First Comes Love: A Billionaires, Brides, and Babies Romance

by Alexis Angel

  "You fucking coward," Billy snarled. He grabbed the gun and changed everything. BANG. BANG. There were two loud shots that ended two lives. I had never seen so much red. And then everything went quiet. I exhale sharply again, remembering the unsettling stillness of it all.

  "3, 4, 5—" I continue to count my reps at a faster clip trying to dull the memory.

  It was a revenge killing. Running drugs for the mob isn't pretty, and I've done a lot of shit things in my life, but killing a mother and a baby isn't one of them. Of course no one believes me. And why should they? Billy and the rest of 'em did a damn near perfect job of setting me up—my finger prints were all over the place, including the gun. When the judge slapped me with a life sentence, I swear that a fucking lump the size of a boulder lodged itself deep into my gut. I still have a hard time eating sometimes. I shake my head in disgust.

  I notice a shadow above me blocking out the sun. A voice says, "It's time you let the real men have a turn."

  A shirtless man looks down at me. His eyes dare me to react. He's young, maybe 26. He thinks he's invincible—they all do in this fucking place. A spider web is tattooed across his shaved, bald head and he spits into the dirt next to me. This guy must be new. People know better than to talk shit to me like that. I rest the weights back on the stand and get up off the bench. I stand inches from his face with my fists clenched and my tightened muscles swollen from the bench presses, defying the unsaid rules of personal space.

  "Says who?" I challenge.

  "Says me."

  "Yeah, well, you can go fuck yourself."

  The man's eyes flash hatred at me. He doesn't blink, but instead moves closer. "What the fuck did you just say?"

  "You heard me."

  "If I heard correctly, you've just signed your own death certificate," he taunts.

  "Right or wrong. It doesn't fucking matter," I say. "The only thing that matters in here is winning."

  I notice he is clutching a sock in his right hand. I wasn't born yesterday. I know what he's planning to do. There's a lock buried in that sock, and I'm not going to let him have the first swing. Without thinking or saying another word, I strike my right-elbow into the bridge of his nose and I hear it crack. It's like turning on a faucet because a river of blood runs down his face, across his lips, and under his chin.

  "You fucking bastard," he growls. He is beyond pissed now. He swings the sock. Predictable. I bend my knees and dodge it, and when I come back up, I bring my fist into his temple. He stumbles and I notice a small crowd has formed a ring around us. Some men are laughing. Some cheering. Some are even making bets.

  He charges me like a ram and slams his head into my collarbone. A sharp pain radiates down my chest but this spurs me on. He may be big, but he doesn't stand a chance. I put him in a headlock and we tumble into the dirt. He head butts me and I feel a hot cut form on my cheek. His neck is now in the crease of my arm and I squeeze harder. I'm on top of him and I put my knee into his jaw and pummel his ribs with my fist. Our brawling is kicking up a cloud of dirt and I blink rapidly, trying to keep it out of my eyes.

  My anger is boiling over and I deliver blow after blow. Finally, I release him and he stumbles back. His face looks like a child has used it as a finger painting canvas. Red smears are everywhere.

  Two guard rush in. They get between us. I see one guard has a can of mace on his hip. "There's a zero tolerance policy for violence boys," the first guard says. "This is going to land you both in solitary."

  The second guard adds, "But seeing as you've gone and messed yourselves up pretty good, we're getting you examined first."

  They grab us both and march us to the infirmary in handcuffs. Having my hands behind my back causes the pain in my chest to flare again. The bald-headed man is taken into another room while I sit in a hard plastic chair and wait. My anger has subsided but my head is throbbing something awful—like a marching band of pain. It's intense. I've always heard that the best way to combat pain is to face it head on. So instead of trying to ignore it, I visualize it as a small man with a spear, and I mentally tear him limb from limb. Just as I'm getting my pain under control, a woman walks in. She's a part of the medical staff. I read her badge: Kerri Curtis.

