The way she says it is so suspicious that it demands explanation.
Ethan’s brain short wires.
A meal?
Is she…
Is she implying that they intend to eat the three people they keep alive?
The old woman’s words just minutes ago ring in Ethan’s head: I reckon we have room for three. Should last us a good while.
They’re going to keep three live humans to butcher.
No. Ethan must be hearing wrong.
Assuming wrong.
Jumping to conclusions.
But Tom drags Ethan to his feet, fist still knotted in Ethan’s shirt to keep him from running. His free hand tugs Ethan’s shirt up, exposing his belly.
Ethan’s face, previously drained of color, glows bright red under the multiple sets of eyes on him now.
Sally and Beth are positively leering.
“The soft ones are better,” Tom grunts in explanation. He drops Ethan’s shirt.
Despite his stomach no longer being exposed, Ethan’s face still burns with embarrassment. His belly isn't more than slightly pudgy, really. It's just not muscular.
This is the second time he’s felt utterly dehumanized today.
The old woman is frowning deeply, practically glaring at Tom with suspicion. She looks about to protest, but Beth cuts in.
“Less gristle with the soft ones, huh?” Beth jeers. “Alright. You take him back to the house, Tommy. His van too. Park it in the barn so we can scrap it later. Sally and I will take care of this lot.”
With that, Beth delivers a powerful kick to Jed’s side.
“Alright, Daisy Mae,” the older woman says. She pulls a knife with a worn wooden handle out of a holster around her waist. It's then Ethan realizes she has a gun strapped to her hip, too. “Get rid of the excess.”
The little girl takes the knife just as Beth grabs the nameless biker and holds him still.
The biker struggles, but is no match for the strength of this woman.
Jed and Ricky’s cursing and protests are short-lived—Sally makes use of their bandanas by shoving them in their mouths.
Ethan’s body flinches instinctively, muscles spasming with the impulse to flee—to be anywhere but here, watching what this little girl is about to do.
Daisy steps right in front of the struggling man, careful to stay out of reach of his legs, where he’s bucking and kicking wildly in a futile attempt to struggle free.
But he’s not going anywhere, and Daisy sinks the blade into his neck, seeming to carefully choose where to position the point.
The blade resists at first, but then it pops through the man’s skin. The silver metal sinks in and back out, coated in red.
Blood pours from the wound.
It’s not a clean death. Not a quick death.
Ethan loses the contents of his lunch on the road, his stomach emptying in painful, acidic contractions.
As soon as his stomach stops wringing itself out and his breathing evens, Tom ushers him back towards his van. Ethan obliges on wobbly legs, head reeling with a feeble attempt to manage his pain and panic. Somewhere, distantly, he’s grateful to be forced away from the awful scene. The second death he’s seen today.
The chainsaw is haphazardly fastened to Tom’s utility belt, looking dangerous even when hanging docile on the man’s hip. When they reach Ethan’s van, Tom releases his grip on Ethan, who stumbles without the extra support.
“Keys,” Tom grunts.
They’re as good as alone now. The rest of the man’s dangerous family is gathered out of earshot, congregating by the gas station.
“Uh,” Ethan breathes, because his survival instinct screams at him to respond, to do as he’s told—but his brain is too overloaded with fear and adrenaline to form a proper reply.
“Now,” Tom commands, firm but uninterested. Like this is all just an average day of work for him. Maybe it is.
Ethan can’t help but notice that Tom’s hands are folded over his chest. Kept to themselves. Like he has no intentions of fishing into Ethan’s pockets for the keys, as the bikers did.
That thought calms Ethan enough for him to manage a deep breath.
Carefully, he replies, “They—one of the men. The bikers. They threw my keys into the cornfield.”
“Show me,” Tom commands again, stoic and looming.
It takes Ethan a moment to realize Tom intends Ethan to lead him to where he approximates the keys must have landed. Carefully, Ethan makes his way down the slight slope on the side of the road, into the cornfield. He’s careful to move slowly, to not give any sign that he might run. He knows running will only get him killed.
