Dangerous Savior

by Wulff, Carson

  This leaves no momentary illusion that he hasn’t been kidnapped—that it was all a bad dream. Ethan’s vision swims with Tom’s blank expression, his blood-smeared bulk. It does take several long seconds for Ethan’s brain functions to catch up with him. When they do, he’s simultaneously creeped out and… elated. He was right. Tom likes him, doesn’t he? He must, to stare at him in his sleep like that. How long has he been there?

  There’s that almost-childlike innocence again, that raw curiosity in the slight tilt of Tom’s head when Ethan responds by yawning and smiling at him.

  “Hi,” Ethan says, sitting up and keeping his expression soft. The smile is mostly genuine—because his chest fills with lightness at the renewed hope that his plan will work.

  Tom frowns like Ethan’s response isn’t what he expects—like nothing about Ethan is what he expects. It’s as close to an expression of surprise as this man seems capable of making.

  How long did butchering Ricky take him? How long was Ethan sleeping?

  “You’ve been working hard today,” Ethan says gently, maintaining a tentative, shy sort of eye contact that isn’t entirely a show. “I’d be exhausted if I were you.”

  That causes Tom’s face to twist in offended confusion. His breath visibly escalates in his chest.

  What? What did that make him feel? Why? Is it that Ethan’s not responding with the fear and pleading Tom’s used to? Or was it something he said? The praise? The acknowledgement of the man’s feelings or needs? Does that alarm him? Is he not used to being treated like a human being?

  As soon as Ethan considers the question, the answers fall into place rapidly. It makes sense that Tom might have mixed feelings about being treated kindly by a stranger when his own family seems to treat him like an attack dog.

  “Hey,” Ethan says, gently, scooting forward on the table as much as his chains will allow. Tom’s eyes flick down his body and back up to his face again, before he takes a step back. “Thank you for taking Ricky away. I feel much safer now.”

  It’s the biggest lie he’s managed so far and he feels sick saying it. Ethan doesn’t know what Ricky deserved—but he didn’t want to be responsible for making the choice to end another person’s life. Even despite what Ricky did to him. He doesn’t feel sorry for the man, necessarily, just sick knowing Tom can take another person’s life so easily. Sick knowing he himself played a role, however small, in some sort of vigilantism that resulted in another man’s death.

  But he knows Tom did this for him. Killed Ricky for him. Just like Tom spared him from his chainsaw and spared him again in the lineup. It was a gift. So Ethan will play the role of a grateful recipient.

  “You didn’t have to do that for me,” Ethan says gently, “but thank you.”

  After a long look, Tom nods.

  It’s the first real response Ethan has managed to extract from Tom, and it feels like a victory.

  “Sorry I fell asleep,” Ethan says with a surge of confidence. He can do this. He can get through to Tom. He can control the conversation. He can take this situation by the reins and guide Tom towards a conclusion that doesn’t end with Ethan dismembered in a freezer. He just needs to take things slow. “Did you need something from me?”

  Again, slowly, Tom responds without words, simply shaking his head. He never breaks eye contact, and Ethan can feel his own face heating under the intensity. Tom is standing so close. Looming. Looking at Ethan like he’s a precious new thing he owns. A possession.

  Ethan feels possessed.

  And Ethan—well. Ethan’s body decides on its own how to respond to that.

  The sudden surge of arousal makes him self-conscious, and Ethan remembers for the first time the other captive beside him. Jed is still gagged, slumped limply in his chains. He must be sleeping. Or more likely, slipped into unconsciousness from his wounds.

  Thank goodness. Ethan does not need an audience for the private humiliation he’s putting himself through by attempting to befriend Tom. What’s worse is that it doesn’t even feel humiliating when it’s just Ethan alone with Tom—but as soon as Ethan imagines his friends or family or even Jed looking in on what he’s doing—God, it feels so wrong.

  “Well, if you… need,” Ethan pauses slightly on the word, giving it a soft emphasis that glows with implication, “anything from me. Anything at all, let me know, alright?”

  Ethan swears he can see Tom’s breath hitch and then start again at double speed.

