Page 21 of Caged In

At the table, Izz slumps down next to Blake. He opens his bottle, sipping the rehydrating water, enjoying the cool liquid running down his parched throat.

He can seethe mohawkedinmatein his peripheral vision. He can sensethe killer’s presence. A prey animal, aware it’s being watched. He’s proud of himself for not giving in to the urge to glance over. Instead he keeps his focus on the men at his own table. Which is why he spies his cellmate curiously raising a brow at his extra slice of cake. He’s too muddled in his head from everything the counsellor said—and implied—wrecking his day, with its negative energy—to care enough to explain that the server thinks his manners are a nice change from the rest of the rude inmates and due to this, gives him extra food each meal.

He can’t deal with anyone else shitting on his bubble today—he knows the server is most likely flirting with him. He knows he needs to let the beefy inmate down slowly. He knows the longer it goes on the worse it will be. He is not interested in pissing off the people who handle his food. Which is why he doesn’t want to think about it. Why he’s avoiding the thoughts and living in hislittle bubble. He wants to leave it to lie on its own, not poke at it until it starts throwing punches—

And now he’s thinking about it. Destroying his own little safety bubble, and killing his lasagne with his fork in the process.

He inwardly sighs, forcing himself to set the fork aside before he has a new dish of mashed lasagne.

Take it one day at a time. One problem at a time. Deal with getting the Job assignment first, then deal with whatever comes next.Izz pep talks himself, not truly buying what his mind is trying to sell.

8

The Gang sneaks off to their jobs after they finish lunch. Izz remains at their table, unsure what to do with himself. Glancing around the room he observes the slow filtering of inmates off to their own assigned jobs, wherever those may be.

I could sit here until dinner?

Then again, that might get boring . . .

Maybe find the library Reni was talking about? Izz never liked sitting still to read novels. Perhaps that can be a new talent for him to learn in here. . .

No. No, that sounds torturous and dull.

He groans. Rubbing his face. When he drops his hands, his eyes lock on a certain male—an inmate he shouldn’t be looking at—alone on the isolated table in the corner—

The killer’s eyes shift over, meeting Izz’s—

Yep, I’m not staying here.

Izz practically face plants it when his shoe catches on the bench in his hasty retreat to leave. Stumbling, he heads elsewhere, not to be caught in the vicinity of the serial killer. The one he’s not supposed to be anywhere near. The one he keeps thinking about and staring at. It’s like he wants to die. He should chain his wrist and cuff himself to the bed frame, and lie there for the serial killer to disembowel. He may as well, he’s making it easy enough. Constantly sneaking glances at the inmate—not so unnoticed, if the way the male looked over at him is any indication.

He may be lining himself up as the perfect victim. Predators can sense weakness, can’t they? Well, if they can, he’s surely shown this dangerous killer how weak he is and how easy a target he would make.

He knows the double doors on the opposite side of the kitchen lead to the yard. You can see the grass beyond them, flashing every time someone exits or enters.

It’s where he decides he will go, in the complete opposite direction of the serial killer.

He’s going to check out the yard. See if it’s as vast and unexpected as the selection of Commissary goods, or as flat and lifeless as the prison pillows.

Only one way to find out.

Slapping his palms on either side of the doors, Izz exits the cafeteria—movie actor style—throwing both doors wide—and instantly regrets it when one side slams into an inmate—

Who stands so close with their back to doors anyway? That’s just asking to be hit.

Who throws open doors like they’re a damn stunt double in a movie scene.Izz’s inner voice snarks back at him.

“Fuck’s your problem,” the inmate growls, turning to glare ice into his veins.

Izz has two options. Hit the inmate with aggression or . . . Apologise? Grovel? Run? Maybe those three can be a one and done combo deal.

Fight or flight—

Or dismiss? He’s choosing to go with dismissal. Play it off. Act indifferent.

“Nothing,” Izz squares his shoulders and strides on, throwing his whole appearance into the persona of confidence—while moving swiftly to the small building across the way, to hide behind. It’s close to the fence line, but not quite touching, so there should—in theory—be a gap between the two to hide in.

“I am filled with confidence,” Izz mutters under his breath, optimistically lying to himself.

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