Chapter 3
Cameron
Sunlight streams into my face and I flinch awake, frantic as I scramble for my blanket. On the occasions I have to stop and rest in the middle of the day, I’m meticulous—always making sure to be well hidden and out of the direct sun.
Never like this, exposed and vulnerable.
Blinded by the light, my hand slaps around my body, thunking into something metal. Despite the burn, my eyes fly open as my pounding headache registers, memories rushing back so fast they make me nauseous.
Pain rockets through my brain as I sit, the throbbing in my forehead growing its own pulse. Gingerly, I touch the area, wincing when I find the swollen lump crusted with dried blood. Finding myself at the wrong end of a baseball bat means it’s inevitable that I’m purple and bloody, and I try not to think about the stained-glass bruising that decorates my skin. My glasses slip on my nose, the frames a small comfort in my panic, and I breathe a sigh of relief that they aren’t broken .
Sensitivity makes my eyes flutter as I study the small room. The uncomfortable cot has a mattress so thin, the metal-woven support underneath stabs me through the stuffing, and a grimy bucket rests in the corner. I retch at the liquid-splashed rust, refusing to think about its prior uses. A tray waits near the door with a bottle of water and a tiny, dried-out piece of bread more likely to crack my teeth than provide nourishment.
I test my balance as I stand, wobbling only a little as I reach for the door and attempt to twist the knob. It’s locked, of course, but I’d be a fool not to try. A rectangular window above the cot offers the only other possible escape, and I drag my fingers across the edges, searching for a latch or catch in the dusty wood. At five foot eleven, I’m not a small man, but the nomadic lifestyle keeps me lean, and my frame is narrow. If I rotate my shoulders the right way, I bet I could…
“Window won’t open.” I spin around, noticing an almost invisible peephole in the dark wood of the door, and I flip it off, waving my middle finger with a flourish. A soft laugh confirms the woman is watching me from the other side.
“Yeah, well,” I croak, my throat scratchy and raw, “I’d be stupid not to try.”
“Considering your position inside that cell, your stupidity is a given.” There’s a hint of familiarity in her voice, and I realize she’s the one responsible for the watercolor of blood on my forehead. The scene replays in my mind as a shiver works my spine, remembering the thud of the metal against my skull.
Dread hits me in a punch as I force myself to ask the question. “Where’s my dog?” Fear squeezes at my chest when she doesn’t respond, breath becoming a chore as I try to fill my lungs. “Please?” It’s a shaky whisper, a pathetic sound that exposes my vulnerability, but maintaining my cool no longer matters.
She’s all I have.
Her scoff is loud enough to carry through the door, and I can imagine the annoyed way she rolls her eyes. “Your dog is fine. She’s in a cage outside. Couldn’t have her running around biting everyone, y’know?”
“What did you expect her to do, sit by and cheer you on while you abducted me?” It’s a rhetorical question, one she chooses to ignore as I chew on the inside of my cheek, “Can I have her?”
She’s quiet for a stretch, and my arms cross and uncross as my foot kicks restlessly against the ground. “Gonna clean up after her?”
“Yes, of course,” I say, before she even finishes speaking.
A swish of fabric makes me imagine her narrow shoulders shrugging on the other side. “Saves me from having to take care of her.” Footsteps move away from my door before I remember the man from the trees.
“Wait!” I shout, and she pauses. “August. I need to speak to August.”
The steps back towards my door are harder, more aggressive this time as they stomp against the floor. “How do you know August?”
“He…” I realize I should choose my words carefully before I get him thrown into a cage with me. “When I was hiding in the woods, he spoke to me. I never responded, but he said to find him if I needed help. ”
Another tense moment of silence passes. “What sort of twisted reality is this, where the prisoner gets to make all these demands? First your dog, now the medic?”
Medic?
“Just… please?” It’s a weak argument, but the pounding in my head is getting worse and my thoughts are too cloudy to communicate.
The sound of another annoyed grunt echoes in the hallway before her footsteps trail off, this time dragging, almost lazy. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
Relief has me sinking onto the cot, exhaustion making the paper-thin mattress seem soft as a cloud. I lean against the wall, knowing if I lay down, I’ll likely fall asleep. Even though I’ve determined I’m not in immediate danger, I need to keep my wits sharp.
I tilt my ear towards the window, listening for clues about what’s happening outside my little six by six room, but the only noises that reach me are distant, muffled conversations and the nondescript sounds of life beyond these walls. Nothing stands out or gives me any insight into my captors.
