Page 61 of Babalon

I’m staying far away from the factions if this is how it is going to play out.

I can’t even exist in the rec yard without the bullshit running rampant. There is workout equipment out there, like pull-up bars, climbing equipment, sit-up bars, a triceps dip space, push-up lifts, inclines, and a lot of other stuff. It’s heavy on the upper body training. There’s also a single-lane dirt path that leads around the entire rec yard for running. It’s hard to access on rainy days, but when they let me out in the yard, I run anyway using my boots, even though they are uncomfortable. I want to make sure my feet stay dry.

Nothing is worse than swamp feet—actually, swamp ass is probably worse, but I digress.

Another thing about prison is that it is boring as fuck. There’s nothing to do but work and try to stay out of trouble, which is rather fucking difficult for most of the inmates, might I add. I never got m rocks off being a troublemaker anyway, so it is easy for me to keep my head down and stay to myself.

Finishing up my workout in the rec yard, I step back inside the corridor leading back to the center of the prison, the main access point to my block. Thinking a quick shower would be nice before I go sit in gen pop and watch the tiny ass TV they have hanging up in there. It’s high enough to stay out of reach of the inmates since some of them like to dismantle electronics and use the wiring for getting dotted up. Additionally, the TV is barricaded behind a steel cage and plexiglass, just in case these fuckers in here go rogue and a riot or fight breaks out.

Last thing we need is the loss of our beloved TV.

As I make my way down the hallway, getting closer to my cell, I can hear some bantering between inmates in gen pop. The chatter mixing with orders given from some of the guards.

Stepping out of the hallway and into the open space, I see a group of new officers about five feet to my left, standing in front of the main guard station. Zurita is doling out explanations and orders—they must be in training. I think the inmates call the new one's cowboys versus rookies.

Prison terminology fucks me up sometimes. It’s like talking in code.

As I go to step away and head to my cell, I crash into someone. Someone shorter, softer, and apparently, mean as fuck since it is a feminine voice which barks at me. Catching me way off guard.

“Watch where the fuck you’re going, inmate.”

Whipping my head around, I have to look down before my eyes meet a pair of cold, silver ones. Orbs that are surrounded by dark eyelashes, manicured brows, and a scowl.

Jesus.

“Are you hard of hearing?” she grunts.

“Huh, no. I…” I stammer.

Have you ever felt pulled to someone from the moment you meet? That’s how it feels staring down into her chilling eyes, watching as her pupils dilate— whoever she may be.

She is stunning.

“Inmate, back up!” someone yells, but they seem a million miles away at the moment.

I can’t move even if I want to, I am sucked into her orbit. The gravity at which she holds me, has the strength to pull the bones right out of my body. We keep eye contact for what may be too long to be appropriate. At least until her expression changes from annoyance to panic, then to anger. Which I find rather interesting.

She’s new and doesn’t know what to do yet, and I don’t know why that gives me such a thrill.

Letting my eyes flick over to the embroidery on her tactical vest, I can see the white stitching that says “Pierce,” then I make eye contact with her again. Before I can speak my apologies, like a gentleman—though I am far from one—her smaller hand wrenches my right arm and spins me around. She then kicks me in the back of the knees, making me drop down to the concrete floor. Pain ricocheting up my legs.

An audible grunt spills out of my mouth the second I am fully prone, my face pressed to the cold surface beneath me, and her weight sitting on the middle of my back. I can hear her talking, roaring orders, and droning on about order and respect. But I am so stunned, I’m incapable of focusing on anything else except for the memory of her chilling gaze.

Instinctively, I pull my arms so I can push against the floor. Needing to get up but instead I feel the harsh bite of handcuffs already circling my wrists.

What in the fuck is going on?

With more force, I pull at them again before I start to roll over onto my side. In-custody asphyxia is a real thing, and while I’d rather not be here, dying isn’t in the cards either. I aim my movement at dislodging her from my back, and to get some sort of upper hand over her. While I’m momentarily stupefied, like a fucking deer in headlights, my brain finally decides to return to the land of the fully functional.

“Get the fuck off of me,” I grunt out.

Officer Pierce shifts over me, her shorter and lighter body moving into a straddle at my waist just as she puts all her weight down on me. Next thing I know, she has her left forearm pressed against my throat, barring down and glaring at me.

“I said, ‘Inmate, you will learn some fucking respect and follow my orders. When I tell you to watch where the hell you’re going,you will do it. If another officer tells you to back up, you follow the command without hesitation.’ Do I make myself clear?” she grinds out.

“Y—yes, Officer.”

With a harsh shove to my throat, I feel her lift and vacate my body. The heat of hers still lingering against me like some sort of phantom. Then, her scent, citrus and honey—makes my mouth water.

---