The Breakers - Chapter 1

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Chapter 1

EPOV

Wffft … Thwack … Wffft … Thwack … Wffft … Thwack

"Masen!" I hear as I catch the tennis ball I'm tossing in the air and squeeze it in my hand as I stare up at the ceiling.

I don't move as I lie on my cot, don't even take a fucking breath - too afraid something, anything, can still go wrong. It'll be just my damn luck after I've spent all this time, counting down each and every fucking day. To finally be here, now, is almost more than I can comprehend. I'm shaking I'm so wound up, but I slowly let out the breath I'm holding and turn my head when I hear the heavy footsteps approach.

Closer … closer … closer, until they stop.

"It's time," comes the gruff voice, the same one I've heard day after day after miserable day for fourteen months.

I sit up, swaying just a bit as the implication of what is about to happen overwhelms me. Jesus Christ, I never thought I'd see the day when I would get out of this hellhole. I look around the tiny, cramped space, though why I have no idea. It's not like I want to remember this place. If I think about it ever again it'll be too damn soon. I grab the solitary box of things I want to take with me and wait for the door to open. Hearing the metal clank of the door as it slides from left to right, I take a deep, shaky breath and walk through. I don't look back.

I hear a few shouts and mumbles as I walk toward the end of the row of cells, and I take the time to nod at a few guys I've become acquainted with during my time at the Boston Pre-Release Center. It wasn't easy here but it's fucking Shangri-La compared to Old Colony where I'd spent the beginning part of my sentence. I've kept to myself during my self-inflicted incarceration and in all honesty once I walk out the door, I'll never think of anyone I've met over my years inside ever again. At least I damn well hope not. I want the whole nightmare behind me and I vow, as my footsteps echo against the concrete, that I'll do everything within my power to make it happen and move on. How, I have not one fucking clue, but it will happen … one way or the other.

Going through all the release bullshit is a pain in the ass but I bite my tongue and smile when I'm supposed to, say thank you at the appropriate times, and get all the paperwork I need to turn in to my parole officer … one Wayne Harris. I'm due to check in with him when I leave here I note as I look down at the business card that is attached to the stapled papers. I snort, shaking my head. Motherfucker … I can't even have one damn day without having to report to someone.

After going through the ritual speech about hoping I've learned from my mistakes and all that other crap, I'm led to the window where I pick up the things I had on me when I was incarcerated. I sign my name where the fat man behind the counter points and then he slides a manila envelope toward me. I stare at it, feeling my breathing quicken and I rub my sweaty palm on my leg before I pick it up. With a deep breath, I notice my hands are shaking and I grit my teeth, throwing the envelope on top of the box under my arm. No fucking way am I thinking about what's inside or what it represents. I just can't go there yet; I'm not sure I ever can.

Finally, after what seems like hours, though it's probably only been about an hour total, I leave the Boston Pre-Release Facility a free man … or as free as one can be that has to check in with someone like a little kid at camp for bed-checks.

I stand on the steps, holding one pathetic, banged-up cardboard box filled with the only things I own in the world and tip my face up toward the sun, knowing that no one else is going to tell me to move or order me to the mess hall for dinner, and that I don't have to sleep with one eye open ever again. I'm sure it's a habit that will take some time to break, but I fucking swear right then and there that I will … no matter how long it takes. I take a deep breath and let the fresh air fill my lungs, not even caring that it's laced with exhaust fumes. I start to walk down the stairs, preparing to make my way to the bus stop on the corner when I'm stopped by none other than Ryan Masterson, my lawyer.

"Edward," he says as he warily approaches.

I shift the box onto my hip and run a hand through my hair. "Jesus Christ, Ryan, would you stop looking at me like I'm going to rip your damn head off every time you see me?" I grumble. "Shit."

"Sorry, Edward, I can't help it," he replies as he shifts nervously from foot to foot. "Look, if it wasn't for me, you and I both know you never would have been in there," he bites out disgustedly, tipping his chin in the direction of the concrete and steel building I've just left. "I just wanted to make sure you had everything and give you a ride to the P.O. office. No reason for you to take the bus."

I sigh … again, and pinch the bridge of my nose with my free hand.

He is so full of shit about it being his fault I've spent the last seven years in prison because we both know damn good and well whose fault it is, but I'm not dwelling on that, at least not now, and probably not ever. I just want to forget and move on. But, I'm not stupid, either, so I accept the ride. Riding the bus carrying my pathetic box doesn't sound like my idea of fun.

We drive for a few minutes and I stare out the window, wondering how much has changed since I've been behind bars. Seven years is a long fucking time and the world sure as hell didn't stop turning just because I've been locked up. New president, new music, new technology … a whole bunch of shit I'm going to have to learn and damn quickly if I have any hope of making it.

