by KD Ellis
Ian crouched, keeping an eye out for other runners, and peered through the large bay window into the living area. With the sun behind him and the lights on in the house, it was easy to see through the glass. Fortunately, Alvarez was home. Unfortunately, Ian was staring at nothing immediately important to the case.
Alvarez was in his early thirties. He was a pilot for a small airline, which was what allowed him to transport drugs so easily. It was also, apparently, how he picked up women. Alvarez was butt-ass naked on the couch, his pilot’s cap cockeyed on his head, while a busty brunette bounced on his dick. Ian felt a bit like a pervert snapping the pictures…but they needed to know all the cartel members’ associates, clothed or not.
Ian didn’t spare the couple another glance after he tucked away his phone. He stepped back onto the path and started running. He had several hours until the club opened and he needed to return to his cover job, but there was somewhere he knew he needed to go first.
* * * *
The grass was too green.
Ian stared at the perfectly manicured lawn and fought the urge to tear clumps of the perfectly straight blades free, scatter dirt over the perfectly tended headstones and scream into the perfectly calm silence of the cemetery. Everything was too perfect.
Lucas would have hated it.
Ian lowered himself to his knees, his gaze drifting over the dead and dying flower arrangements carefully arranged at the headstone’s base. He hadn’t brought any. Lucas hadn’t liked flowers.
He’d liked Slipknot and Korn. He’d liked dark-wash jeans and well-worn combat boots. He’d liked movies with Brendan Fraser, chasing squirrels into storm drains and painting shitty graffiti on semi-abandoned buildings—but he not flowers.
Shame welled in Ian’s chest. It grew into a knot in his throat then burst, sending saltwater tears leaking out of his eyes. He wiped them away with a heavy swipe of his hand. Ian hadn’t gone to the funeral—he hadn’t even come back to visit, not once. Something had always stopped him, nailing his feet to the ground when he thought of buying a plane ticket. This wasn’t the kind of visiting he wanted to do with his brother.
Lucas should be off at college somewhere, terrorizing his teachers and getting shitty grades and…and defacing public monuments with gaudy graffiti.
“You shouldn’t be here. You should be alive,” Ian said to the headstone. He reached out to smooth away a streak of dirt. “It’s been a while. Funny how four years can feel like a decade. I’ve been busy.”
Ian looked around, but the cemetery was empty, as dead as the bodies interred there. “I joined the FBI…for you.” He added, though it had to be obvious. “I work on a task force that targets gangs. I took one down in Chicago last year. You should have seen the shit they were into.”
Ian sighed as his words stirred up uncomfortable memories. While the La Familia cartel he was investigating now was horrible, at least they seemed preoccupied with their drug operation. There were some violent offshoots, sure, and they were still deadly, but so far, he’d seen nothing as bad as the trafficking ring he’d helped shut down. He could still see the faces, scared and dirty, some far too tiny, crammed into the train car when they’d finally tracked it down. It had made him both love and hate his job.
“They finally let me come back to work the case I really wanted. I think they knew I was considering retirement. This shit is… God, Lucas, I never thought people could be so evil.” Ian closed his eyes, drawing up his memories of Lucas. He could practically see his little brother rolling his eyes.
“Did you know what they were into when you joined?” It was the question he wished he could ask his brother, the question that rolled itself over in his head at night. Had his brother just gotten in over his head, or had he known the entire time and just…thought the risk was worth it? He felt sometimes like he hardly knew Lucas, because the Lucas he remembered played Pokémon and Mario Kart with the neighbor boy, not with gangs.
Ian sighed. “I just… I can’t believe you had a secret this big and never told me. I thought you told me everything. You told me when you got your first chest hair, and…and when you accidentally jizzed the bed before you knew what that meant. But you couldn’t trust me to talk about this?”
