Watch Point

by Cecilia Tan

  This time he marches up to me—well, until he’s a few feet from me—and takes his belt off. He doubles it over and slaps it against his palm. I hold in a sigh. Awakening Aiden’s inner sadist wasn’t on my wish list.

  “I’ve always wanted to do this,” he says, running the belt through his grip with a sick smile. “I never beat my son, you know that? Thought it was barbaric and might make him turn out twisted. That what made you a cocksucking son of a bitch, Eric? Did your daddy pull your pants down and spank your fanny?”

  I should tune out everything he says, but somehow I can’t. Instead, I try to concentrate on thinking, I can take it. I try to make it my mantra. I can take it. I can take it.

  “No one’ll question if you’ve got welts on your kinky, perverted ass,” he goes on. “Not if what I saw in that file was true.”

  Although the leather belt is slightly less of a danger than the sock-soap flying hammer, it hurts like a motherfucker. Which is the point, I guess. Because of how I’m attached to the chair, he can only get at the upper part of my back and shoulders, and it isn’t long before he returns his attention to my chest.

  And then he starts working my inner thighs. He has to come close for this, and when he grabs me by the hair, I know we’ve crossed a line. He whips me furiously on the leg, catching my cock and balls sometimes, too. He’s lost control, and I know in that moment that he’d kill me if he knew how. The only thing keeping me from screaming is that my jaw is locked shut.

  And the only thing that saves me from even more pain and damage is that Aiden’s out of shape. His arm gets tired. He’s out of breath. He throws the belt on the floor and retreats to Driver’s side, huffing and puffing like the big, bad wolf.

  I’ve made it through another round.

  Driver checks his watch and then the two of them go out into the hallway.

  When Driver comes back in alone, he plants his butt in the chair. He lights a cigarette and sits there, glancing at me from time to time, but most of his attention is on smoking. I don’t attempt to engage. I’m trying to recover, to get my mental armor back into place. I’m not afraid of Aiden killing me in cold blood, I realize. I’m afraid of him doing it by accident. If he put a gun to my head and said, “Hasta la vista, baby,” I could make peace with that. But him losing it in a rage and choking me to death or putting an eye out—for some reason that idea gets under my skin.

  I decide to engage after all. “Hey, how long’s he planning to keep me like this?”

  Driver looks me over and then walks close. He leans close until we can see eye to eye, and then he crushes out his cigarette right on the scar the bullet left on my shoulder. “You broke his boy. Now Milford wants to break you.”

  I stare at the floor and say nothing.

  “Kid won’t stop crying.”

  My head jerks up. Chase is here?

  “Once Aiden’s had his fill of you, he’s handing you over. But don’t get any funny ideas.” He brushes the ash off my shoulder with monstrous gentleness. “If it was my own son, you probably wouldn’t still be breathing. Make one wrong move and I won’t hesitate to drop you.”

  He takes my silence as assent and goes back to ignoring me. I shut my eyes, trying to calm the maelstrom his words have stirred up in my head. They’re going to hand me over to the police, which is good for my long-term survival prospects, but I barely care about my own survival or escape. What about Chase? The thought that he’s here, broken and trapped, breaks my fucking heart.

  Time stamp: 0600 Saturday, Milford Mansion, Duxbury, Massachusetts

  I jerk awake for the millionth time, imagining that I can hear Chase crying. It’s my imagination—or my conscience—torturing me, and it’s a much worse torment than anything Aiden and his goons can come up with. I’m trying to conserve my strength for that, but every time my eyes close, there’s Chase.

  I should have just told you, I imagine myself telling him. I should have tied you up and then just told you, “Look, your old man owes me. Nothing personal. I won’t hurt you.”

  The lump in my throat doubles when I remember that was exactly how it was supposed to go. I hadn’t planned on fucking him, much less falling for him. This is one hundred percent my fault for not sticking to my plan. For giving in to my basest instincts. I deserve every shred of heartbreak.

  But Chase doesn’t.

  I don’t believe in God, but I pray anyway. Dear God, if there’s some way I can ever make it up to Chase, please let me. Let me make it right. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do: balance the scales of justice. I’ll accept every punishment you throw at me if only it can be made right.

