A Hunted Man (The Men of Halfway House) (3 page)

"Are you driving back today or tomorrow?" Matthew asked Sam.

"I'm leaving as soon as I finish here. I've got a few early morning appointments tomorrow."

"Okay, so let's take care of the formalities first then I'll show you around. Okay?" Matthew asked Cam.

"Sure, whatever's fine." Honestly, Cam didn't care. He was so tired all he wanted to do was stretch out somewhere and sleep for a few hours. Sitting in that car for the long drive wore away at the little patience he had.

"Great, let's go to the kitchen and have some coffee while we do the paperwork." Matthew led them out of the hallway into another room.

Sam sat at the dining room table and Matthew began to prepare a pot of coffee. Cam looked around, the kitchen was very basic but nice-sized with all the necessities—enough for a few people to be in here at once and not worry about rubbing against each other.

"How many live here?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"You're our first guest," Matthew said with a flush of color to his cheeks and a hint of excitement in his eyes.

"You mean ex-con?"

"Cam," Sam scolded.

"Sam, it's fine," Matthew assured him.

Matthew cocked his head to the side, assessing Cam as he leaned against the kitchen counter. "Actually, you're the second ex-con in this house if you count me. I own this house with my partner, J. You'll meet him later. That makes three of us living here…for now. But you are a
guest
in our home. This is not a prison, and I hope you don't feel as if it is one."

He wasn't going to burst the man's bubble and remind him that this was just an extension of prison for now. "So you and…J?"

"Julian," both Sam and Matthew corrected in unison.

Cam raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, you and
Julian
."

"Yes." Matthew turned and grabbed a few mugs out of the cupboard. "How do you take yours?"

"Black is fine," Cam responded. He had become accustomed to crappy, bitter black coffee. Coffee in prison tasted horrible but it was always a reliable source of caffeine, warm, and strong as hell. Sugar and other sweets were just too scarce so he hadn't had much of a choice but to forgo his sweet tooth.

Matthew placed three mugs on the table and grabbed the folder on the counter before sitting. "Sorry about this, but I need to ask you a series of questions and go over a few forms with you. Let's start with a few basics. Can you please confirm your full name?"

"Cameron Michael Pierce."

"Do you prefer Cameron or Cam?"

"Either is fine." He waited as Matthew added some notes to the file. "Which do you prefer? Matthew or Matt?"

He smiled. "Either is fine."

"Date of birth?"

Cam responded to each of the questions. Yes, he was currently twenty-seven years old, and yes, he had a father and a sister. No, they didn't want to see him, and he definitely wasn't interested in seeing them.

"We need to get you on the
Code a Phone
program for the aftercare drug monitoring because of the charges on your record."

"That's fine," Cam said. Random drug tests and bed searches had become part of his life now even though he had never once touched an illegal substance regardless of what his record stated.

Matt gave him a piece of paper with two numbers. "Here's the phone number you need to call every day and give this five-digit PAX code. The automated system will tell you if you need to go in for testing that day. Can you sign here for me?" Matt handed him another document and a checklist confirming the bits of information they had discussed.

Cameron stared at the paper. He hadn't actually put his signature on anything since his incarceration. He was a grown man and didn't remember how to sign his name. He clenched his jaw and grabbed the pen. With a few angry strokes, he scribbled his first signature in almost a decade.

Sam signed the necessary forms to complete the transfer then said his good-byes with a promise to visit soon.

"Let me give you the tour."

Cam followed Matt out of the kitchen.

Matt showed him around to the living room, the back porch, and yard. Even though there was a paved parking area that could easily fit several cars, there was enough land in the yard to do something, anything with some color. This place was in serious need of landscaping all around. Cam's hands started to itch. It was driving him insane to see so much dirt. It was like a blank canvas waiting to be painted with splashes of reds and yellows.

"Something wrong?" Matt asked.

"Nothing," he responded before returning inside.

Matt led Cam up the stairs to a sitting area and a hallway of rooms. A huge window greeted them and lit the loft with natural lighting. Down the hall, Cam could see several rooms.