Ian clenched his hands into fists at his sides, a cold, pained laugh-that-wasn’t-a-laugh slipping free. “You could sure talk to Teddy about it, though, couldn’t you? I shouldn’t be angry. It’s been four years, but…it still hurts. He knew, and he didn’t say anything. He should have put a knife in my back. It would have hurt less. Am I wrong to still hold a grudge?”
Ian listened to the silence. A crow cawed in the distance, but his question sat unanswered. He sighed. “You should see him, Luc.” The nickname rolled off his tongue unintentionally and it speared his chest like a dagger. He rubbed the ache below his diaphragm. “He’s really grown into himself. He’s still too skinny, of course. He must not visit Mama much. But…he looks happier now. Sometimes.” There were still moments when Teddy looked distant, lost in thought, but Ian had yet to see a sweater make its appearance.
“Would you believe he’s a bartender? You’d laugh if you saw it. He works for me.” Ian laughed, the sound coming easier now. Lucas would have found great irony in that. He’d always said Ian had too big a stick up his ass about following the rules. “He should be completely out of my reach. I’m his boss, and…and my job is dangerous. Really dangerous. I shouldn’t drag him into it, but…every time I see him, Luc. Every time, I just want to drag him upstairs and show him that he’s mine. But I know I can’t do that, not until I forgive him.”
Ian leaned back on his hands, tipping his face up to the sunlight. “I really want to forgive him, Luc.”
A car door slammed shut and Ian sighed, pushing himself to his feet. He swiped the dirt clear from his jeans. He stood in silence until he heard the approaching footsteps of an elderly woman holding the hand of a child. He watched them head a few rows over.
Ian kissed the tips of his fingers, then brushed them against the stone. “Te amo, Lou-Lou.” Not for the first time, he wished he lived somewhere else, somewhere it rained, so the weather could match his mood.
* * * *
Ian drove aimlessly around the city until the needle on his fuel gauge hovered on empty. It was after three. He had a few hours yet before he needed to open the club, but he was too restless to sleep. He left his car in the lot and headed for the back entrance, deciding to head upstairs and wear himself out on the treadmill. The energy that coursed through him was not the useful sort. It was frenetic, the kind that urged him to do something dangerous.
He pulled out his keys to unlock the door but frowned when the knob twisted on its own. Had he forgotten to lock it? He was positive he’d checked it. A glance at the alarm had him pulling his service weapon from its holster. It was disarmed and he knew for certain that he’d armed it before he left. Someone had been inside.
Ian nudged open the door. He darted a glance around it. The hallway was dark with shadows that clung to the walls and crawled across the floor, but there was no movement. Ian crept his way inside, his eyes peeled. The thrill of adrenaline—of danger—swelled in him, urging him onward, whispering for him to take risks, to keep the adrenaline flowing. With the ease of practice, he buried it, keeping his hands steady.
Faintly, he heard the sound of water running. He followed it to the employee dressing room. Pressing his ear against the wood, he listened. It sounded like the showers. He twisted the knob slowly, inching the door open. The room was dark, so he risked opening it farther.
He peered inside. The sound grew louder, the only light spilling out from the shower room to the side. Keeping his service weapon at the ready, he stepped inside, moving quickly. He pressed himself against the wall beside the archway. Drawing in a steadying breath, he peered into the room, preparing to duck if he was met with a spray of bullets.
Chapter Twenty-Two
How long until the air is gone?
Panic made the b
ox seem smaller, and no amount of pushing with his knees and elbows had budged the lid. He had neither the strength nor the leverage to break free, and when the sound of dirt smothering him had died, the panic had only grown.
It had really happened.
He had been buried alive.
How long until the air is gone?
He couldn’t breathe.
The air was hot, sticky from re-breath. It stuck in his mouth like cotton. The walls pressed against him, binding his chest, reminding him of days when he’d been weighted down by breasts, no amount of suffocating them able to smother his curves. But now, the binding was suffocating him. Like the teeth of a bra, it dug into his spine, cutting into fragile flesh like an underwire.
How long until the air is gone?