  The light of dawn is in the windows when Aiden returns for round three. He’s in a bathrobe this time, and I can see his bare, hairy legs between the bottom of the robe and his shearling slippers. I swallow. That can’t be good.

  Curly is back, too, and they’re in the middle of some kind of argument. About me? He cuts off as they enter the room, so the only words I hear are “—the most secure position.”

  Aiden comes all the way to me this time and grabs me by the hair. “No way am I taking any chances with this motherfucker. He can stay tied like he is.”

  “All right—” Curly starts to say and then stops as he realizes what Aiden is doing, which is fumbling with the knot of his robe belt with his free hand.

  As Aiden’s cock springs into the air near my face, Curly turns quickly away. He clearly really didn’t want to see his boss’s penis. He really didn’t. Driver is somewhere at the periphery of the room, and I wonder if he’s averting his eyes, too.

  Aiden’s shaft is thick, topped with a head that seems small in comparison. I feel the heat coming from it as if his outrage is stored in his dick.

  He’s jammed it into my mouth before I can grab a breath. Fuck. With one hand firmly gripping my hair and the other pinching my nose shut, he chokes me on his cock. There’s no air for me anywhere and every muscle in my body tries to struggle, but there’s nowhere to go. My vision’s starting to go purple and black when he pulls back an inch, just enough for me to suck in a lungful before he plugs my throat again.

  Fuck fuck fuck fuck. There’s no time to think, no time to do anything but react as every cell in my body screams for oxygen. I always thought if I was forced into a situation like this, I’d bite down, I’d do all the damage I could, but that thought can’t even make it through the desperation to breathe. He backs out only enough to give me a sip of air from time to time and then goes back to forcing me to deep-throat.

  It’s okay. It’s just another of those tests where survival equals winning. In BUD/S you tread water while wearing boots and full uniform. An instructor forces your head under the water. Repeatedly. They make you lie on the beach with your head toward the water while the tide comes in. They spray you with fire hoses until you can’t move, can’t tell up from down. They force you into the surf, make you crawl across the beach and then back into freezing-cold water again and again.

  It isn’t the men who are most physically strong who make it through Hell Week. It’s the ones who are mentally tough. As every muscle aches for oxygen, my backbrain locks onto the realization that I am tougher than Aiden. His strong front hides the weakest man I’ve ever known. And nothing, not even his cock down my throat, will ever change that. At that moment, I know all I have to do is wait him out.

  The son of a bitch starts moaning like choking me on his cock is the most incredible sensation he’s ever felt, like I’m the most talented whore in the world. He keeps me under for longer and longer until I actually black out, and then he wakes me up by smacking me in the face, a note of panic in his voice. “Open your eyes, cocksucker!”

  It’s an improvement when he grabs me by the hair with both hands and fucks my mouth for all he’s worth. At least then I get partial breaths between the gagging and the snot.

  His come burns so badly that I retch. But at least he’s out of my mouth now. He smacks me hard across the face and I retch again, spitting up b
ile and come, but it’s over.

  It’s over.

  It takes a supreme effort of will to force myself to look up at him. All I want to do is hang my head and breathe. But I have to show him I’m not beaten. Even if it might be advantageous to pretend I am, I simply can’t. I look up, spit deliberately, and then lick my ravaged lips.

  The look of horror in his eyes as he backpedals a few steps is worth it.

  “Was it good for you, Aiden?” My voice is rougher than two-day stubble. “Best come of your life, wasn’t it? I feel sorry for all the whores you’re going to choke on your dick just trying to get close to—”

  His fist meets my face and makes me laugh and laugh and laugh as he flees into the bathroom. I’ve forced my enemy to retreat. I’ve won.

  We can all hear Aiden vomiting. Driver shakes his head and leaves the room.

  Curly comes closer, then dabs at my lip with a handkerchief. I hadn’t even realized I was bleeding. Must be from when Aiden hit me right before he turned tail.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Your first time getting waterboarded on a dick?” he asks casually.