  She's standing in the doorway. Her body is nearly silhouetted against the fluorescent overhead lights. If I would've known what kind of women they employ in the infirmary, I would've injured myself sooner. Her fiery red hair cascades down her shoulders in waves big enough to engulf me. I tell myself that if her hair was a halo of fire, I'd gladly be scorched those flames. My eyes travel down all of her perfect curves. I can't help but watch the way her thin gold necklace nuzzles in between the secret crevice of her breasts, or the way the gold matches the brightest strands of her hair. I find myself swallowing involuntarily. My cock twitches in my pants and I realize it's been a while since I've fucked a woman.

  She looks at my scrapes and makes notes on her clipboard. She sees the cut on my face and grabs a square of gauze. She squirts an antiseptic ointment into the gauze, leans in close, and gently applies it to my cheek. She's so close to me now that I can pick up the faint smell of laundry detergent on her uniform. Mountain fresh.

  A strand of hair falls into her face and she pushes it behind one ear. "We'll need to do x-rays," she says. "I'm concerned about your limited mobility in your arm."

  "Anything you say."

  "I'm glad you agree."

  I wonder if she's really the most beautiful woman in the world or if my mind is playing tricks on me because I haven't had contact with any woman for nearly a year. She has no idea that right now, I'd agree to just about anything.

  Kerri

  Looking down at my clipboard I read the name "Stone, Lucien." I lift my gaze to the inmate sitting in front of me to put a face to the name. It's clear that this man has been in a fight. His hair is ruffled and I can see a small bleed on his cheek. His eyes are the color of granite and his jawline is just as chiseled. I think how fitting his name is. I glance down at his body and notice the muscular ripples in his chest and arms, and I wonder what he looks like outside of handcuffs. My pulse quickens for a moment and I quickly divert my eyes before he notices. What's wrong with you? I ask myself. Keep it professional. Its been six months since I left Jonathan and I couldn't be happier. It wasn't easy getting to this point; it's been a painful journey. But this job saved me. This is a good job. I can't allow myself to be attracted to a good-looking man locked up in this place.

  Being a medical assistant in a correctional facility isn't easy. Being a medical assistant at San Simeon County Jail is something else entirely. This jail was built in the 1890s. And it’s got more nooks and crannies and idiosyncrasies than I can imagine. Despite the risk, the age of the jail is one reason I said yes to working there. Too bad it came with a patient base that were hardened criminals. It boils down to medical necessity. I can't make personal connections. In a hospital I can give the confused dementia patient a hug, or show empathy by sharing a funny story with the guy wearing a finger brace about the time I dislocated my own pinky finger in a bet that I wouldn't try out for my school's softball team. But in here? Forget about it. I can't do that. I have to stay focused on the care. It's all about boundaries. Without that, inmates can—and from the stories I've heard—will walk all over me. Without boundaries, I set myself up for being taken advantage of. I've been here for six months and I know all of this, but there's something different about this man sitting in front of me, humbled by handcuffs, but still proud despite his situation. His presence threatens to seep between my own limits.

  I look at his scrapes, at the bruises that are just now threatening to form, and at the way he seems to be favoring one side of his body. I make notes in my clipboard. There's a good possibility that he broke a bone in that fight. It's not uncommon. I see those kinds of fractures all the time.

  I notice that the cut on his face is starting to drip—not much, he won't need stitches, but still enough to pay attention to. So I leave the
room to find a square of gauze. I squirt some iodine into the gauze and dab his cheek. The iodine makes his cheek appear even redder, but the bleeding stops and at least now his wound is sterilized.

  "We'll need to do x-rays," I say. "I'm concerned about your limited mobility in your arm."

  "Have you seen these handcuffs?" he says with a smirk. "Maybe they're the reason for my limited mobility."

  "Very funny Mr. Stone. It's obvious you're favoring one side. I'd like to take a closer look."

  "Anything you say."

  "I'm glad you agree."

  A security guard is standing in the room as a precaution and I look over to him. "Let's take him in for x-rays." The guard nods and he motions for Lucien to stand. I notice the slight grimace on his face as he takes a step forward.

  "To get a proper x-ray, I'll need his handcuffs removed," I tell the guard. He agrees to remove them and stay nearby for my protection. I know I should be afraid of this man and a small part of me is cautious, but mostly I'm intrigued, and dare I admit, a little turned on at the depth of his gaze. What's his story? I wonder.

