by Cara Dee
“Okay.” It meant nothing to Gray.
Mr. B flipped out the blade again and wagged it lightly at Gray. “If you’re wondering if I’ve fucked you up the ass, the answer is no. If you believe I own you, that answer is also no.”
What the fuck was up with this moron? The soreness in Gray’s ass sure as hell wasn’t imaginary. “Whatever you say.” He gave a flat look.
To which the motherfucker sighed. “All right. Listen, knucklehead. Your pop gave me unlimited funds to track you down and bring you home.”
Gray merely smirked. Was the man trying to mess with his head? “Uh-huh.”
A crease appeared in Mr. B’s forehead. “You don’t believe me?”
“Given that I don’t have a dad, no.” Do your research better next time, jackass.
The man narrowed his eyes. “Aiden Roe.”
Okay, that did the trick. Aiden hadn’t been part of the family that long, so it was still an adjustment. Though to an outsider, of course he was Gray’s dad. He’d certainly shouldered the role better than anyone else.
“My stepdad,” Gray rasped. His heartbeat drummed faster and faster as hope flared to life. Did this mean he was gonna see his family—wait. Just like that, hope could crash and burn too. Someone who’d tailed him to gather information would know about Aiden.
“Semantics.” Mr. B furrowed his brow. “I have a message from your mother that’s supposed to help. Just remember to calm your tits. I really don’t wanna slice you open.” He paused and looked at Gray intently. “Under the old chair in the break room at the bed-and-breakfast, there’s something that you and your ma keep hidden.”
Gray blanched at that. He immediately knew what the man meant—and what it referred to. It was such a silly fucking secret. And such an emotional roller coaster it took him on now. He could feel hysteria claiming him again, and there was no holding back the hope anymore.
“Do you mean it?” he choked out.
“It’s what your mother said.”
Oh God. Could it really be…?
“You have to cut me,” Gray gritted. Because a slap wouldn’t make him cry. A mere discussion wouldn’t move him to tears either. Mr. B was gonna have to give it to him good for the cameras.
Sensing the imminent breakdown, Mr. B cursed and stood up. Then he towered over Gray and held him in a light choke hold.
“Do you really mean it?” Gray croaked. “Am I gonna survive this?”
“Yeah. You are.” Next, he pushed the blade against the fleshy part of Gray’s thigh. The man knew exactly where to cut to make it look worse than it was, and as the blood began seeping freely, Gray let go. A low sob broke free, then another, and another. His hands were tied, so he hid his face against his shoulder, and he cried like a fucking baby.
Months of panic, anguish, hunger, nausea, thirst, deprivation, pain, and fear rolled off of him in heavy waves.
He truly hadn’t believed he was ever gonna see his family again.
Part of him still didn’t. He was just so desperate he’d cling to anything.
Please make it true.
“You need to at least pretend to struggle, Gray,” Mr. B said quietly. “You ain’t the type to just take it.”
Gray whimpered, fresh tears rolling down, and offered a lame attempt to fight for his life.
Even with the pain of the new wound—and all the old ones—a big grin threatened to break free. Maybe he’d lost his mind. He didn’t know. He didn’t care.
Mr. B did. “Don’t you fucking dare. Hold yourself together. They could be watching every goddamn move.”
Gray couldn’t help it. The frenzy of joy that surged in his veins unleashed a crazy little laugh, and he smiled even as he cried.
“For chrissakes.” The man had reached his limit. Pocketing the knife, he smacked Gray’s bloody thigh—hard—and then backhanded him across the face.
It was enough pain to override the relief.
“Ow!” Gray let out a hoarse cry and turned his face into the pillow.
Okay, I’ll be good.
A trip to the bathroom gave Gray a bit of clarity, not to mention time for countless questions to pile up. The stateroom and its bathroom were lavish and screamed of wealth, with the exception of certain details whispering of cruelty and terror. Like hooks in the walls and furniture. One of his hands was cuffed to a metal hook above the toilet paper dispenser, and he had to let the man know when he was done.