My head hits the wall with a quiet thud, and the tiny impact is enough to force my eyelids shut. Concussion , I remind myself, no sleeping . The devil on my shoulder tells me I’ve already slept and assures me brain damage is unlikely. Exhaustion overrules my internal warnings against dropping my guard, and soon my body is slumping, twitching limbs heavy with sleep.
The twisting doorknob jolts me awake and I gasp as I clutch my chest, unconvinced my heart didn’t just give up on me. A wiggly blur of fur launches onto my lap, a whirlwind of frantic paws and a flapping tongue, almost tumbling to the floor in her excitement. Tears dial my headache up by a few more notches, but I don’t care as I wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her coat.
“Hey, girl,” I choke, shoving my glasses on top of my head and furiously wiping my eyes. “You’re so brave… so brave, but so fucking stupid. I thought they’d…”
“She’s been well taken care of,” a surprisingly gentle man’s voice says, and I pull back, blinking, staring at the fuzzy blob of a person in front of me. When my glasses are back in place, I narrow my eyes at the man that stands just inside the door.
In his thirties, he’s around my height but built thicker, with defined muscles in his arms and chest. It’s obvious he puts effort into his body, although the fair tone of his skin leads me to believe he spends most of his time indoors.
Exercise, then, and not fighting for his life.
What a luxury.
Dirty blonde hair waves on top of his head, and his eyes are kind, which makes me incredibly suspicious. “Who are you?” I ask, tightening my grip on Boomerang as she leaves a trail of slobber along my cheek.
“My name is August… we met in the woods yesterday? Well,” he corrects, a hint of amusement on his face, “it might be a stretch to call it that. You hid in the bushes while I yelled at the nothingness.”
“I wasn’t hiding,” I sneer.
I totally was.
He covers his laugh with a cough, his stupid mouth twitching in another of those annoying little smiles he’s trying to hide. Defined features, sharp angles, and perfect symmetry mark his classically handsome face, and I imagine that dimpled smile makes other people trust him.
Not me. It makes me suspicious as fuck.
“It’s understandable that you would,” he says, and I narrow my eyes further.
“Yeah,” I drawl, the word coated in sarcasm as I gesture at the swollen gash on my forehead, “because coming out of hiding has been such great fun. A real banging good time, if you catch my drift.”
His smile falters, the thin line of his lips and bunching of his brow giving away his anger as he examines the cut. “I’m the camp medic. Would you mind if I take a look at that? Head wounds can be pretty nasty buggers.” A touch of an accent dances in his words, but I can’t place it.
Another minute passes as I study him, from his neat clothing to the leather bag slung over his shoulder. Despite his size, he looks… soft. His hands are clean and skin smooth, and he doesn’t strike me as a fighter. He maintains his spot, unmoving under my scrutiny, and allows me to set the rules of our interaction.
“You lied to me,” I finally say, and his eyebrows lift in surprise. “You told me that these were good people.”
“They are—”
“Are they?” I demand, my voice raising at the brass balls on this man. “Do good people kidnap others and bash them in the head with a baseball bat?”
Guilt pulls a grimace over his lips, and it’s telling that he can’t look me in the eyes. A bad liar, then, or afraid to face his own reality by staring at the handiwork of the people he’s defending. “That was… an unfortunate accident. ”
“Accident?” My laughter is choked, and he tilts his head like he doesn’t understand me. “It was an accident that your friends chased me down, pulled a gun on me and threatened to shoot my dog? An accident when they knocked me out and took me as their prisoner? For… what? Walking ?”
“Trust me, I know this looks bad, but I swear, this isn’t how we do things around here.”
“Trust you,” I snort, digging my fingers into Boomerang’s fur as I shake my head. She tilts her face up at me, her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth from the excitement. “ Trust him , he says.” I scritch her chin and she lifts her snout to give me space, happy with the attention. August’s eyes are concerned, almost sad, when I meet them again, and it causes my temper to flare.
If anyone should be sad, it’s me. Not him with his fucking khaki pants and clean fingernails. “You’ve not done a single thing to earn my trust, and despite this whole himbo vibe you have going on, you seem smart enough to realize that.”
“Himbo?” He frowns, then shakes his head. “Never mind. Perhaps that was a poor choice of words.” He shuffles between his feet, self-awareness seeming to penetrate his thick head and making him uncomfortable. “What’s your name? Let’s start there.”
I hesitate before answering, chewing on the inside of my lip. “Cameron.”
“Well, Cameron, it’s nice to meet you… officially.” He centers himself enough to stop fidgeting and gestures at my forehead. “That looks deep and probably needs stitches, so why don’t you let me earn some trust by taking care of it ? Infection is the last thing you need on top of the trauma your body has been through.”
