Page 306 of Satan's Spawn
“I checked on him before…shaving in preparation for your arrival. I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Shaving?” I squish my face.
“His face, kid. Damn.”
I snicker under my breath. “I was about to think he finally got his wish for a conjugal visit.”
My wish too if I’m being honest. Text sex sucks.
“Wish I could help you out. But rules are rules. Gotta be married.”
For at least six months before conviction, because obviously I did my research.
“Rebecca Dawson.” A deep voice calls out to me, and when I pop my head up, I find an unfamiliar guard waiting for a response.
“That’s me.” I hold up my hand and rise out of the chair.
“You’re up.”
With a wave to Mike, I follow behind the big guy, staring up at his over six-foot-five frame.
I would not want to get on his bad side, and I hope Crayton doesn’t either.
He holds open the door to a room, where a female officer is waiting to search me.
Then walks out to give me privacy.
“Step up to the line and turn around,” she instructs, so I do what she says. “Hold out your arms and spread your legs please.” I comply once again, and she wastes no time patting me down, searching my jean pockets and asking me to remove my shoes and lower my pants.
I slide my Converse off one by one, used to the routine, the same goes for dropping my pants.
I look up at the ceiling as she sniffs around for contraband.
“All good.” She confirms after searching the crevices of my vagina, boobs, and sneakers. Then, a few moments after I’m dressed the door opens.
Big Guy calls me over again, telling me to follow him, keep my hands out of my pockets, and my eyes off any inmates we may have to pass.
My mouth runs dry the closer we get to the door leading to the visiting rooms, and right before we reach it I instinctively brush my hands through my hair, earning a quick scolding from Big Guy about keeping them at my sides.
Another officer guards the door, holding a metal detector in his hand, so when we approach him, I’m told to follow a similar procedure to when I was first patted down.
My arms form a straight line as he runs the device up and down my body, satisfied when no beeps go off.
Straightening up, the officer nods at Big Guy, and before I know it we’re buzzed into the large bright room.
“Sit at number five and keep your hands on top of the table.” He tells me, ushering me to get moving.
I don’t look back as I make my way past the small rectangular tables, making sure to keep my eyes straight ahead as I pass the prisoners visiting with family.
When I reach the designated table I slide slowly onto the chair, my hands turning sweatier by the second. My knees are shaking, throat aching from swallowing, and my shoulders tense the longer I have to wait.
After ten minutes I start to worry, wondering if maybe something happened to stop Crayton from being able to see me.
Did he get into another fight?
Piss off a guard?
Get hurt somehow?