His chest heaved faster, but the more he gasped for breath, the less air he drew in. It was completely black, but spots still speckled across his vision.
It had to have been hours… His fingers were numb and he couldn’t feel anything below his knees. It was hot. Not hot, like he’d sat too long in the sun and really wanted a glass of lemonade hot—hot like he’d been crammed into an oven that was about to melt his face off.
Even his sweat was sweating, the bitter scent strong enough that he could taste it. He gagged, too sudden to swallow it down. Pain flared down his spine at the jerking movement, and he hurled. Vomit, rancid and odorous, splashed over his arms and chest, then streaked down his chin, and the stench made him heave again.
Unfortunately, the act of heaving was enough to trigger other muscles to spasm as well, and he cried out as his body clenched and shuddered. Wetness trickled between his thighs as his bladder, which had been protesting for hours, finally gave out.
Urine dampened his thighs, the dampness triggering memories of his puberty, and he hated it. He hated it, but he couldn’t escape, too weak and dizzy to do more than futilely shove at the wood. His head felt disconnected, floaty, like it was a balloon about to drift away, and even though he wasn’t moving, he felt like he was spinning. Buzzing filled his ears, quiet, then louder.
A shudder wracked his whole body at the thought of the box filling with bugs, creeping, crawling creatures with too many legs scuttling across his skin.
Maybe he passed out. He wasn’t sure what was real and what was memory—fading in and out like a flashback film across his eyelids.
He was in his living room, cowering between the legs of an armchair while his father screamed, “No daughter of mine… No daughter of mine…” Teddy’s hands clamped to his ears to block out the chanting he’d heard too many times.
He regretted not standing up to the asshole before he’d died. That was real, a knowledge that grew stronger, mingling with the acidic stench of vomit.
He was standing in his apartment, a plain white envelope swimming in front of his vision, his name in his mother’s hand scrawled across the front, until he threw it in the trash.
He should have opened it. He should never have let her weakness become his. He missed her.
He missed her hands, the callous on her ring finger born from scrawling vitals on doctor’s charts, and teaching a young boy to write. He missed her scent—vanilla and chamomile. He just…missed her. He regretted not opening the letter when he’d gotten it. Any of the letters. He regretted not answering the dozens of missed calls.
The words he wished he’d spoken were needles in his mouth. They stabbed his tongue, slid down his throat like a prick. He wanted to spit them out.
How long?
The urine itched where it clung to his thighs but he couldn’t even shift to alleviate it. His muscles ignored his attempts to move, except to spasm painfully.
There were so many things he regretted, though ironically, the one thing he didn’t regret was the decision that got him into this mess in the first place. He couldn’t regret getting his surgery, not even if it had brought him to this.
Thump.
He wished they would have shot him first. He found himself insanely grateful that they’d crammed him into such a small box—the oxygen had to run out soon, surely.
Thump.
Thump.
The box shook, jarring Teddy from his half-dazed stupor. His heart thudded in time to the strikes. It sounded like…
A shovel.
Hope soared in Teddy’s chest. He was being rescued. Maybe someone from the club had seen him get grabbed. Maybe the police had somehow tracked him.
“Help!” His voice was coarse, rough from crying and frantic breathing. He struggled to produce enough spit to coat his throat, then tried again. “Help, please! I’m in here. Please let me out!”
The box shifted around him, tipping and swaying. He was grateful for the narrow space. Despite the rough rocking of the box, he didn’t move, didn’t collide painfully with the sides like he’d done in the van.
The box landed with a heavy thud. Then there was silence.
Teddy held his breath. The prongs of a crowbar slid into sight near his eyes. A thin slit of brilliant light appeared where the lid met the sides, growing wider. The nails strained audibly, then broke free with a series of pops.
Light burned Teddy’s night-blind eyes and he cringed, his hands reflexively covering them. He was dragged roughly from the box and he cried out as his muscles, unprepared, stretched. They cramped immediately, spasming in pain, and his stomach followed. He twisted, heaving the meager contents onto the dirt. The thin, watery bile burned, bitter on his tongue.