“You can come in,” he said as he yanked up his underwear and flushed the toilet. His black boxer briefs were loose on him, and they belonged to the other guy. They were brand-new. Still had the creases from being folded in the packaging.
Mr. B entered, and Gray went from being cuffed to one hook to another, this one above the sink. He really went all out not to raise any suspicion.
“Are there any cameras in here?”
“Above the mirror.” Mr. B leaned against the doorway, having put on a white button-down, though it was unbuttoned. A black tie hung around his neck too. “You’re dizzy.”
Gray lifted a shoulder, then cupped his free hand under the pouring water and splashed some on his face. “I can’t remember the last time I ate.”
“I’ll call for lunch. It’ll be a while before we get outta here, so we need to talk. And you need to look like you hate being here.”
Gray nodded once. “Sorry about before.” It bothered him that he had no control of his emotions.
“No worries.” Mr. B jerked his chin at the bedroom. “We’ll talk while I dress your wounds. They can’t blame a guy for wanting his property in good condition for more torture.”
There was no stopping the shudder for Gray. He let the guy lead him to the bed where he was restrained once more, and he sat back against the headboard. First, Mr. B dialed room service, like this was some swanky hotel, and next, he grabbed a briefcase that revealed medical supplies.
Gray remembered a briefcase from last night too.
Three of them were stacked on the desk.
“What happened last night after you knocked me out?”
Mr. B’s features tightened, and he focused on cleaning the long cut along Gray’s thigh. It stung, though it was nothing in comparison. “They expected a show, so I had no choice but to give them one.” He cleared his throat and flicked his gaze toward the briefcases. “I’m impersonating one of those shooters, by the way. I have enough heroin and other drugs to kill a horse over there.”
Gray wasn’t too surprised, mainly because he’d been out a long time. It didn’t matter how skilled Mr. B was in combat; a punch didn’t keep someone down for that many hours. He must’ve injected Gray with something.
“It was the most humane way I could think of. Whatever I did to you, you would have no recollection of.”
“My ass does hurt, you know.” A bit of anger and shame colored Gray’s cheeks.
Mr. B inclined his head and wiped away the last of the blood. “I sized you out for toys and marked you.”
Gray averted his eyes instantly. It seemed anxiety and a bunch of other useless emotions were never far away. What he’d learned now was a punch in the gut, and he was embarrassed. Embarrassed, angry, and hurt.
“How did you mark me?” His voice grew low and dull, and he stared at his lap.
“They tattooed a barcode on the back of your neck,” he said. “To showcase my ownership, I carved in numbers below it.”
Carved.
“I don’t feel it,” Gray whispered. This clusterfuck was getting to be too much again—too overwhelming. Maybe this guy would free him. Maybe he’d get to return to his family, but he carried doubts about whether or not his body was still his. He’d never felt so violated.
He didn’t necessarily blame Mr. B for that. Just…this whole mess.
“You will.” Mr. B bit off a strip of surgical tape and finished dressing the wound. “The lidocaine wears off pretty quickly. Eventually, so does shock.”
What else had he been up to while Gray was dead to the wor
ld?
“Are you really here to save me?” He needed reassurance.
“Yes, Gray.”
“How can I be sure?”
The man flashed an ounce of sympathy, though that was it. However, Gray could hear it in his voice when he spoke. “If the message from your mother wasn’t enough…” Mr. B eased off the bed and used the chair instead, where he retrieved a crumpled pack of smokes and lit one up. “You’ve probably seen me around.” He blew some smoke toward the ceiling. “Like most other kids involved in sports in our town, I’m guessing you go to the gym down on Hemlock.” So he was a local? He was from Camassia too? “That’s my little brother’s gym. Ethan Quinn. According to my research, you went to private school, and seeing as Camassia only has one, I’mma venture a guess and say you’ve heard of Avery Becker.” Well, yeah. Social studies teacher at Ponderosa High. “He’s one of my closest friends.”
Gray stared at him and didn’t say a word. He also grew more conscious of the cameras, for once, and he did his best to look angry and broken and miserable and not at all hopeful and wistful.