  So Ethan adds, “You’ve done so much for me today. I owe you.”

  Tom’s gaze bounces around Ethan’s face, and somehow Ethan manages not to flinch when Tom reaches out to touch a tuft of Ethan’s auburn curls.

  Ethan looks up at Tom’s hand—his wrist is so thick, his fingers, too. Yet he’s touching Ethan’s hair so gently, just stroking it between his fingers. Ethan was right to think Tom had an innocence about him, like he’s never touched another human being like this before.

  Maybe he hasn’t.

  Maybe he’s more of a virgin than Ethan is, without media and a normal life within society spoiling some of the mystery of sex and intimacy before it happens.

  Ethan lets out an involuntary, satisfied hum at the way his scalp tingles pleasantly under Tom’s small touch, the sensation rolling down his spine.

  Tom’s eyes widen infinitesimally, and then he jerks his hand away as if burned.

  Ethan starts to protest, to reassure, but stops when he notices Tom’s eyes locked on his own callused hand, blood from the day still crusted darkly under his fingernails, smeared in filthy smudges across his skin.

  Tom takes a step back.

  “It’s okay,” Ethan says. “I’m all dirty from everything that happened today, too.”

  Tom’s eyes snap to Ethan like what he said is absurd. Like he can’t imagine Ethan ever being as filthy as he is.

  Ethan chuckles softly at that. “Really, it’s okay.”

  Taken aback again, Tom shakes his head.

  With that, Tom turns away, skulking across the basement and throwing open the curtain that sections off the other side of the room, disappearing behind it.

  Before the curtain falls closed behind Tom, Ethan can see that his earlier suspicions were right—there’s definitely some sort of bedroom behind there.

  Tom lives down here.

  Several quiet minutes pass, and then distantly, Ethan can hear the distinct sound of a shower spray somewhere on the other side of the basement where Tom disappeared to.

  Ethan finds himself grinning at that. It’s absurd, but his chest swells with a mixture of pride and elation. He did it. His plan is working. He was right, he was right, he was right. Tom is fond of him. He’s getting under Tom’s skin, making the man self-conscious with his want to impress him.

  Tom wants Ethan’s approval, doesn’t he? Wants the basic human decency Ethan’s been feeding him in small doses. Craves the approval he must be sorely lacking in his life.

  Ethan was right.

  This plan is going to work.

  9

  Ethan dozes off until Tom returns freshly showered. Tom’s clothes are changed; he’s now wearing an open, short-sleeved button-down shirt with nothing underneath. The fabric is threadbare and faded, patched in several places with the wrong color fabric and thread. The jeans are just as worn, denim faded across his thick thighs, fraying to barely held together threads around the knees.

  If these people don’t get out much, Tom must not get new clothes very often. If ever. Ethan hates himself for thinking that Tom is so tall and muscular that he must not be able to pilfer many outfits off of the men he kills. Even Jed, who is a massive man by Ethan’s standards, doesn’t come close to matching Tom’s bulk.

  Ethan’s gaze passes down Tom’s exposed stomach through his open shirt—it’s all hard muscle leading down to sharp hip bones jutting out and disappearing beneath the hem of his jeans.

  Ethan swallows. Averts his eyes.

  The denim fits Tom’s thighs like a second skin. Hugs his
hips dangerously low. The image is seared into Ethan’s mind even with his eyes closed. He has the overwhelming urge to get on his knees, press his lips to those thighs. Wrap his arms around them. Peer up at Tom with a look so wanton it can only be interpreted as asking for permission.

  It’s awful, this heat in his stomach.

  It’s awful, because he can’t do any of those things—he’s chained up. Held captive. All but scheduled for death at this man’s hands.

  What is wrong with him?

  Ethan squeezes his eyes closed harder. Breathes deeply. Tries to dispel the guilt and shame that are no use to him here.

  The plan will work. He can seduce Tom. Spare his own life. And if Ethan himself enjoys the seduction?

  ...So what?

  It will only make it easier to carry out his plan.

  Ethan’s eyes snap open when he feels something bump against his arm.