Another long second ticks by as I stare at him, my shoulders slumping before I sigh and nod. Boomerang tenses as he walks closer, but I run my palm over her head, and the raised fur along her spine settles. August sits his bag on the cot beside me and opens it, snapping on a pair of surgical gloves before he lays out his supplies.
Confident, steady hands hold me immobile as he inspects the wound, tilting my head with a grim frown. A sharp, involuntary curse rips from my lips as he sprays antiseptic onto the cut, the sting making me flinch.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, concentrating as he cleans my forehead. “That might have a bit of a bite to it.”
“You think?” I mutter, and his lips pull back in a small grin. Silence descends between us as he works, punctuated only by my few pitiful whimpers as the needle pierces the skin, closing the wound.
“I don’t have any numbing cream.” He offers an apologetic grimace as I grit my teeth against the coarse tug of the stitches.
“And probably wouldn’t waste it on a prisoner, either.”
He frowns as he pulls back, snipping the thread with a tiny pair of scissors. “You aren’t a prisoner.”
My laugh is louder this time as I gesture around the room. “I’m locked in a cell, sleeping on a cot, with a fucking bucket to piss in, after being smashed in the face with a bat and having my unconscious body dragged across the desert in the middle of the night. Listen, I don’t know what kinky shit you’re into, but in my world, that’s not a fun time. It screams ‘prisoner’ loud and clear. ”
He shakes his head, hearing the words but refusing to believe them. “Every community has its share of troublemakers, and it’s… unfortunate that you had a run-in with the few we have here.”
“Unfortunate,” I snort. “Yeah, that’s a word for it.”
A bandage covers his work, then he removes his gloves and repacks his tools, putting the used ones in a smaller bag to keep them separated. “It will leave a scar, but it should be minimal.” He has barely finished his sentence when my stomach unleashes a high-pitched screech that could summon the local wildlife, causing him to frown deeper. “Have you eaten?”
“Considering I woke up in a strange cell with a smashed face? If I was going to voluntarily poison myself, it would be with something more exciting than a fossilized piece of bread. You understand my hesitation, of course. Now, if someone serves me a cyanide steak, we might be having a different conversation. Risk and reward, and all that.”
His eyes dart to the tray near the door and he blinks a few times before glancing back at me. “No one would offer you food that would make you sick.” A loud, booming laugh shakes my whole body, nearly ripping open the fresh stitches on my forehead as he stares. His expression is somewhere between confused and concerned, and it only makes me laugh harder. Unable to stop, I lean forward and slap my hand onto my thigh.
“Dear gods,” I finally get out. “Is this boundless optimism your standard, or are you laying it on thick to brainwash the prisoner? No one is this positive, my man. No one.” He gawks at me as a fresh wave of laughter shakes my shoulders. “You can drop the act, buddy, and spare both of us the time. There will be no mindless pledging of loyalty to your deranged leader. No Kool-Aid rituals today, fine sir. I’m not joining your cult.”
Eyebrows furrowed, he shakes his head. “It’s not a cult.”
“Fine… rebels, avengers, alternative lifestylists… I don’t care what you call yourselves, really, but it’s not for me. I’ve been alone for a very long time, and I’m not looking to sit around the campfire and hold hands while we sing. No offense, obviously, because I’m sure you’re… great at holding hands and all. It’s just not for me.” I give him a thumbs up that makes him frown as he stares at it.
“At minimum, you need to stay until your head heals.”
Another snorting laugh leaves my nose as I pet Boomerang to calm myself. “Do I have a choice?” That frown tugs his lips further, looking so distraught that it almost makes me feel guilty.
Almost .
He sighs, reloading his bag before he slings it over his shoulder and backs up a few steps. “Let me have some conversations,” he finally says. “Maybe I can convince them to release you into camp with an escort.”
“Oh, boy! A guard to watch over the prisoner during yard time!” My sarcasm is diminished by the loud rumble from my stomach, and he huffs a quiet laugh.
“Why don’t I get you something hot to eat? Will that help your attitude?” His lips twitch in another smile as I scowl at him, his good mood returning.
“Boomerang, too.” I nod at the dog curled over my lap like she doesn’t weigh sixty pounds. “She’s hungry. ”
Hand on the knob, he nods and fidgets with the handle, the metal clicking as he toys with it. The way he avoids my gaze tells me it bothers him to leave me trapped in here, but I’ve been reading body language for years, and the frustrated set of his jaw tells me he’s a lot more powerless than he wants to appear.
Despite his repeated promises, he’s in no position to change mine.
“Boomerang, too,” he agrees, flashing me another smile that’s infinitely more strained, before disappearing behind the snick of the locked door once again.