  “No,” I answer. It’s even the truth. First time with someone who wanted to kill me, though, so there’s that. “Hey. Is Chase okay? I’m worried about him.”

  Curly pauses before deciding to answer me. “He’s a tough kid. Tougher than his dad knows.” He looks me over. “Even tougher since he came back from that island.”

  That doesn’t jibe with what Driver said, about Chase crying all the time. Either one of them is lying, or Chase has been showing different faces to them. Which one is closer to him? “Were you the one who drove him to culinary school?”

  “Yeah.”

  I can hear the water running in the bathroom now. Any second Aiden is probably going to emerge. “Promise me you’ll take care of him,” I say hurriedly. “He doesn’t deserve any of this.”

  Curly chucks me under the chin with a knuckle as the bathroom door opens. “Shoulda thought of that before you kidnapped him,” he says.

  Aiden is green around the gills. He can’t even look in my direction. He leaves without saying a word.

  Time stamp: Unknown. Midday Saturday, Milford Mansion, Duxbury, Massachusetts

  I wake with a jolt, surprised to find I’m still tied to the chair. How I managed to fall asleep and stay asleep for a few hours, I have no idea. While in the service, I learned to grab some shut-eye in pretty odd situations. During Hell Week I fell asleep while paddling a boat and woke up when my face hit the back of the guy in front of me. But this is beyond that.

  I roll my shoulders as best I can, bound the way I am, and flex my fingers. They tingle a little but not enough to worry about. My shoulders are going to hurt like hell when they untie me, though—the shredded one especially.

  If they untie me. If I’m going to be transferred to police custody, it obviously hasn’t happened yet. Are they waiting until Monday?

  Driver is sitting across from me, looking tired and bored. My guess is he hasn’t gotten a lot of sleep since they nabbed me either.

  I should probably keep my mouth shut, but that bored look has an edge of hostility in it that I can’t ignore. “You waiting to take your turn?”

  He snorts and doesn’t meet my eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says with a sarcastic lilt. “Did something happen to you while I was out?”

  I fall silent, considering. Was all that tough talk from him before just talk? Or is he saying that if I blab to the police, he’ll play dumb on the witness stand? He gets up and moves to the window, and it looks to me like he wants nothing more than to get the hell out of here. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s more concerned about covering his own ass than Aiden’s at this point.

  I’m about to ask him if Aiden’s made him any promises when he’s summoned into the hallway for a confab.

  When the door opens again, he returns, followed by Aiden and Curly. Aiden is in a pin-striped business suit minus tie. “Payback time,” he announces.

  As if it hasn’t been already? I wonder, and then I realize the door is still open.

  In comes Chase. He’s in an off-white button-down shirt, cuffs so perfect it must be tailored, with sharp-creased slacks the color of cinnamon. His hair looks dark, slicked back, and he’s wearing a fancy gold watch. He looks every inch the young-billionaire-in-training, especially his shark-lidded eyes. It’s such a transformation that I wonder if this is what Curly meant when he said Chase was tougher since coming back from the island.

  “Here he is,” Aiden says to his son. “Your big, bad wolf. Just a pathetic pervert, ready to be sent to the rape factory known as private prison.”

  “Dad, honestly,” Chase says with a huff. “Your fixation on anal rape isn’t healthy.”

  Aiden laughs a little too heartily. “Just telling it like it is, my boy. You’re, ahem, you’re sure he didn’t—?”

  “No, for the last time, no.” Chase steps up to me and folds his arms. “He did a lot of sick things to me, but he didn’t rape me.”

  I wonder why Chase is lying about that.

  “When I saw that photo, I assumed the worst,” Aiden said, his voice softening.

  Chase looks at his father, his stare stony. “I thought ‘the worst’ would have been me dead, no?”

  “Of course, of course. You know what I mean.” Aiden comes forward and puts his hand on Chase’s shoulder. “You know I love you.”

  “Give me some room.” Chase shrugs Aiden’s hand away and then takes his watch off.