  Tom is standing before him again, in his hand is another clear plastic water bottle scrounged from Ethan’s luggage.

  “Found some more,” Tom offers in explanation, twisting the cap off of the bottle.

  Ethan’s so happy he could burst—because it’s working. It’s working. Tom is offering him this kindness on his own.

  Ethan’s smile is full of relieved resolve that Tom is sure to translate as gratitude. When he tips his head back and opens his mouth, it feels like obedience. And when Tom’s lips quirk up on one side, just slightly, as he tips the water bottle against Ethan’s mouth—that… that feels like praise.

  Ethan drinks half of the bottle before Tom sets it aside. “Thank you,” he says, and then, because he can’t help but push his luck, “Do you live down here? I heard a shower.”

  Tom blinks slowly, and then, after several long seconds, nods.

  Ethan laughs, and then, as innocently as possible, says, “I could definitely use a shower right about now. I’m sure it’s not pleasant, having to share a basement with someone who smells like gasoline and blood.”

  It’s the stench of gasoline on his body that’s worse than the blood. It’s probably from being dragged all over the road today, beaten into the sun-washed asphalt by the bikers.

  His own skin and clothes reek more strongly of gasoline than the full gas cans shoved under the stairs.

  “Don’t mind,” Tom says, the subtle request going right over his head. And then, unexpectedly, adds, “Like the way you smell.”

  Heat floods into Ethan’s face in waves. He’s sure his auburn hair looks even redder against the red flush spreading across his cheeks.

  “W-well,” he stutters, floundering. What can he possibly say to that? “I’m sure I’d smell better after a shower. Less like blood and more like… me.”

  Tom grunts, as if Ethan’s desperate, babbling attempt at gaining another freedom makes any sense at all.

  “I understand if you don’t want to let me use your shower,” Ethan says. “But it would make me feel better. Showers always do after long days.”

  Tom shifts his weight. Crosses his arms. Doesn’t reply. Something in his face hardens.

  Maybe Ethan is pushing too hard—but he has to. He has to push. He has no idea how much time he has left.

  “You don’t have to untie me or anything, but I might need your help washing myself,” Ethan says, slow and innocent. His cock twitches in his pants, half hard now. Because that was certainly a proposition, and despite how awkward it may have been, threads of excitement shoot through Ethan’s body at the unexplored territory. He’s… he’s never done anything like this before.

  He’s never even had a first kiss.

  Has Tom?

  Just the thought of Tom’s hands scrubbing him clean in the shower is enough to make Ethan hard.

  It’s inherently illicit, the way Ethan intentionally worries his lower lip with his teeth, tongue darting out to swipe at his split lip when Tom’s gaze locks on his mouth. It feels coercive, the way he flashes his eyes up to Tom’s and catches his gaze.

  It is coercive.

  It is an obvious attempt at seduction aimed at an easy target—because as intimidating as Tom is, he doesn’t seem at all experienced in this area. It’s like he doesn’t even understand his own body’s natural reactions to Ethan’s flirtation. Like he’s spent his whole life suppressing his sexuality.

  That shouldn’t turn Ethan on more—but it does. It does.

  Tom’s pupils dilate, his nostrils flare as his breath quickens. His expression darkens to one of accusation and hunger. Almost like he’s angry at himself for his own lack of control.

  Somehow, Ethan manages not to flinch when Tom reaches around him in a flash to pull hastily at his bindings.

  He’s—he’s untying him.

  Ethan’s heart pounds, his face centimeters from the bare skin of Tom’s chest as he looms over him.

  Tom’s breath is escalated, overwhelmingly audible at this proximity, even over Ethan’s own pulse filling his ears.

  Something is happening—something important. Ethan’s efforts are causing Tom to untie him. Ethan’s about to find out whether or not his plan worked. Is all the coyness going to cause Tom to throw him on the ground and fuck him, only to kill him later? Is Tom going to let him go? Or did the feeble attempt at seduction simply anger the man, prompt him to kill Ethan faster?

  The chains come undone, the rope loosens and falls away. Ethan braces himself. Now that he’s pushed Tom to this point, he’s not sure he’s ready to see the results.