His only hope now is that the mercy Tom has been showing isn’t just a figment of his desperate imagination.
4
The cornfield is just as suffocating as being submerged in a ball-pit as a child. The stalks rise high over their heads even though Tom must be well over six feet tall. Ethan’s heart pounds at how alone he is with this mammoth of a man.
It’s not exactly fear.
Mostly, it’s a heady rush of need—a desire to communicate with this person, a desire to endear Tom to him. Because so far, this man’s whim is the only thing keeping him alive. Ethan doesn’t know why. Hell, he’s not even sure if it’s not entirely in his head.
“I’m sorry,” Ethan says as they search for the keys. Though he’s leading, he can feel the man’s proximity at his back. “It’s hard to see anything in here.”
No reply from Tom.
Ethan’s calmer now that it’s just this beast of a man with him. He shouldn’t feel protected, but he does. The way Tom dragged him from the line-up reads as absurdly possessive to Ethan right now. And after all that happened today, Ethan needs someone to care whether he lives or dies—even if it is just out of pity.
Maybe he has a concussion. Or it’s just trauma of his many near-death experiences today talking. But, somehow, Ethan feels something like safety right now.
It’s disgusting and ridiculous, but Ethan doesn’t have time to beat himself up for it.
He needs to find these keys.
He needs to say something. Make this man like him. Make this man want to keep him alive—just until he has time to escape.
“Those bikers were really awful,” Ethan says, pushing past another row of corn stalks. It’s easy like this, talking to the crop brushing against his face, not having to look at the strikingly imposing man in tow. “I haven’t been beat up like that since middle school.”
Again, Tom says nothing.
Ethan continues anyway. “I thought I was going to die.”
Ethan’s always been prone to stark honestly with others. An openness that sometimes borders on oversharing. He’s not exactly trying to manipulate this man, though he knows he should be. More than anything, every cell in Ethan’s body longs to bear his humanity to this person. Show Tom that he’s a human being, a living thing. Something that shouldn’t be disposed of thoughtlessly.
“I was on a road trip by myself, to try and see if there was more to life than a monotonous future.” Ethan’s blabbering now. His words probably come across as desperate. “Everyone I knew warned me that it was a bad idea to travel alone like that. Ha. I guess they were right.”
Ethan actually laughs here, and it’s not entirely humorless.
He thinks maybe he hears a grunt from behind him.
“Like, I’m pretty sure everyone I know suspects I’m gay, and they coddle me because of it—so I really thought that their worry came from that direction, but I’m pretty sure those bikers only targeted me because they could.”
Wow. Ethan… takes a moment to realize what just came out of his mouth.
He’s never talked about his sexuality with anyone. It’s always been awkward, his obvious disinterest in women. At some point friends and family catch on that he’s never really talked about romantic or sexual interest in women—and then they don’t want to make any accusations. Or maybe they just don’t wa
nt it to be true. So they avoid the subject, and Ethan avoids it too, because the whole thing is awkward and he’s not honestly sure about anything himself—it’s not like he’s ever had anything close to a boyfriend.
And. Ethan should really, really, not be mentioning his potential sexuality to a potentially very conservative, murderous hillbilly.
“You and your sisters are really strong,” Ethan tries again, with a different subject, because his face is blazing red again, and not because of the heat. “All three of you are kind of beautiful in that powerful sort of way, where—”
Ethan snaps his mouth closed.
Okay. Yeah. Fuck.
He definitely must have a concussion because his current train of thought goes well beyond trying to manipulate this man into liking him.
Because—because, who the hell would take one look at a giant, masculine guy like Tom and think he’d like to be called beautiful?
And. Fuck, Ethan has been thinking that this entire time, hasn’t he? That this man is strangely beautiful—sloping muscles statuesque, something meant to be chiseled into expensive marble.
He’s been staring, and gaping, and obsessing over this man.