  He lays it on the dresser nearby as Aiden backs up a step. “All right, I—”

  Aiden doesn’t get to finish what he says, or maybe I just don’t hear it as Chase smacks me hard across the face, a stinging slap that makes my eyes water instantly and my ears ring. I’m still blinking and processing that he hit me when he slaps me across the other side—his left just as strong as his right. Wow. I feel strangely proud of him.

  “Attaboy!” Aiden is saying. Apparently, he approves of this display of manhood from his progeny, too. “This is better than seeing a shrink, eh?”

  I want him to hit me again. I deserve this, and worse, for lying to him and everything else. I wish Chase would tell the rest of them to leave so I could confess that. He obviously doesn’t want them to know we had sex, so I don’t want to give it away. But I want to say I’m sorry.

  Chase grabs me by the chin and makes sure I’m looking into his eyes when he says, “I’m not afraid of you. Do you hear me?”

  Do I? There’s a look in his eye, an edge in his voice . . . Is he trying to tell me something or is he just venting? I don’t think I’m imagining it. It feels like he’s trying to tell me something. Is this all about him getting over being victimized, or is something more going on here? I prayed to be able to make things right, but I didn’t dare pray for what I really wish for: Chase, mine again, whole and dear. Maybe the blows to the head have made me delusional.

  “Do you think you deserve this?” he says.

  I assume he means do I deserve his censure. I nod. “I promised I wouldn’t hurt you. In that I failed.”

  His eyes narrow and he nods in return. Are we really understanding each other? Or is it just the intensity of my need to connect to him that makes me imagine it’s there?

  Curly touches his earpiece and clears his throat. “Gentlemen, Grandame Milford is approaching the front door.”

  “Chase, remember what we talked about,” Aiden warns. “Your grandmother’s here for a nice lunch. She isn’t to know about any of this.”

  Chase lets go of me and looks down into my face. “This isn’t over,” he growls. “I’ll be back.”

  His eyes flick toward the watch on the dresser. I’m the only one who can see his face. He turns on his heel then and marches out, the others following him, leaving me with Driver again.

  He sits down and takes out his phone. From the motion of his thumb, my guess is he’s playing solitaire.

  Good.
I need time to process what just happened. Chase’s watch is still sitting on the dresser. That eye-flick. Did I imagine it? I’m sure I didn’t. He knows the watch is there. He left it on purpose. Watch . . . point? Gooseflesh races across my shoulders as the realization hits me. It’s a message. It has to be.

  He left it on its side, angled toward me. I stare at the face for a few minutes before I realize the watch isn’t running. It’s a Breitling navigator-style watch that shows military twenty-four-hour time. It’s set to 2010. What’s going to happen at 2010?

  I play back his words to me. I’m not afraid of you. This isn’t over. I’ll be back.

  My heart starts beating harder than it did when Aiden was choking me. Can it be true? Can Chase be coming for me? If I can just hang on until 8:10 p.m.?

  Time stamp: Approximately 1600 Saturday, Milford Mansion, Duxbury, Massachusetts

  The sun is setting and my bladder’s blissfully empty. I convinced Driver that it was worth his while to help me piss into the Arizona Iced Tea bottle he’d just finished. It was that or let me piss all over myself and possibly everything in the room. He managed to do it without touching my dick with anything but the bottle. Keeping from getting gay cooties, I guess.

  I hear voices and music from downstairs. A Christmas party. Got to keep up appearances, right? I wonder what they would do if I started screaming. Call the police? That won’t help me much. Four hours until the time Chase’s watch indicates.

  I’ve been doing the math. Driver and Curly have been swapping off at regular intervals. If they keep up the pattern, it’ll be Curly at the appointed time.

  Something else must be set to happen at the top of the hour. If this were a military operation, I’d say that’s when the diversion would be.

  For the next four hours, I come close to going out of my skull, though. What if I’m wrong? What if Chase doesn’t want me after all? What if he just wants to kick me in the nuts and hand me over? Will I get a chance to tell him I love him? Even letting the word “love” rip through my mind sends my adrenaline spiking and a cold sweat springing up on my skin. I need to be calm for whatever’s going to happen. Calm and collected.