Chapter 7: Under the Harsh Light

The fluorescent light buzzed like a dying wasp, flickering sharply as Jaime stirred, squinting against its harsh glare. Cold bars and drab stone walls sharpened into focus, Reggie’s silhouette looming by them in his orange jail garb, eyes raking her naked form. Her toned ass curved unwittingly in the dim glow, a vulnerable offering. “When did the light turn on?” she groaned, clawing for the sheet—stiff with their dried sin—that had slipped away, blushing as she shrouded herself and rose from the twisted heap she’d slept in.

“‘Bout 20 minutes back,” Reggie said, voice a low rumble.

She tugged the sheet with her, its crusty patches a grim relic of their night, gathering her scattered clothes in silence. Her blue briefs lay by his foot, a taunt of last night’s violation. “Could you hand me my panties?” she asked, the words a fragile bridge over the chasm between them, tension humming in the quiet, broken only by rustling fabric and shallow breaths.

Reggie crouched, fingers grazing the silk, a glint of mischief sparking in his eyes. He lifted them to his face, inhaling deeply, a satisfied hum purring from his throat as Jaime’s scent flooded his senses—a sweet, intoxicating ghost. “Mmm, I smell your sweet pussy,” he murmured, tongue flicking his lips, savoring her lingering taste. “Reminds me how good you taste. Loved goin’ down on you.” He smirked, handing them over, his whisper a seductive barb. “Here you go, baby.”

She snatched them, cheeks flaming, turning to shield herself with the sheet as she dressed—clumsy, rushed, a frail bid for modesty against the man who’d ravaged her hours ago. The torn sundress clung to her, its ripped left side clutched to hide her bra, bruises blooming purple across her face—testaments to Reggie’s fists and her surrender.

His voice shattered the stillness, smugness threading through it. “Had a good time with you, baby. Sorry I had to get rough at first—you came ‘round though.” His eyes probed her, hungry for a reaction. “How many times you cum for me last night?”

Jaime turned away, jaw tight, shame and disgust a roiling sea she refused to voice, locking him out of her torment.

He leaned closer, his growl low and menacing. “Better answer me. How many times?”

“I-I don’t know,” she stammered, voice fracturing under his stare.

“Counted 11,” he grinned, arrogance dripping. “Bet I’m the first nigga to hit that tight white pussy, huh? Now every time you fuck, you’ll wanna feel my big Black cock—nothin’ else gon’ do it for you.” His words were a venomous boast, disdain curling beneath.

She kept her face averted, silent, as a metallic screech tore through the corridor—a heavy door groaning open. She leapt up, dashing to the bars, gripping them with white knuckles as Captain Torres’s deliberate steps thudded closer, a predator’s stalk chilling her spine.

He approached, balancing two trays, uniform crisp, hair slicked back, a knowing smile curling his lips. “Good morning,” he said, eyes flicking between them, lingering on Jaime’s disheveled form. “Gotten to know each other better?” Her stomach knotted at the insinuation.

“Please, Captain,” she pleaded, face flushed, avoiding his gaze, “you need to let me out.” The cell was a suffocating cage, his stare a weight she longed to shed.

Torres studied her—bruised, swollen, eyes red from tears, her crucifix a frail defiance. “Oh my, what happened? A tumble in the shower?” His tone mocked, a cruel jest.

“What are you talking about?” she spat, fury flaring. “I haven’t showered. He did this—hit me, forced me to ... to have sex.” The words burned, heavy with shame. “P-please, put me in another cell—I can’t stay with a man.”

“This isn’t possible, señora,” Torres replied, disdain sharpening his calm. “Prison’s overcrowded—no special treatment. Conflicts happen—you two gotta get along.” He slid the trays under the door, food clattering faintly. “Eat quickly. You’re a mess—shower’s in an hour.” The air reeked of sweat and decay, pressing in tight.

“You’re insane!” she cried, eyes darting to the empty cells around them. “This place is practically deserted—where’s my husband? I want to see him.” Her voice echoed, desperation a raw edge against the barren walls.

Silence choked the room, the light’s hum a cruel pulse, until Torres spoke, low and steady. “Your husband’s safe—for now. He’s shown remorse. His treatment depends on your cooperation with your cellmate. Anything to pass along?”

Her hands clenched the bars, mind a storm of loyalty and survival. “Remorse? You’re lying—you planted those drugs for your corrupt game,” she snapped, heat rising, refusing to bend.

“You’re mistaken, Mrs. Jordan,” he countered, voice cold. “The drugs in your SUV after impoundment? Twenty-five years minimum—unless you cooperate. Otherwise, it’s max time or the Lopez family’s justice. Your husband’s catching on.”

“You didn’t find drugs,” she hissed, eyes blazing, tension crackling. “You’re lying.”

“If Lopez learns they’re Morales Cartel goods, your husband’s fate’s worse than prison—and I’ll enjoy watching. Enough talk—eat. Food’s a luxury. Reggie, make her finish every bite. Shower in an hour, or pay the price.” Torres turned, his steps heavy, leaving her plea—”No, wait! Don’t leave me with him!”—to die against the stone as he vanished.