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“It’s Cameron Hass, Brooklyn. Get a grip,” I mutter to myself.
By the time I make it to my room, I’ve pretty much banished the flirtatious thoughts about Cameron from my mind. As expected, Morgan and Lily are nowhere to be found, so I treat myself to a rare night snuggled in my jammies with a good romance. And despite my iron-clad will, I somehow mentally morph the hero into Cameron, and that vision follows me all the way into my dreams.
Chapter2
Cameron Hass
Idressed nice today. Seemed I should since it’s my dad’s birthday.
It took a little longer to get here than most Saturdays because of the extra stop at Clifford’s Bakery in the city. I was looking forward to seeing my dad’s face light up when he spotted the bright green box. I probably should have known better—no food allowed. I took the T here and walked from the station, so unless my box of cupcakes survives the shit hiding job I did by the front gates, I’m out twenty-seven bucks and I won’t get a bite of the best chocolate cupcakes in New England.
Wouldn’t want me smuggling in a key under all that frosting.
I roll my eyes for the hundredth time since the guard tapped the box with his baton and told me to “throw that fancy-ass shit away.”
I’ve been coming here for years, but it’s only been a few months since I turned eighteen and could come alone. The guards treated me a lot differently when I was here with my mom. Now they treat me like I’m the one serving twenty-five years for armed robbery.
I’m up for a lot of dumb shit, but I won’t do something that lands my ass in prison like my dad did. He may be a criminal, but he’s taught me a hell of a lot about actions and consequences.
“There he is!”
Michael Hass’s growly voice fills my chest, and I swear I’m still that little kid inside who wants to rush him and wrap my arms around him. I don’t, opting instead to stand and hold out my hand. We hug, briefly, under constant supervision. This is how I have been raised—in pieces, under guard, by a lot of rather rotten people. Of them all, this man is my favorite. I see the glimmer of good that’s grown in him. I’ve watched it, visit by visit.
“I tried to bring you cupcakes, but—”
“Ah, don’t sweat it. It’s the thought that counts and all that.” He waves a hand before snaking his long legs under the table and taking a seat at our usual spot. His hair is neatly trimmed, probably a birthday visit to the prison barber. His square chin is never closely shaved, and it makes the scar that slices from his right cheek bone down to his chin more prominent. He got that scar flipping his motorcycle after sneaking my mom home after their first date, but he tells everyone around here that it was from a fight. Street cred has kept him out of trouble here, mostly.
I slide into the side opposite him, and we mirror each other, both rubbing our chins at the same time and laughing at the simple similarity.
“It was Clifford’s.” I shrug with a sheepish half smile.
“Aw, damn!” His fist lands on the table but he follows it up with a grumbling belly laugh. I smell the smoke on his breath. Birthday cigarettes in the yard. “Next time there are Clifford’s cupcakes involved, I’ll make sure you fill out the form.”
I nod.
“I didn’t think about it,” I say.
He waves me off again, but I think he’s genuinely a little disappointed.
Pulling my hands together on the tabletop, I bob my leg under the table as I scan the room out of habit. Years of visits like this, but I still haven’t gotten used to the guards and other duos just like ours sprinkled around the stark, gray room.
“Season going all right?” My dad played football in high school, probably at a much higher level than Welles. He went to a big public school on the southside, and I have a feeling in a match up, his team would destroy ours. The common thread between us is nice, though, all the same. He would have been a good coach growing up. Who knows, maybe I’d be a quarterback.
“We’re decent. I went for eighty yards last week. James was dropping them right in my hands,” I say, half acting out my diving stretch. My dad’s grin stretches. I wish he could see me play, just once.
“You play last night?”
“Off week,” I answer.
I shift in my seat and glance to my side out of habit. Nobody cares about the things I have to say to my dad, but still, it feels weird to have every conversation so public. I’ve always suspected this place was rigged with hidden mics capturing every word. It’s not that kind of place, I guess. Not like the prison he was in for his first two years. Good behavior earned him more time in the yard, computer privileges and an education. Hell, man probably never would have earned his GED if it weren’t for prison.
Silver linings and all that.
“Spill it, Cam. I smell the smoke from your brain working so hard.”
I draw in a deep breath and flatten my hands on the rubberized metal tabletop while leaning back and staring at the water-stained ceiling tiles.
“Spent some time with the girl last night.” I sit back up straight and meet his curious expression. “You know—thegirl.”