He’s sick to his stomach, suddenly, with how disgusting that is. Not because he’s another man—no, not at all—but because Tom murdered someone right in front of him. Almost murdered Ethan, too. Might, still.
Ethan curses himself for his bizarre reaction. He can’t explain it to himself. Can’t afford to dissect his own psyche right now. It must be some sort of terrifying survival instinct buried deep within him: if he can’t protect himself, he should find the biggest thing willing to protect him and cling to it.
It makes sense in some primitive, animalistic way that actually doesn’t make sense at all.
Because this man is dangerous.
And Ethan should just try to run now, even if he knows he’s not fit to after the beating—because running, even futilely, is more logical than trying to make friends with the beast tailing him.
“There,” Tom says, halting Ethan’s steps.
Tom shoves several stalks of corn aside, holding them back like a curtain. Ethan’s keys lay on the ground below them.
“Get them,” Tom commands, because everything he says to Ethan is a command.
Ethan obeys, bending to pick the keys up—but a shock of pain in his lower back sends him reeling, crying out and landing on all fours.
Pain. Not from Tom hurting him, but from the biker’s earlier abuse.
Fearful that the display will upset Tom, Ethan grabs the keys and scrambles back into a sitting position.
“Sorry, I’m sorry—got kicked in the back pretty good earlier,” he blurts in quick, breathy explanation.
He flashes his eyes up to Tom, who is looming, chin pointed down to stare at Ethan’s sprawling form.
Tom’s eyes are intense, dark, even though Ethan can see they’re the most devastatingly handsome shade of blue. Something about the way he’s looking at Ethan makes Ethan very aware of the way his own legs are spread, the way his chest is heaving in the aftermath of the sudden pain.
And for one horrifying moment, Ethan thinks he’s insane, that this is really all in his head and his brain is looking for sex and attraction where there is none. That, perhaps his instincts were short-circuited by Ricky’s disgusting fondling earlier, maybe that whole situation fucked him up, made his body think hey, at least assault is better than death.
It’s awful and absurd and Ethan is both reassured and horrified to see the distinct tent in the crotch of Tom’s denim overalls.
Because.
Because—that means Ethan isn’t crazy for interpreting Tom’s motives and stares as possessive.
But. It also means that…
That…
This man is aroused despite the disturbing nature of every single fucking thing that’s happening. Despite the fact that Ethan is not here willingly, is being held captive, in fact.
Worse than that, Ethan’s own dick twinges in interest. His body is betraying him—his brain is betraying him, because honestly? Seducing this man doesn’t seem like a bad idea right now. In fact, it seems like a very good idea.
It feels like self-preservation when Ethan gives in and bites his lip, flashing his gaze from the bulge in Tom’s pants to his face.
He wants to say something coy. Proposition Tom. Crawl over to the man and give him a fumbling blowjob, the first blowjob he's ever given—to thank him for keeping Ethan alive so far—because honestly, Ethan is thankful. And in some sick way, he’s convinced that’s exactly what Tom’s doing—keeping him alive.
And that desire goes so far beyond self-preservation. Beyond manipulation to save his own skin. His own lust is a very real pooling of heat between his legs.
He’s never so much as kissed another person, let alone sucked someone off.
But all he wants right now is this man’s dick in his mouth.
He can’t stop staring at the long, cylindrical bulge straining the man’s pants.
He wants—he must actually be out of his mind, from the beating or trauma or searing heat, because, he wants—
The fantasy swelling in Ethan’s head festers and pops when Tom grabs him by the arm and drags him to his feet.
“Back, now,” Tom grunts, shoving Ethan lightly back the way they came, back towards the road.
Ethan’s sick with the dizzying mixture of lust and disgust for himself, shame bleeding into it all when he realizes that Tom has no intention of taking advantage of him out here in the cornfield.
Tom could have done it whether Ethan consented or not. He’s so much more powerful than Ethan. And who is Ethan, if not a dead man, anyway? What would it matter to Tom, if he took advantage of Ethan first?
But Tom didn’t, despite his obvious arousal tenting his pants.
