marathon. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Too late,” he said with a sad smile.
“You know what I mean. You should have gone to the infirmary.”
Nicky shook his head. “For what? Some ibuprofen and a nice shot of potassium into my vein so they can claim the pressure of incarceration gave me a heart attack? So they can pay some coroner to say I had an undiagnosed heart condition? No thanks. If I’m not vomiting blood, I’m fine.”
Cy shook his head. “You’re so fucking stubborn.”
“And bossy. Don’t forget bossy,” Nicky mumbled sleepily against Cy’s chest.
Cy didn’t say anything more. He didn’t want to risk it. Nicky’s day was hard enough. He played with his hair until his breath evened out and then gently deposited him on the bed, not fixing his clothes, covering him with the scratchy brown blanket before cleaning himself up and putting his own clothes back on and climbing into his own bed. He needed some sleep. He had a date with Thor tomorrow.
Cy spent the first half of the morning doing his job, sliding sheet after sheet through the heavy steel rollers as he watched Thor shove laundry into industrial sized washing machines and pouring detergent into the bays at the top. There were six guards in the facility, one at each bay and two that circled. It wasn’t hard to clock their rotations.
About twenty minutes before lunch, Cy watched the guard round the corner out of view. He grabbed a full bin of sheets and began to move towards the bay where the washers and dryers sat. Nobody paid him any attention. Cy was forced to roll the bins back and forth several times a day. When he approached the bay where Thor was stuffing sheets into the large dryers, he broke from the cart, snatching the liquid detergent from the metal table in the center.
Thor saw him too late. Cy smashed the door of the dryer onto his head, dazing him. He kicked the back of his knee, going down behind him, gripping his jaw and forcing it open, forcing the bottle of detergent to his lips and watching as the bright purple liquid poured into the man’s mouth. He choked and gagged, detergent spewing everywhere, but Thor had no choice but to swallow or choke on it.
“How’s it feel?” Cy growled at him. “How’s it feel to be helpless?” Thor flailed, but he was trapped, their position giving him no traction to help himself. “Did you think I’d really let you touch what was mine without consequence?”
Thor’s helpless gurgling noises caught the interest of other inmates, but nobody sprang into action to help him. In fact, most people didn’t even stop what they were doing. People knew to mind their fucking business in there. There was a good chance this detergent would kill Thor, but Cy didn’t care. If he had to do another twenty years in that place to make sure Nicky was safe then that’s what he’d do.
“Hey!” a guard cried from somewhere in the facility, but Cy didn’t stop. He tossed the bottle of detergent and forced Thor’s head into the metal interior of the dryer, pressing it down until he started to scream. Industrial dryers were much hotter than the average household appliance. He put Thor’s hand in there, too, his screams doing little to appease the now burning rage that had lit within him the moment he’d seen Nicky’s bruises.
It took four guards to drag him off Thor, who fell to the ground clutching his hand. There were blisters forming on his palm and across half of his face, and detergent coated his lips, neck, and clothing as he rolled over, vomiting and wheezing. Cy didn’t go quietly; he tried to break free. He kicked and fought, screaming at Thor, “You touch him again and I’ll fucking kill you! I’ll rip your insides out and feed them to you, you racist fuck!”
“Settle down, inmate. You’re about to get lit up,” Rollins, a burly female guard, warned.
Thor’s eyes rolled back, and white foam began to pour from his mouth. Cy did calm down after that. Maybe he’d killed him. If he was dead, Nicky was safe. That was all that mattered.
Rogers’ snickered beside Cy. “You fucked up now, inmate. You just earned a few days in the hole. The warden’s not going to like this at all. Hope somebody remembers to take care of poor Rosie. Don’t worry about your boy, though. I know lots of people who are