"This first one on the left is ours. If you need something…knock. We're still painting the other rooms but we've finished yours." Matt walked to the end of the hall.

The last room on the right was
his room
.

"Mine, as in, for now because no one else is here yet?" Cameron could contain his excitement at the prospect of having some privacy. He'd learned the hard way to hide his emotions in prison. Anything other than anger was beaten out of someone. Excitement, happiness, and hope were counterproductive in the sea of hate, fear, and desperation.

"Yours. We figured our
guests
would want their privacy," Matt responded with a smile as he opened the door with a sweeping motion and waited for Cam to enter.

The walls were colored in a pale blue-gray tone and the white ceiling looked even brighter as the afternoon sunlight peeked through the window. A large bed dominated the spacious room. Definitely not the thin pad and barely there pillow he was used to. This bed begged to be slept in. He could easily make out a thick mattress with at least four fluffy pillows under the dark blue comforter. Next to the heavenly bed was a table, small, but large enough for the lamp and alarm clock. At the foot of the bed, to his left, there was a dresser with drawers and the biggest television he had seen in a bedroom, ever. It was larger than the community TV in prison and certainly larger than the small portable thirteen inch he used to have in his room as a kid.

"You can actually walk in and take a look," Matt encouraged.

Had he been standing there without moving at all? Cam took a step forward and looked to his right and caught a glimpse of a white porcelain sink. He took a few more steps and saw a full bathroom with a shower.
His own bathroom?

"Mine?" he hesitantly asked, looking over his shoulder, but not directly at Matt. He feared acknowledging this seed of hope that had been planted. His own room
and
his own bathroom? Cam's only private moments were in solitary confinement.

A flood of memories blindsided him. He didn't want to remember. He hated being alone, in that hell. He recalled how guards came for him when all was quiet and beat him until he was at the brink of death. The bone-numbing pain he suffered for days, bruised and swollen without medical care since the staff insisted he had done that to himself in hopes of seeking escape. Then, just as he'd begun to feel slightly better, he was transferred—by convenient accident—to the wrong cellblock for just enough time to garner another beating by death row inmates with nothing to lose, craving vengeance on anyone with a pulse. He had learned to fight back, but there was only so much one could do against a crew of many.

Was he really free of the hell that had tried to suffocate him for almost a third of his life? Was this really his bedroom and his bathroom in what could be the start of something new? Or was this a cruel daydream that would chip away at his defenses and bring him lower than he had been in some time?

He didn't dare hope this was real.

"Yours," Matt responded softly. "We know you were in for a while so we weren't sure if you had enough clothes."

Matt was talking but Cam had a difficult time hearing him over the buzz in his head. He wasn't sure what he expected in this new place, but he certainly didn't anticipate something so radically different. He expected a comparable illusion of a prison, bunk beds, shared bathrooms, everything similar minus the barbed wire and dressed guards. He didn't expect something that would grant the illusion that he had escaped the nightmare. Was he really free? He closed his eyes and tried to steady his heartbeat and channel his panic to clear the internal hum.

And why is this guy being so damn nice?

"They're from second-hand stores and a few things from Walmart. Nothing glamorous but Sam gave us your approximate sizes so we're hoping they fit," he said, pointing to the various shirts and jeans in the closet.

Clothes? In
my
closet? Breathe in, breathe out.

"We set you up with some towels and some basics in the bathroom. The only thing you don't have here is a phone, but we've got a few outlets if you want to charge your cell."

Silence.

"Cam?"

Fuck, I need to respond. What the hell was he talking about? Oh yeah.
"I don't have a cell," Cam forced out.

"Well, we'll work on getting you one, even if it's just basic so you've got one."

"I don't need one."
Breathe in, breathe out.

"Just in case there's someone you want to call."

"There's no one," he snapped.
Fucking breathe in, breathe out.

Matt's scrutinizing gaze burned into him. Cam just looked down, his vision pegged to the floor.
Breathe in, breathe out.

