened up in the art workshop if you want it,” she mumbles, her voice breathy as if I’d done more than just touch her mouth. Oh, this was going to be so much fun.

  “Of course I want it,” I say with a smile. It was what I wanted all along. Everything was going perfectly and that’s why I was the best.

  She falters slightly in front of me, doubt creeping in as if her brain was rebooting. Bishop narrows her eyes slightly. “Why?”

  I laugh, debating honesty or whether a lie would soothe her more. Everything was tactical when you were The Left-Hand, there was no room for error because that meant failure and failure in my world meant death.

  “Because since I first saw you, all I’ve wanted was to be in that class.” I settle for somewhere in between, but it comes out more romantic than I intended and she frowns because I’m not the hearts and flowers kind of guy. It’s gotten her back up and she’s on alert as she looks at me now.

  “Make no mistake Bishop, I’m going to slather every inch of that body in paint and fuck you on the desk. It’s only a matter of how long you make me wait…” I say against the shell of her ear, my lips brushing against the sensitive skin. Another shiver runs through her and I can’t wait to see how this plays out. Would she tremble like this when she came?