Page 32 of The Coworker
Hunt narrows his eyes at Shane. “Are you done here?”
“Yes, all done,” I say tightly. “Take him away.”
Hunt nods briskly. “Great, let’s go.”
I see what’s going to happen a mile away. Hunt grabs Shane by the arm to get him off the exam table, but because there is a step to get down and his legs are shackled, he can’t keep his balance. He goes toppling off the table and clocks his head on the side of my desk with a sickening thump.
I leap into action, bending down next to Shane, who is now on the floor. He groans, his eyes cracked open, but he’s woozy and there’s an egg rising just below his hairline.
This happened once on the football field during practice. I had been on the sidelines with my friend Chelsea when Shane got taken down by a brutal tackle. Just like now, there was a sickening crack as his body made contact with the ground. I raced across the field to make sure he was okay, my heart thudding in my chest. I was so scared he had been badly hurt, and I still remember the rush of relief as I slid my hand into his, and his eyes fluttered open as he squeezed my hand. It was the first time I realized I was falling for Shane Nelson.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I snap at Hunt.
Hunt doesn’t even look the slightest bit perturbed that he just gave one of the prisoners a concussion. “Relax. It was an accident.”
I look at Shane’s face—his eyelids flutter the way they did all those years ago when he got knocked out on the football field. “Shane, are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” he mutters.
“Nelson is tough,” Hunt speaks up. “He’ll be fine.”
Just when I think this situation can’t get any more uncomfortable, I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. A second later, Dorothy peeks her head in. She is still wearing those half-moon glasses, and she peers at us over the rim, somewhat accusingly.
“What’s all this commotion?” she demands to know.
Shane is struggling to sit up, but he’s having a hard time of it, between the knock on the head and the shackles. I straighten up to look Dorothy in the eyes. “Officer Hunt caused Mr. Nelson here to fall, and as a result, he had a significant head strike. He definitely has a concussion. I’d like to admit him to one of the beds in the infirmary for observation tonight.”
For the first time, Hunt looks like he cares about what just happened. “Dorothy, that is absolutely not true. I was just assisting the inmate to his feet, and he tripped. It was entirely unintentional.”
Dorothy’s shrewd blue eyes look Hunt up and down, then rake over the rest of the room, taking in the entire situation. I hold my breath—this woman is not known for advocating for the prisoners.
“Marcus,” she says sharply. “Why on earth is Nelson shackled for medical appointments? He’s not a risk.”
“I believe he is,” Hunt says.
“Based onwhat?” she retorts.
He doesn’t have an answer for that, which is a bit of a relief. Dorothy folds her thick arms across her chest and scowls at both of us, even though I haven’t done anything wrong.
“Marcus, I want you to take those shackles off the inmate immediately,” she snaps. “Brooke, admit him to the infirmary overnight. Can you both handle this, or do I need to babysit?”
Hunt and I exchange looks. Judging by his expression, he wants to knock me onto the floor right next to Shane. Lucky for me, I’m not a prisoner at Raker Penitentiary.
“We’ll take care of it,” he grunts.
“Good.”
I help Shane sit up, and Hunt gets the key out to unlock the shackles on his wrists and ankles. Hunt hesitates for a split second before doing it, casting a glance back in my direction. I watch him fit the key into the lock, and my fingers fly to my neck. The last time I was alone with Shane, he tried to strangle me. All of a sudden, I’m not so excited for his hands to be free.
But nothing happens. When the cuffs are off, all Shane does is rub his wrists, looking relieved to finally be free. He doesn’t try to choke me. He doesn’t even try to get off the floor right away. He looks like he’s barely hanging on to consciousness.
“Can you walk?” I ask him.
He rubs his head. “I think so. I’m just dizzy.”
Hunt helps me walk Shane down the hallway to the infirmary, and we get him settled in a bed. The bump on his head is swelling up, and he has to stop twice on the way to the infirmary because he’s too dizzy to go on. It makes me think about the night someone tried to kill me. That night, Shane got a knock on the head the same as he did today—the EMTs on the scene found the lump on his skull to prove it. He claims he was knocked unconscious before anything even happened to me.
And for the first time in ten years, part of me wonders if he might have been telling the truth.