It isn't like I've been locked away from the world or anything, especially since I'd been transferred to the Pre-Release Center. I read, constantly, and as a result know shit I'm sure I'll never use in my everyday life. Hell, I even managed to pass the bar exam while I served my sentence. I'm not sure what, if anything, I can do with it seeing as how I don't suppose there's much call for an attorney who also happens to be an ex-con. I figure I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. I bided my time, was a model inmate, and when the opportunity came up for me to be moved to the minimum security prison, I was fucking ecstatic. The time I'd spent at Old Colony before that had been nothing short of a nightmare, though I was luckier than most in that I was left alone - for the most part anyway. The fact that I could help some of my fellow inmates with their legal issues kept me in a pretty good place as far as having to deal with the shit most men did, but there were a few times some new know-it-all dumbass would attempt to make a name for himself by trying to mess with me. I learned long ago how to take care of myself, though. That particular skill definitely came in handy a time or two over the course of the past seven years.

I shake my head to clear it. Dark thoughts threatening to come to the surface are the last damn thing I need right now. Watching as the scenery changes outside the window keeps my mind occupied enough to keep them at bay … at least for now. The trees thin out. The cars are older. There are no flowers planted along sidewalks or in window boxes. Kids play outside, but only when there's someone outside to watch. The people that walk in and out of their houses have a look of resignation, a weariness of a life that has given them more bad than good. The area of Boston we're heading toward isn't the best in the city, but by no means is it the worst, either. It's still a proud, blue-collar, working-class neighborhood. We pull up outside of a wooden two-story blue house. The yard is the only well-maintained one on the block, and the outside of the house looks a bit worse for wear. I've certainly seen worse in my time.

"Edward, Wayne Harris is the best parole officer in the city," Ryan begins slowly as he twists his hands back and forth around the steering wheel. "I know this whole situation is fucked-up but truthfully, man, if anyone can help make this mess any easier, it's Wayne. Listen to what he tells you and you should be fine." I bite my tongue to keep from telling him to stick his well-meaning advice up his fucking ass. I know he means well, but I can't help the fact that all of this has me on edge.

"Thanks for the lift," I tell him in a tone that's completely at odds with my words.

I'm grateful for the ride, sure, but I really hate the feeling of owing anyone anything.

Ryan reaches over and grabs my arm then shrinks back in his seat when I glare at him. "Sorry," he mutters and then takes a deep breath before he looks at me again. "Look, I don't know what your plans are once you get settled, but I want you to know that I wish you nothing but the best. I know I fucked up and I know you got a bad deal. Believe me, I know. I think about it every damn day and I'll never forgive myself for what happened."

"I don't know what the hell you want me to say, Ryan," I hiss. "I just want to get on with my life and forget all of this ever happened. I don't blame you for any of this shit." I push open the door and my foot hits the curb but I turn around and finish my thought. "You did the best you could with what you had and got me the best deal you could. It doesn't matter anyway, does it? I did my time, now I just want to put it behind me and move the fuck on."

"Fine … I get it. Just," he begins and then gives a slight shake of his head, "keep in touch, Edward. I mean it. If you need help with anything, you know where to find me," he tells me with a long look and then waits for me to get out of the car.

I watch him drive off, momentarily wondering if I'll ever see him again. Resigned, I turn toward the blue house behind me. Slow and uncertain, I climb the front stairs to the porch and am poised to knock when the door whips open. It takes me a second to realize I'm staring into the face of whom I assume is going to be my parole officer, Wayne.

The man looks to be in his mid-fifties and has a buzz cut. His face is lined with wrinkles and there isn't any doubt at all that he has seen enough shit already to last more than one or two lifetimes. He definitely won't put up with any bullshit, not that I plan on giving him any trouble to begin with.

"Edward Masen," I tell him. He gives me a once-over and jerks his head to invite me in.

He doesn't say anything as I stand there in the foyer; he just stares. I've learned from my time in prison to keep my face void of expression, though I really fucking hate being stared at.

"You're not what I was expecting," he finally says after a few very uncomfortable moments and his voice is as deep and raspy as I thought it would be.

"Um … sorry?" I choke out and then silently curse myself for sounding like such a fucking pussy.

"Hmph." He grunts then spins on his heel. I follow him feeling like a chastised pre-schooler as we walk down a hallway that is covered with pictures on both walls. I don't have time to look at them though before we enter what I assume is his office. A quick look around confirms my first impression because there's a battered desk with an even rattier chair behind it that practically fills up the whole room. There are a few standard-issue, mismatched filing cabinets behind the cramped desk, every inch of which is haphazardly covered by piles of paperwork and files. On the floor there's an avalanche of paper, looking perilously close to toppling over with one slam of the door.

"Take a seat," he orders and points to chair that has most definitely seen better days.

I sit down carefully, not at all sure the chair will even hold my weight, and then drop my box on the floor beside me. Anxiously I wait for him to tell me … whatever the fuck he needs to before I can get the hell out of here and figure out what my next move is going to be. I assume my next stop is going to be a halfway house of some sort, at least until I can find a job. At this point I'm not even sure if one has already been found for me. I almost hope it has. Ryan hasn't exactly been a font of helpful information in the past weeks and days leading up to my release. It doesn't even fucking matter to me what it is as long as I am free. Hell, digging ditches, picking up trash, anything is better than being in prison and I'll take whatever I can get.

