Toxic Bad Boy

Toxic Bad Boy

Book Three of the

Beware of Bad Boy
Series

April Brookshire

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 by April
Brookshire

All right reserved

www.aprilbrookshire.net

ISBN:
9781310979668

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“
Sometimes it’s the
smallest decisions that can change your life forever.”

-Keri Russell

NOVEMBER

one month down, nine to
go…

CALEB

Three cracks in the
ceiling of my cell reminded me of the fractures in my own life. The
shortest crack represented the rift between who I was before being
incarcerated and who I was forced to be in this place. The next
crack illustrated my loss of freedom, the right to do as I chose.
The largest crack symbolized the loss of my heart, the loss
of
her
.

Tilting my head, I gazed
at the pictures taped on the underside of the bunk above mine. The
same set of blue eyes stared back at me in each of them, projecting
amusement, irritation and even embarrassment.

My chest tightened with
longing and need. Being apart from her was killing me. Did she feel
the same ache?

The guy on the bunk above
mine sang off-key about being locked in a cage. My head pounded at
the grating timbre until I couldn’t take it anymore. “Shut the hell
up, Ian!” I shouted, kicking at the mattress above mine. “How the
hell did your lawyer get us in the same cell, anyways?”

“
Money talks,” he answered
in the smug voice of someone who’d often taken advantage of its
persuasive properties. “A hefty donation from one of my father’s
charity foundations to the Colorado Division of Youth Corrections.
Don’t forget it was my lawyer who argued with the judge so we
wouldn’t be stuck down in Pueblo. You don’t have to thank
me,
roomie
, but
I’ll take your dessert at dinnertime.”

“
I’d pay not to share a
cell with you.” On edge, I sprung off my bed and paced back and
forth in the narrow space. The enclosed area contained a desk built
into the wall with shelving above it, a stool bolted to the floor,
a sink and a toilet. The metal fixtures reminded me of living
quarters on a spaceship. The cold concrete floor never let me
forget it was a prison. Even if we were in a Denver facility, we
might as well be down south in Pueblo.

A barred, plexiglass
window looked down onto the basketball court outside. It snowed the
night before and a couple inches of powder covered the turf and
grass. The sun had just risen and was still low in the sky. That
little bit of snow would likely melt by afternoon.

Moving to the door of our
cage, I peered out the small rectangle window to view the middle
common area of the male residents’ cell block. Armchairs and desks
were scattered, along with ping pong and checkers
tables.

The facility was named
Peak View Youth Services Center, but that was just a nice way of
saying prison for teenagers. I’d been in juvenile detention centers
before, but only for short periods of holding. My extended stay at
this juvie was like being locked in school with extremely
suspicious teachers and mandatory visits with the
counselors.

Ian sat up, running a hand
over his mussed blonde hair as he hung his legs over the side of
the top bunk. “She’ll write.”

“
It’s been a month,” I
pointed out, rubbing a hand over my chest in a pointless effort to
soothe the ache.

After an entire month,
Gianna still hadn’t replied to any of my letters. My first letter
to her posted the second day of my imprisonment. I’d mailed every
one of them to Dante’s address so he’d get them to her through
Cece.

“
It’s only been a month.
Give her time. She’s had a lot to adjust to.” Ian’s advice was
unwanted, like most of what came out of his mouth.

He had no idea what her
silence did to me. I’d compare it to a dark void where color and
light had previously thrived, leaving their absence all the more
stark. I threw out an arm, indicating the walls around us. “As if I
don’t have plenty to adjust to?”

His head shook lazily,
lips quirking in amusement. “Just be grateful the judge didn’t send
us to one of those private youth corrections places where they’d
make us live on a farm, milking cows and shoveling
shit.”

“
Or the place they sent
Josh,” I added, thinking about the sick bastard who’d hurt
Gianna.

After being released from
the hospital, Josh had been sent to a facility north of Denver for
high-risk juvenile offenders. Unlike our co-ed facility, there were
only male inmates where Josh was locked up. Same as Ian and me, his
sentence was mandatory, but he’d be detained there until he turned
eighteen. So much for a football scholarship or going to prom. I
enjoyed immense satisfaction from knowing his popular high school
life was over.

Ian’s stomach growled and
on cue our cell door opened. The staff referred to the cells as
our
rooms
.
Solitary was called a
time out
and fights or riots were called
group disturbances
. The
guard moved to the next cell, going down the line. We left the
room, standing just outside it until we had the okay to move in a
single file to the cafeteria.

Near the entrance to the
cell block we passed by a glass door with an inmate on the other
side. The kid had threatened suicide to the psychiatrist yesterday
and got put on what was labeled
Close
Watch
, which was essentially a softer way
of saying suicide watch. In his special cell the kid was given a
mattress and nothing else, not even bedding. Food was brought to
him and he’d remain confined until the psychiatrist decided the
suicide threat was over.