  The guard removes his handcuffs and I instruct Lucien to lie down on the x-ray table. He complies and as I stand over him to adjust the x-ray machine from above, I can't help but look down at his full figure. He's tall, maybe 6'3" and solid muscle. I catch myself stealing a glance in the direction of his groin and inhale sharply as I notice that he's hard. Shit. Why did I look? I'm pretty sure I can make out the full shape of his huge cock and I find myself blushing. He smiles. Shit. Shit. Shit. I hate myself for noticing. I don't know what's come over me. This is just another inmate, I tell myself. He's just like everyone else. But as I tell myself this, I only have believed it.

  The guard takes a step back and remains in the doorway so he's not exposed to the x-ray radiation. I fit myself with a lead plated vest, fasten the Velcro straps, and proceed to take pictures of his chest. He lies still and remains patient as I examine the images with the doctor.

  "It looks like there's a fracture in your clavicle," I tell him, returning to the room.

  "My what?"

  "Your clavicle—it's this right here," I say, pointing to the bone in question. "It's your collarbone."

  "That stupid son of a bitch. I should've done more than just bust his nose. I should've really whooped his ass," Lucien says, shaking his head.

  "Well, you're lucky. It's not that bad," I reply. "It's just a hairline fracture. You won't need surgery. I'll give you a sling for your arm. That'll help minimize extra movements. The goal will be to just go easy on it for a while and let it heal."

  "So I guess that ends my weight lifting career?" he laughs, and then grimaces again in pain.

  "I'd say so. At least for six weeks, and then we can re-evaluate things. I'll be setting you up with an appointment to see an outside orthopedist."

  "Well, ain't that a pleasant surprise. At least I get a ticket outta here, even if it's only to see another doc."

  "That's one way of looking at it."

  "Can you give me something for this pain, nurse?" he asks. "I ain't a pussy, but this shit hurts."

  I think for a moment. In here, painkillers are given sparingly. It's how addictions are formed or fed, or maybe even both. But I can see he isn't pulling the wool over my eyes. He's in visible pain.

  "Sure. I can give you something to take the edge off."

  I look around the room for the syringe. That's another thing about being a nurse in this place. I can't leave anything in plain view for inmates—even something like a strip of tape or a paperclip can be stolen and used as a weapon. Not necessarily against me—I mean, everyone is on the defense in this place at any given time. They are mostly protecting themselves against each other. And as far as syringes go, we're always told to "count our sharps." They have to be closely monitored.

  I ask Lucien where he'd like the injection.

  "Where do you like it?" he asks, looking at me for a moment. "In your ass or somewhere else?"

  "Well, for an intra-muscular injection, I would go for the butt. It's a big muscle, and lends itself well for that," I say.

  "I thought you'd be the kind of girl who would take it in the ass," he laughs.

  I realize the double entendre of his question and blush for the second time, and hate myself for it all over again. This is embarrassing. How is this guy making me put my own foot in my mouth? I look at him and see that he's still smiling. There seems to be a new, sharper shine in his eyes. He notices my embarrassment.

  "I'm kidding," he says, noticing my embarrassment. "That's fine. Let's do it. Should I undress?"

  "There's no need to uh, fully undress," I say. "Just pull your jumpsuit down past your waist."

  I watch as he slowly removes his jumpsuit. It requires quite the effort to pull his arms out and he contorts his face in an acrobatics of pain. As he moves his jumpsuit down, I get a good look at his chest. He won the genetic lottery, that's for sure, I think to myself. I can almost visualize tracing my fingers down the mountain range of his abs. Shit. There I go again. I shake my head as if it was an Etch-A-Sketch and I was deleting the image, ready to start over.

  He moves in front of me and turns around, holding his jumpsuit around his waist. I see the sculpted muscles of his back flex. He pulls his jumpsuit down lower and exposes the top of his perfect, muscular butt cheeks. "What are you waiting for?" he asks.

  "I—I'm just grabbing some gauze and the syringe."