“My youngest sister,” Mr. B went on, “beat you and your family last summer at the festival’s apple contest. Elise’s popsicles against your mother’s apple cider and pies. If I remember correctly, your twin brothers got pissy.”
Gray pressed his lips together in a tight line, even though he wanted to cry from sheer happiness again. Hearing these inconsequential—in the grand scheme of things—little anecdotes brought forth enough memories that he could practically smell the forest from back home. He could taste the sea in the air, hear Gabriel and Gid bitching about that woman’s popsicles, which was promptly followed by Mom chastising them and lecturing them about sportsmanship. Afterward, Mom, Aiden, Isla, and Gray had bought some popsicles from Elise’s stand.
They’d been awesome.
Gray took a wild guess and assumed Mr. B had nothing whatsoever to do with his real name.
“You’ve probably been to my restaurant in the marina too,” he said. “But most of all, I know Madigan and Abel.” Holy shit. Gray’s heart thumped wildly at the mention of his best friend and his fiancé. “It was Madigan who asked me for help and introduced me to your folks.” He leaned back and buttoned his shirt, one of his feet coming up to rest on the edge of the bed. “Anyway. I’m Darius Quinn. Keep that name out of your mouth while we’re here.”
Gray’s eyes welled up, and he swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Thank you.”
“Your dad pays well.”
Oh, so that’s how it was gonna be. Fair enough. “Do I wanna know how much I’m worth?”
The left corner of Darius’s mouth turned up. “That answer will always depend on who you’re asking.”
“I’m not worth much to slave traders,” he pointed out. “What did I go for, three hundred and fifty thousand?” Everything that happened last night was fuzzy at best.
Darius nodded once. “We like to think we’re worth more than we are. These types of auctions…they’re more rare. Wealthy men who lead secret lives have specific requests and tastes. I can get an orphan for a few bucks in Cambodia, a ladyboy in Thailand for a couple grand…” He started tying his tie with practiced ease. “Right here in the Land of the Free, I can get a domestic girl for twenty thousand.”
“You’re not serious.” Gray was fucking horrified—or he would be, if he could get a grasp on his emotions.
“As a heart attack.” Darius rose from his chair and grabbed his polished shoes. “Human trafficking is as common as STDs, Gray. At the risk of crushin’ your ego, you were expensive because the organization had a dozen buyers who specifically wanted young gay men with athletic builds, Caucasian looks, and wholesome backgrounds. There was a demand, so the supply got pricey. You’re a secret trophy, nothing else.”
Gray felt like the world he knew was an illusion.
“You think that’s bad?” Darius drawled. “A big percentage of the sellers who offer up kids for a quick buck are their parents.”
Gray couldn’t even fathom that. It didn’t compute.
“Why the wholesome backgrounds?” Another thing that didn’t make any sense.
“A happy kid isn’t as equipped to deal when everything gets taken away from him.”
Jesus Christ. Gray could only shake his head. It was surreal how evil people could be. Taking someone’s freedom wasn’t enough. They had to twist the knife even more and find other ways to add to the suffering.
Darius didn’t seem bothered by it. “Sometimes, there’s a demand for the opposite. You can’t expect to use rhyme or reason with these people.”
“How come you know so much about it?” Gray eyed him dubiously. “You said you own a restaurant, and now you’re here…”
“I wasn’t always a restaurant owner.” Darius left it at that, and then there was a knock on the door.
Lunch had arrived.
Four
“I’m sorry, kid.”
Gray shook his head, unsure of whether he cared or not. What he didn’t want, however, was a meaningless apology from Darius.
To keep up appearances, Gray had to suffer a lot—and often—not to raise any suspicion from those who might be watching them in their cabin. For lunch, Darius had decided the suffering included degradation. So Gray sat on the floor, his back to the bathroom door, one hand cuffed to another goddamn hook in the wall, and ate from a bowl reserved for dogs.
“If physical pain hurts less, say the word,” Darius said. He sat at his desk, though he’d turned his seat a bit in Gray’s direction. “I’d rather take a beating than humiliation, but your body’s been through a lot.”
Sticks and stones and all that.