"I'll let you get settled in. Job placement, coordinating counseling, orientation, and all that can start tomorrow. Julian should be home any minute but you guys can meet at dinner around six. Do you have any questions?"

Cam shook his head.

"If you need anything, I'll be downstairs."

Cam nodded.
Breathe in, breathe out.

Matt hesitated at the door. Cameron willed the dark-haired man to leave the room before he lost it.

When he heard the click of the door moments later, he reached out to grab the bathroom doorframe for support. He pressed his head against the cool wall.
Shit
. His heart was beating too damn fast and his head was pounding so hard it seemed as if it were going to explode. He tried to walk over to the sink, but his feet were heavy, as if he wore anvils for shoes. He splashed some cold water on his face, hoping it would snap him back to the here and now.

It wasn't working.

Breathe in, breathe out.

His hands began to shake and his legs became weak.

His
room,
his
bathroom,
his
closet…

Focus. Breathe in, breathe out.

Cam looked over to the window and the rays of light shining through were like a beacon calling to him. No, this wasn't a dream, dammit. He was free. Free of the bars, the solitary confinement, and the torture. Cameron needed to convince himself
this
was real, that it wasn't hope bitch-slapping him and teasing him to the brink of insanity. He tried with every fiber of his being to walk to that window; he needed to see the sunlight for himself and feel the heat on his skin. Two steps and he was unsteady, dizziness set in and his vision faded to black before he fell.

"Cameron?"

In the middle of the darkness and the hum, he could have sworn he distinctly heard his name. He wasn't sure since he didn't recognize the voice, but whoever it was sounded pissed.

"Cameron. Wake the fuck up!" the insistent, growly voice demanded.

Cam tried, but his eyelids didn't want to cooperate. His chest hurt, breathing was just too damn difficult. He gasped for air. Something cold pressed against his face. With every ounce of energy he had left, he tried again. Finally, a sliver of light seeped into the blackness.

"That's it. Open your eyes. Wake the hell up or I'm going to beat the shit out of you."

This, he could deal with. How ironic. Someone being nice, not so much.

He pushed himself and was able to open his eyes a little more. Everything was a blur, indistinctive, all the colors faded into each other but one…green. He saw crystal clear green eyes staring back at him.

"What's going to settle you?"

He needed to know this was real—that he was outside of the prison—but how the hell could he communicate with this insistent, growly, son of a bitch with the death glare when he couldn't even take a breath? He could hear the pounding of his heart amplified in his ears. He was lifted, moved again then held still. He heard a noise then suddenly hot air blew across his face.

"Open your eyes."

Cameron was running on autopilot. He was good at following instructions, most of the time. He willed his eyes to open and immediately shut them again when a flood of bright lights left him blinded with flashes of sun spots in the darkness.

"Take a deep breath," the pain in the ass said again. Cameron's arms were yanked upward and held, forcing his airway to open and take a breath. He began to cough as the hot air filled his lungs.

"Now open your eyes, Cameron," the voice insisted.

Cam pushed himself again and opened his eyes slowly. He could see the shape of buildings, streets, and the bright blue sky filled with clouds. He opened his eyes more, and his vision cleared, bringing more details into focus. He could see the cars driving up and down the road, the trees lining the street. Once his breathing began to level, his arms were released. He looked over and saw the same pair of crystal green eyes staring at him.

"What did it?"

"What?" he asked weakly.

"What caused you to panic?"

Cameron winced. He'd always dealt with the panic attacks on his own. Sometimes they'd make breathing difficult, the bad ones would knock him out completely. The panic attacks started shortly after he went to prison. They didn't happen often, only when a tiny glimmer of hope dared to surface among his hell. Then that hope would be strangled by desperation and hatred of his reality and he'd be left gasping for air.
My problem.
He knew better than to think things would change while he was inside. He was the idiot who dared to want something more. No one cared in prison and certainly no one gave a moment's interest to try to find out why one of the inmates could barely breathe or move. He had always gotten through them on his own, dealt with it the best he could.