“
The thing I hate second
most about this place is not eating whenever I want,” Ian
muttered.

“
What’s first?” I asked in
a bored tone. Ian’s complaints had been numerous since arriving
here. Life here must be especially torturous for someone like him,
having come from a wealthy background.

“
Not getting
laid.”

His words brought X-rated
images to mind, all featuring a certain beautiful blonde. The thin
navy jumpsuit we were given to wear would do nothing to hide a
hard-on. I quickly moved my thoughts to non sexual subjects.
Picturing Julie, my hateful stepmother, solved the
problem.

It was interesting that
Julie rhymed with juvie. Both were hateful and
oppressive.

Entering the cafeteria for
breakfast, Ian listed off all the places he’d rather be. Grabbing a
tray and accepting what the facility so generously offered us
delinquents, I sat down with Ian at a table. The scrambled eggs and
sausage were still warm. I scarfed down the meal and finished my
orange juice.

The female inmates,
or
residents
as
they liked to call us, were seated with their trays across the
room. Their jumpsuits were green and their cells on the opposite
side of the building. Although the girls and boys were together in
class and at other times, we weren’t allowed to interact with each
other. Not that I wanted to talk to those chicks.

I scanned the guards
stationed at the doorways, three males and a female. We were always
being watched, except for when locked in our cells at night or
showering. The guards escorted us everywhere like preschoolers,
usually in groups of five or more. After a couple days into my
sentence, I didn’t need to be reminded what to do and where to go.
Everything was routine down to when we went to bed each
night.

Ian and I hadn’t
socialized much with the other prisoners. Besides a guy named Ricky
Moreno, we’d made no friends. Ricky claimed to be in here for
hacking into a government website. The kid was obviously full of
crap, wanting to make himself seem cooler than the average
delinquent.

After breakfast we were
led to a classroom with other fifteen to seventeen-year-olds.
Teachers from the local school district were brought in to instruct
us in all the core subjects based on our grade level. After lunch
it was time for our electives. The offerings were less varied than
at a normal school, but I’d signed up for art class.

The classrooms we spent
our mornings in were equipped with desks, bookshelves filled with
textbooks, computers and all the other tools of learning. The
science room had a lab setup so those of us taking chemistry were
supervised by a guard as we followed the teacher’s instructions
during labs.

It happened while I was
doing my trigonometry problems midmorning. Ian, sitting at a desk
next to mine, passed me a note with my name on it. Narrowing my
eyes, I held the folded piece of binder paper. I hadn’t taken Ian
for the note-writing type. Unfolding it in my lap, I scanned the
scribbled words and counted numerous misspellings.

Two sentences in, I
realized the note wasn’t from the snickering Ian next to me, but
from a girl across the room named Genesis. Apparently, Genesis
thought I was
so hot
and wanted me to sneak off with her at the soonest
opportunity.

Who the hell was
Genesis?

My eyes roving the room,
they landed on a skinny girl with bleached hair and a good two
inches of dark roots. Winking at me, her tongue licked a thin upper
lip. Cringing, I averted my gaze from the unpleasant image I didn’t
want to carry with me throughout the day.

“
Lucky guy,” Ian teased,
his shoulders shaking.

“
Good thing there’s a
guard to protect me,” I whispered back.

Ian barked out a laugh and
I elbowed him to shut him up. The guard at the front of the room
glowered at us as the math teacher assisted a kid in the
back.

I’d steer clear of that
Genesis girl. The male and female inmates weren’t allowed to speak
to each other and I didn’t want to get in trouble over some chick
hard up for attention. Even if I were single I wouldn’t touch that
teen pregnancy waiting to happen.

Nine more months and I was
out of here, never to come back again. No way would I do anything
to mess up and be separated from Gianna for longer than my required
sentence.

Nine more miserable months
and I’d have my girl back. Closing my eyes, I imagined the feel of
her in my arms, the taste of her lips against mine.
Pure heaven.

After lunch Ian and I
parted ways. “Have fun in arts and crafts therapy,
Caleb!”

“
It’s art class,
dumbshit!” I called out after his retreating back.

The well lit art classroom
held boys aged twelve to seventeen. The easel I’d claimed as mine
was set up next to a kid around thirteen. The little brat had
better not copy off me again. The room smelled of paint and
chemicals. It brought memories of watching my mom work in her
studio when I was younger.

Ms. Singh, an art
professor from the University of Denver, came in twice a week to do
volunteer work with us troubled youth. The guard stood at the
closed door and escorted her in and out of the facility, making me
feel like Hannibal Lecter.

I didn’t feel as if I
posed a danger to art professors or society in general. Just Josh
Larsen and anyone else who dared lay a finger on the girl I
loved.

I’d quickly become Ms.
Singh’s favorite pupil. Not that there was much competition. The
little punk next to me liked to paint stick figures having
sex.