He continues to scrutinize me and I fidget under the intensity of his stare. The man sure has that unreadable look down pat. Hell, he'd give some of the guards from Old Colony a run for their money.

"So, tell me, Masen, what are your plans?" he finally asks. He leans back in his chair, the thing squeaking in protest at the movement. He doesn't notice, or not that I can tell anyway, because he doesn't even flinch from the sound. His chin rests on the tips of his fingers while he waits for me to answer and continues to stare at me like he's just waiting for me to say the wrong fucking thing.

I'm not at all sure how I'm supposed to address him because he never told me. For the life of me I can't remember what Ryan said his last name is, so I clear my throat and say, "Well … ah … I'm not sure."

Jesus fucking Christ, I scathingly berate myself, what the fuck did I say that for?

"So, you don't have any plans at all? What, you think that the good people of Massachusetts are just going to let you live on their dime?" He sneers at me and that really just pisses me the fuck off.

"I never said that!" I shout and my mind kicks into overdrive as I try to figure out what I should say now. I start to stand but when he narrows his eyes at me, I think twice about that and slouch back in my chair, still really fucking pissed. "Look, I did my time, paid a debt that wasn't mine to begin with, and now I just want to get on with my life."

"If you could go anywhere, anywhere at all, where would you go?"

"Corea, Maine," I tell him without a moment's hesitation.

"Why there?" he asks as he leans forward. The chair screeches in protest as it goes back into its upright position but his eyes never leave mine.

He is looking intently at me, like he knows something I don't. I've had a long damn time to think about this, seven years in fact, so I have no trouble answering him.

"When I was a little kid," I begin and take a deep breath, dredging up one of the few good memories I have. Visions of my grandmother and grandfather flit through my mind … walking along the beach looking for clams, fishing with my grandfather, making cookies with my grandmother … memory after memory flashing like a slide show in my mind. "I remember my grandparents taking me there every summer for a month. I don't have any brothers or sisters and I was the only grandchild my grandparents had. It's just this quiet, sleepy little fishing village on the coast and I've always wanted to go back."

"Good answer, kid," I hear right before an envelope with my name on it lands on the desk in front of me.

I reach out slowly for the envelope, irrationally thinking that at any point it will jump up and bite me like a snake. My mind's reeling because I have no idea what's going on. I don't recognize the handwriting, not that I have anyone that would write me a letter in the first damn place. All my family is dead. I don't have any friends, so I don't have one fucking clue who would send me something, and to my parole officer of all people. The only name I can think of makes my blood turn cold but there's no way it can be him I tell myself, and then open the envelope.

I skim the letter that's inside then read it slowly again and again … and again, not believing what I'm seeing. There are words all over the page and I comprehend what I'm reading, but nothing's computing. What I see can't possibly be true.

"Holy shit," I whisper and hear Wayne chuckle from the other side of the desk. "Is this for real?" I question as my heart beats wildly in my chest.

"Sure as hell is."

"Why?" I challenge, still not believing what I'm seeing.

"I think it's fairly obvious why, Edward. The question now is, what are you going to do?" he asks me pointedly.

"Get the hell out of here and start over," I answer with a shaky breath. I don't look up because I'm reading the letter, again. I can't take my eyes off it.

He leans back in his chair, and again an angry squeak fills the air. "You serious about going to Corea?"

I'm nodding before he even finishes the question. "Damn straight I am. It's perfect. Small, quiet, no one knows me from Adam, and it's the only place that has any good memories for me. Hell with this," I say and point to the envelope in my hand, "I don't even have to work now," but as soon as those words leave my mouth, he's shaking his head.

"I'm afraid it doesn't quite work that way, son. One of the conditions of your parole is you have to have a steady job. That doesn't change anything." He nods toward my hands.

"Well, fuck." I groan and throw myself back in my chair. "I can't imagine there are a whole lot of jobs in Corea, especially for someone with a record," I say disgustedly.

He waits a few interminable moments and does that staring thing I am really starting to fucking hate with a passion. In my mind I'm picturing worse case scenarios, so what he says next shocks the hell out of me. "If you're serious about going to Corea, I can help you with that."

I bite my tongue to keep myself from saying hell yes like I want. Something doesn't seem right because shit like this just doesn't happen to people and it sure as hell doesn't happen to people like me.

"What the hell is going on?" I demand as I stand up and begin to pace the small room, feeling like a caged lion. "None of this makes any fucking sense. I get out of prison and not only do I suddenly have a hundred thousand dollars when this morning I didn't have a pot to piss in," I begin to yell as my confusion mounts.

I shake the envelope wildly in the air and then turn and look at him saying, "Now you're telling me that not only can I leave the city, I can leave the whole fucking state and start over? Shit like this doesn't just happen, so tell me what the fuck is going on."

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