  I find the gauze and sterilize the injection site. "It's in your best interest to relax. Don't clench your muscles like that, " I instruct.

  "What makes you think I'm—ah, shit! Did you just stick me with a dart gun or something?"

  "I warned you."

  "Well, I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that. What other surprises do you have up your sleeve for me?" he asks.

  I feel like I've engaged him too much already, so I don't respond. Why do I continue to open myself up for conversation? And damn it, here I am, blushing for the third time today. But I refuse to let him have this kind of power over me, and I motion for the guard to come back into the room and place his handcuffs around his wrists again.

  I walk out of the room and look back at him one last time. We lock eyes and in that moment I feel a familiar coldness surge through my chest.

  Lucien

  "Yo, Stone!" someone yells, getting my attention. "What the fuck happened to you? Looks like you really got your ass kicked this time."

  "Fuck you, Spider!" I yell back as the guard prods me to keep walking. Spider got his name from his legs. It's like something out of a freak show. I swear this guy is all legs and no torso. "You should see the other dude. If you want to see someone who's really fucked up, just take a look at his face." Spider laughs at that, and I watch as his freakish legs carry him off down the hall.

  The guard walks me to a part of the prison I've never seen before. It's a hallway lined with hermetic, sealed off cells. So this is solitary, I think to myself.

  "I wasn't lying when I said we don't tolerate violence," the guard tells me, noticing my hesitation. "But maybe now you'll believe me."

  "If you think this place will teach me anything, you're fucking mistaken."

  "Don't make this harder than it needs to be Stone."

  "Or what?" I ask with a flash of defiance.

  "Or your life sentence will feel like an eternity. You'll beg the universe for death but it won't seem to come fast enough."

  I don't respond and he unlocks the door, ushering me in. I lean against the concrete wall, and slowly slide down into a sitting position. The door slams shut and it sounds just like a gun going off in my head. Bang. The same noise that haunts all of my waking moves. I clench my fists.

  Fuck this place. I've got to get out of here. I touch the cut on my cheek and I remember the homemade weapons that the other inmate was holding in the midst of our fight. It could have been a lot worse. That son of a bitch was trying to give me a buck fifty wound right down m
y face. The kind of wound that leaves a lasting mark, like a brand. Some guys can be treated like they're cattle, but not me. Fuck that.

  I guess the busted collarbone is the least of my worries. That prick better hope I never see his ass again. It's not that I want to spend my time fighting in this place, but I've been slapped with a life sentence. I mean, what the fuck do I have to lose besides my status in here? It's either eat or be eaten. You're either the lion or the fucking gazelle. You've got to watch your ass because no one is going to do that for you.

  I let out a sigh and tell myself I should try and sleep but my mind refuses to shut off. Since when did this prison get such a hot medical staff? I think back to the medical assistant who examined me in the infirmary. Her hair. Her tits. Her perfect curves. Was I now hallucinating from the painkillers she shot me with, or was she looking at my cock back there on that x-ray table? And didn't she stumble on her words a few times? I swear I saw her face match the color of her hair at least once during that exam. Maybe I've been starved of a woman's touch for too long—I'm the first to admit that—but maybe she's more than just a hot piece of ass. Maybe she's my meal ticket out of this shithole. The way I rattled her when I suggested she liked it in the ass. I laugh at that memory until I'm practically crying and the only thing that stops me is when the pain resurfaces and becomes too much to tolerate. Fuck those weak ass painkillers.

  I'm no stranger to women, and everything tells me this nurse is as naïve as they come. With a little effort, I bet I can persuade her to help me. In fact, I know I can. She'll be an unknowing accomplice. I think back to other women in my life—Maggie, Sarah, Lisa—they were all so naïve. Maggie was the first. Her face was as round and innocent as an apple pie. "I need you, baby," she'd beg every time I left the house at night, feigning a work emergency only to go fuck her friend. I'd come home the next morning hung over and smelling like sex—sometimes with a pair of her panties in my pocket. I'd tell her I had a long night. I'd tell her my boss was working me to the bone and you know what? She'd eat it up. I mean it; she'd swallow it all like I was serving her an expensive dessert. It was that easy.