  For the first time, Ethan considers that he may have just created a scenario where he becomes a victim of sexual assault before murder. Won’t that be a worse death, to have his body used before he’s killed? Won’t that be a more humiliating, devastating death?

  Maybe Ethan should have just accepted his fate. Just allowed himself to be killed without the added trauma of sexual assault first. Ethan’s willing to use sex, his body, as power over Tom, a way to manipulate him—but only if it results in Ethan making it out of this alive…

  Ethan barely has a moment to register that his hands are free before Tom hoists him off the table and lifts him bridal style in his arms. It’s definitely not the violent, carnal sex Ethan feared—Tom doesn’t toss him to the ground. Instead, he holds Ethan close and pads barefoot across the cold basement concrete and past the curtain that leads to the other side of the room.

  Ethan was right—it’s a cramped, makeshift bedroom behind the curtain.

  Cinder block walls, concrete floor, exposed light fixtures. Just like the rest of the basement. The bed is small, twin-sized, on a rickety wooden frame. The mattress is bare and stained, springs pushing through at one corner. Ethan can’t imagine how a man of Tom’s size sleeps on a bed that small. The size of the bed alone reads as neglect.

  Is Tom neglecting himself, or is he not allowed to make decisions about his living conditions?

  The small room has nothing in the way of personal effects besides an array of knives of all shapes and sizes displayed on the wall. A collection. The rest of the room contains a broken dresser and piles of clothes haphazardly thrown on the floor, in need of washing.

  Ethan’s breath hitches when Tom steps near the bed—but to his surprise Tom walks straight past it, to the back of the room, where a creaky door leads to a small bathroom.

  The shower.

  Of course.

  Tom is just… doing as Ethan asked. Letting him shower.

  Right.

  Ethan’s apprehension drains. He has the upper hand. So far, Tom has done everything Ethan has asked, other than letting him go—and that feels like power. A shameful rush of lust shoots through Ethan at the control he has over Tom right now. The power that comes with being wanted. An object of desire.

  Good.

  Ethan won’t let himself be something Tom can just slaughter and throw in the freezer to forget about.

  He’ll make himself something Tom cares about too much to ever want to lose.

  He’ll make it out of this alive.

  Tom sets hi
m down on the floor in front of the shower, reaching around him into the stall. The faucet squeaks, and the spray bursts from the rusted shower head to pelt the shower floor.

  It’s not a tub, but a standing shower, a small stall like in a gym locker room. Ethan sways in place, legs wobbly with the effort it takes to keep himself standing. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he is.

  “Should I… take my clothes off? Or leave them on?” Ethan asks, embarrassment anything but feigned. It’s a ridiculous question. Of course he should take his clothes off.

  “Don’t care,” Tom grunts, stepping back now that the shower is running. He’s standing between Ethan and the door. Ethan couldn’t make a run for it even if he wanted to. And of course Tom isn’t going to leave Ethan alone, unbound as he is. Not that it would make a difference—there are no windows in this room, either.

  With shaky fingers, Ethan pulls his T-shirt over his head. His resolve to seduce his way to freedom crumbles now that it’s actually time to perform. He can’t do it. Can’t make taking off his clothes sexy right now. Can’t pretend his body isn’t bruised and aching, that just the act of reaching over his head to take his shirt off doesn’t make him flinch.

  Ethan drops his shirt on the floor. He can’t help but take a moment to look at his own skin, assess the damage the biker’s beating caused. There’s an angry purple bruise splotching one side of his ribs. It’s sore to the touch—he hisses when his own fingers brush it. His right hip is scraped and caked in dried blood from being ground into the asphalt during the beating.

  Ethan remembers Tom, watching him at arm’s length. He looks up at the man. “Thank you. Again. For saving me. This would have been much worse.” He gestures at the bruising splattered across his abdomen.

  As absurd as it is, Ethan means every word. An aching longing fills him because he really does see what Tom did as a kindness. He has seen that Tom can be kind. He needs Tom to see it too before it’s too late.