Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter

The interview room at Rikers was designed to discourage comfort.

A steel table divided the narrow space in half, its edges bolted to the floor beneath the unwavering glare of fluorescent lights. A camera watched silently from the upper corner, while the faint shadow of an officer occasionally passed behind the reinforced window in the door.

Dex sat opposite you in his orange uniform, one wrist secured to the metal ring on the table. He had been unusually cooperative throughout the session—calm, attentive and answering every question with such measured politeness that it almost felt rehearsed.

You glanced down to add another note to his file. The pen slipped from your fingers, struck the edge of the table and rolled across the floor before disappearing beneath his chair.

The moment you leaned down to retrieve it, the sole of Dex’s shoe came down over the pen.

You froze.

Above you, the chain attached to his cuff shifted softly as he rested his forearm against the table. Dex made no attempt to move his foot. He simply looked down at you, his expression composed except for the faint smile beginning to pull at the corner of his mouth.

His gaze lingered shamelessly, savoring the compromising position and every second your professional mask threatened to slip.

“Careful, Doctor,” Dex murmured, tilting his head. “Someone could misunderstand.”

Your eyes flicked briefly toward the camera. Its red light remained steady. The guard was only a few feet beyond the door, yet neither offered any relief from the heat crawling beneath your collar.

Dex followed your glance and leaned forward as far as the restraint permitted.

Then he slowly dragged the trapped pen toward himself beneath his shoe.

“Ask me nicely.”