And Ethan is ashamed—ashamed that he fantasized, even for the briefest of moments, about going along with Tom having his way with him.
Ashamed that his body swam with lust at the thought of it.
Ashamed that it didn’t disgust him, like Ricky groping him through his pockets did.
What is wrong with him?
When they get back to Ethan’s van, Tom simply takes the keys from Ethan, calloused fingers brushing his as they ease the keys out of his grip. The touch sends a pleasant prickle down Ethan’s spine. He’s awe-struck by the simple touch, how gentle and commanding it is all at once. Lust and shame crash through him, pooling, overflowing, drowning him.
Tom opens the passenger side door and holds it ajar expectantly until Ethan gets the picture and crawls inside. The door slams shut and before Ethan knows it, Tom is swiping glass from the broken window off of the driver’s seat and climbing in. He unclips the chainsaw from his hip and tosses it into the back of the van.
Ethan… doesn’t feel like a prisoner at all. He’s completely unrestrained. On some level, he knows that’s because this man overpowers him in every way—he doesn’t need to restrain Ethan to keep him captive.
But.
For a moment, as Tom starts the van and the view from the window starts to slide forward, Ethan imagines that Tom is simply helping him after the horrible encounter with the bikers. He imagines Tom is driving him back to his farmhouse to clean him up because there aren’t any hospitals around and Ethan is too shaken to drive himself.
Ethan shuts his eyes, focuses on the vibration of the wheels on the road, and imagines he’s being taken care of right now. Helped.
And.
Maybe that is true—maybe Tom is helping him in the only way he knows how.
He certainly doesn’t seem to be the ringleader in his family. That position seems to belong exclusively to his sister Beth.
How long has this family been out here totally isolated from society? Just from the brief glimpse of interaction Ethan got to witness in that line-up, the family seems totally cult-like, sheltered from anything outside of their violent world-view.
How is it possible t
hat they’re living like this?
How long has Tom been killing for his family?
What made them decide that this is the right way to live?
Ethan opens his eyes, glances at Tom.
Ethan’s always felt a little small in his van, but Tom has to lean forward slightly to avoid his head hitting the ceiling.
Sweat beads and drips down the trunk of Tom’s neck. Ethan has to look away, because something like that shouldn’t be arousing—not when the man is coated in flecks of drying blood from the spray of his chainsaw. Grime covering his clothes from who-knows-what. Still, Ethan can’t help but imagine pressing his tongue to the man’s shoulder, licking a wet stripe up to find Tom’s pulse in his throat.
Tom catches Ethan staring. For once his face is not aggressively blank—his lip lifts slightly in a snarl, a frown of disgust.
Alarmed, Ethan looks away again, out the window at the unsown fields. Is all of Ethan’s attention trying this man’s patience?
Tom rolls his shoulders, like trying to smooth out crawling skin.
“My name is Ethan.” The words come suddenly, unexpectedly out of his own mouth. Blurted like this is the last chance he’ll ever get to say them. He needs this man to understand that if he hurts Ethan, he’ll be hurting a real human being, not just another nameless stranger.
Tom ignores the offering of Ethan’s name outright. Gives no attempt to return the introduction.
Ethan’s fingers tremble in his lap, shaking and filthy. Worse than that is his cock, half-hard in his jeans. He shifts subtly to hide his inappropriate erection, trying his best to avoid looking suspicious. He’s not sure what would be worse, Tom noticing his boner or Tom mistaking his shifting as a prelude to an escape attempt.
Could Ethan escape? The van isn’t moving so fast that he couldn’t open the door and jump out, make a run for it. Sure, it would hurt like hell and there’s really nowhere to run, but it’s possible.
And what about what his instincts are telling him to do? To stay put and seduce Tom until he wants Ethan’s safety more than Ethan does? Something tells Ethan that plan isn’t going to work. He’s never even had a man hit on him before, what makes him think this guy is going to like him enough to want to keep him safe?
Dangerous Savior Page 4