Gray was undecided there, too. He almost blurted out, But at least you haven’t actually shoved your cock up my ass against my will. Which was proof of how much his mind had sunk already. A part of him questioned his self-worth, and he viewed not getting raped as a thing to be thankful for. It was like thanking a bully for not being overly cruel one day.
“I don’t envy you,” Gray settled for mumbling. He wouldn’t be able to inflict this sort of torture.
He picked at the food with his fingers. It was good—steak, fries, and sauce—and he ate it slowly. He remembered once after hockey camp, he’d come home and gorged on sugar and fat. Going from a diet of slow carbs and protein, it was no wonder he’d spent the next two days cramping like he was having a never-ending seizure. This time, he was going from a packet of rice and steamed vegetables a day to…steak. The fries were admittedly delicious.
His hunger came and went with each bite. His body had been through too much.
He shifted, the new angle giving him an uncomfortable reminder of what Darius had been forced to do to Gray last night. He didn’t wanna think about it. It was fucking embarrassing.
“So when are we getting out of here?” he asked. The sooner, the better. “I just wanna get back to normal.” And the second they got the chance, they had to call the police—hell, bring in the National Guard for all he cared. Whatever they did, they had to time it so the other guys didn’t suffer because Gray got free.
“There is no going back to normal.” Darius wiped his mouth with an expensive napkin and pushed away his plate. Then he turned the chair farther, putting his legs up on the bed, and reached for his smokes. “Once we get out, all this will hit you more than it already has. You’re in survival mode now. I bet some of the shit you’ve been through doesn’t even faze you at the moment.”
Gray licked sauce off his thumb and eyed Darius warily. “Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, you know.”
He lit up a cigarette. “Good thing I’m no doctor. As for when we get out of here…about three days from now. Give or take.”
“That long?” What the fuck! Couldn’t they just— He stopped short, unable to finish that sentence. Couldn’t they just what? Swim to shore? Gray had no clue of their whereabouts and how long they planned on being out at sea. “Um. What’s
the plan? Are we headed someplace?”
“Joulter Cays,” Darius confirmed. That name rang a bell. Joulter. “Seven of us completed transactions last night. The other buyers were escorted to another auction, and the rest of us learned our destination.” He had a map splayed out on the desk, though he didn’t offer it to Gray. “Boats will be waiting there to take us wherever we wanna go.”
“There were eight of us,” Gray was quick to point out.
“Someone bought two boys.”
Sick sons of bitches. Gray would never understand that level of depravity.
“So that’s it?” It seemed too easy. “We’ll go to this Joulter Cays place, and a boat will take us to the closest city where we take a flight home?”
“Well, we’re gonna report in at the closest police station first, but yeah.”
Gray chewed on his thumbnail. The plan didn’t sit right with him at all. “We won’t know where the other guys are going once we split up. They can be taken to fuckin’ Russia or something.”
“I wasn’t sent here to rescue them.”
Gray’s eyes flashed to Darius’s, and anger flared up.
Darius held the stare with what was becoming his standard expression. Impassive, matter-of-fact. “You don’t accept one mission and go on another.”
“Christ. Don’t you have a fucking heart?” Gray blurted. That earned him a reaction. Darius’s mouth flattened coldly. Gray wasn’t done. “There’s gotta be something we can do. I’m not some damsel in distress, man. I can help out. We can help.”
It surprised him how much this mattered to him, but after spending so much time with the other seven guys—two of them literally still children—Gray couldn’t in good conscience just walk. He was probably naïve as hell; it made no difference. There had to be a way they could all get off this boat.
Darius took a slow drag from his smoke and rose momentarily to open a vent next to the window. “Do you know their final method for ensuring no buyers are cops or Feds? Other than weeks—sometimes months—of vetting.” It was a rhetorical question, so Gray waited for the answer. “They spend time with us on board. They host the auctions at sea and expect to see our participation for days, and no agency in the US would send an undercover agent to repeatedly rape and abuse a victim. This—what I’m doing to you?” He twirled a finger between them. “It’s nothing but sexual abuse. To get you outta here, I gotta put you through hell.”