Before he could force his eyes open, he was tugged roughly upward. He blinked, his vision watery but clear enough to reveal, not a savior, not a police officer, but the burly silhouettes of Mike and Hugo.
“Best hope you learned your lesson, boy, or next time, I won’t waste my time digging your ass back up.” Mike snarled, shaking his loose-limbed frame. Teddy couldn’t summon the energy to do anything but dangle, limp. Mike’s nose screwed up as it caught the disgusting scent that Teddy reeked of. He dropped Teddy like he’d been burned. “Get him in the van. I’ll clean this shit up.”
Mike dropped him. Hugo didn’t bother waiting for Teddy to figure out how to get his muscles working. He just scooped him up and threw him over his shoulder. Teddy heaved again, a thin trickle of vomit spilling from his mouth and over the sleeve of Hugo’s shirt.
For a terrifying moment, Teddy thought Hugo was going to kill him. The man froze, his shoulders quivering with anger, and Teddy cringed, unable to hold back a fearful sob. But Hugo just started walking again.
This time when they reached the SUV, Hugo didn’t throw him in the trunk. He opened the back door and dropped Teddy onto the bench seat instead. Either he knew Teddy lacked the energy to run or he wanted to see the results of his handiwork.
Hugo shut the door and immediately, Teddy wheezed. The metal seemed to lean in, closing in on him like a junkyard trash compactor. There was no air.
No air.
But then, suddenly, the driver’s door opened and the walls snapped back into place like they’d never moved. Teddy’s breath sucked in on a gasp. This time, when Hugo shut the door and started the engine, the walls stayed in place. Teddy scrunched his eyes closed against the illusion, burying his face into the cracked leather seat.
His muscles twitched uncontrollably, clenching tight enough to draw pained whimpers from his lips, then released without warning. There was no rhythm to the process, no pattern, just a seemingly endless cycle of pain and relief that distracted him from the driving. He didn’t look around, not even when the sounds of Austin traffic permeated the air, until the van squealed to a stop.
He heard the door slide open on its rusty tracks, then felt himself get lifted. He clenched at arms that held him, terrified that they were just going to drop him again, but instead, he was surprised to be set gently down against cold metal, pavement grating against his bare skin.
“Thank you, thank you,” Teddy mumbled, over and over. He blinked his eyes open to find himself leaning against a green dumpster, back in the al
ley behind Envy, Hugo crouched in front of him. His lips were pressed tight together, brows lowered with concern. His large hands fidgeted where they rested between his knees.
The man’s voice was achingly gentle when he murmured, “Teddy, you need to be careful. I can’t help you. I can’t, but I don’t want to watch you get hurt again, okay?”
Teddy’s nod was little more than a tip of his head. He didn’t know how to be more careful. He didn’t know how to make more money or how to spend less. He was poorly balanced on a tightrope and any second, he was going to trip.
This might have only been a warning, but it felt like a death sentence.
Hugo was silent. When he finally spoke, his whispered words were as loud as a shovel in the desert. “Go to the police. Tell them what you know. They can help you.”
“I…I c-can’t,” Teddy whispered. “The video.”
“They won’t care. No one will care once they know the whole story. Just tell them the truth.” Hugo glanced around nervously, like he was afraid someone would hear him.
“The ecstasy…” Teddy reminded the larger man, as if he would forget. He’d been there, the other half of the porn show.
“They won’t arrest you for it, not once you explain. I know it’s embarrassing, and…shit, nobody would want a video like that floating around.” Hugo’s jaw clenched and he looked away, his shame easy to read. Teddy didn’t remember everything they’d done, but he remembered enough—remembered the high, the words that he couldn’t seem to control. “But it’s better than dying. You should go before Julian can stop you permanently.”
“He’ll kill me like he killed Lucas.” Teddy didn’t know for sure that was what had happened, but he suspected. It was confirmed when Hugo answered.