by Trina Lane
“I think you’re wrong, but I suppose there’s nothing I can do to change your mind. How about one last scene as a goodbye? We can even go back to your place, so there’s no public talk about us together again.”
Javier frowned. “That’s not really appropriate, but I will agree to a final drink. You said you needed time before you were ready to search out a new Dom. I’m still willing to help you with that, if you wish. If possible, I’d like to remain friends.”
“Thank you, Sir. Sorry, Javier. Can we maybe have the drink somewhere else?” Vincent looked around the room. “I don’t really feel like being here right now.”
Vincent locked eyes with someone in the direction of the bar. Javier assumed Everett was watching over them. Everett had a perfect resting Dom face, as Javier liked to joke. If that look was focused on Vincent at the moment, no wonder the man was squirming in his seat a bit. Javier was really tempted to look over his shoulder, but he refused to satisfy his curiosity. “Of course. Where would you like to go?”
“I know a little friendly place not far from here.”
“Sounds good. I’ll meet you there.”
“Actually, the parking is the one drawback. Not a big lot. We can ride together, and I’ll bring you back or I can ride with you.”
Javier nodded. “Let me just clear it with Everett that I can leave my car here for a little while.”
Javier looked over at the bar, but Everett had disappeared and the usual bartender was in his place. His friend was probably in his office, doing administration stuff. He didn’t really think it would be a big deal to leave his car on the premises for an hour or so. He sent a text instead and nodded at Vincent.
Maybe what I’ve been missing since breaking it off with Vincent is closure? Maybe now I’ll find the drive to find someone new?
And maybe that someone new didn’t have to be a trained submissive. If he opened his mind and heart to all possibilities instead of trying to fit a relationship into a pre-formed mold, then was it possible to finally find the right person?
“Let’s go.” They left though the front doors and as they passed Henry, Javier nodded. “I’ll be back. Please inform your Master I’d like to speak with him when I do.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The fresh air hit Javier the moment they exited the building. A breeze caressed his face with enough energy to dissipate the lingering warmth of the day. It also helped that the sun was no longer doing its best to blind them from the sky.
“I’m parked over here,” Vincent said.
Javier turned the corner of the building and followed Vincent toward the parking lot in back. He saw Vincent’s truck right away. The bright white late model Ford stuck out in the sea of darker vehicles. Not to mention the blue lights that flashed brightly as he unlocked the doors, momentarily blinding Javier. He’d actually always hated the vehicle.
He climbed in on the passenger side and put on his seatbelt. He sniffed and detected the scent of a cheap air freshener that maybe should have been refreshing, but really resembled Pine-Sol mixed with spearmint. As soon as Vincent started the engine, he lowered the window a few inches. One drink or two as a courtesy, then it was back to the Citadel.
He watched the buildings of the Deep Ellum neighborhood pass by. Lights from other clubs and restaurants blurred together as they drove. He sat up as he realized that Vincent was driving south, away from the entertainment district.
“Just where are we going?”
“Someplace you’ll never forget.”
Vincent’s voice sounded different. Javier turned and found himself staring at the end of a Taser.
“Hey—”
Javier jerked when Vincent pulled the trigger. Every muscle in his body contracted and his throat burned with the scream he unleashed before blackness enveloped him.
Chapter One
May 2017
Seven months later
Javier groaned. It felt like Bobby Lashley had body-slammed him on the pavement over and over again. He tried to get his brain to follow his command to open his eyes. He was in his cell again, lying on his side in the fetal position, nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, soaking wet, with his left arm tucked under his body in the oddest position.
He took inventory of his latest injuries. A trickle of something dripping down his back told him his latest lacerations were still bleeding, so he probably hadn’t been unconscious for very long. The ever-present abrasions on his wrists and ankles appeared a shade darker than the last time he’d looked. There were new burn marks on his torso too. His body shivered with a concerning combination of heat and cold. His training told him that he was probably fighting some kind of infection. Bacterial was most likely, due to the many untreated burns and lacerations he’d sustained since getting in that fucking truck with Vincent.
How much time had gone since he’d passed out in Vincent’s torture room? His cell had no windows—in fact, Javier hadn’t seen any sign of outdoors since the moment he’d woken up in his new hell. He couldn’t even use the length of his hair or beard to tell time because Vincent never allowed it to grow. He’d wake up, hungover from whatever drug Vincent had injected him with that time, to feel his face and head completely shaved. Combine that with the blank spots in his memories, and for all he knew he could be an old man by now. He certainly felt like it.
The only way he’d managed to retain his sanity was by using his training to keep his mind focused on something other than the pain, by cataloging each muscle group and bone being tortured by his kidnapper at any given time. More than once he’d popped his shoulder back into its socket. Based on the intermittent swelling, loss of range of motion and instability of his left leg he suspected an ACL injury.
How much longer could he tolerate these scenes, as Vincent called them? The man was a fucking psychopath—or, actually, sociopath would probably be a better diagnosis. He’d somehow managed to convince everyone in Javier’s circle that he was a trained submissive, even passed all the background checks for the club membership. But clearly it had all been a façade. A very cleverly crafted and multilayered portrayal. The man should get the fucking Oscar of all Oscars then get taken right to the goddamn electric chair.
Javier rolled onto his hands and knees, but collapsed onto his elbows. The splotch of dirt on the floor spun in circles beneath his nose. If his protruding ribcage was an indication, he’d dropped significant weight and muscle mass, but his stomach no longer told him if he was hungry. He pushed up again and raised his head a few inches. A few feet away was the sagging excuse for a mattress that inhabited the corner of his cell. He started to crawl, but the pressure on his knee was too great. Javier took a deep breath and walked his hands up the wall till he was mostly vertical. The cement felt cool on his skin and he sighed in pleasure till his back made contact and lighting bolts of pain ricocheted through his body.
“Me cago en la hostia de tu puta madre.”
“Now, now. My mother never did anything to you.”
Javier whipped around and was immediately hit with a wave of vertigo. He tried to fixate on Vincent to stop the spinning, but the giant ogre’s face just got uglier with the tilt-a-whirl in Javier’s head.
“You look a little worse for wear. I brought you some food. You really did beautifully that last session, so I thought some nourishment would be a nice reward.”
Javier gathered what saliva he had in his mouth and spat. There was a flash of movement then his head was filled with sound of a thousand gongs, and his right cheekbone throbbed from the impact of the food tray.
“You fucking ungrateful spic!”
Vincent was turning a concerning shade of red. It wasn’t the first time his captor had lost his composure. Javier had fought both physically and mentally against Vincent from the moment he’d became conscious, trapped inside a black hood. But he’d never seen the veins on the side of Vincent’s shaved head pop out quite that dramatically.
“I think it’s time for the next phase of your tr
aining. I’ve been understanding up till now. I know that submission doesn’t come naturally to you, but, you see, even the toughest of the tough can be broken.” Vincent pulled Javier in so their noses touched. “I know, because I’ve broken them. And I will break you all eventually.”
“Why? What the fuck is all this for? I never mistreated you. Hell, I’d never even met you before Everett introduced us.”
“Tsk, tsk. How many times do we need to have this conversation? Maybe I need to lay off the breath control if it’s affecting your memory. Hypoxia…such a tricky thing to get right,” Vincent said, smiling.
He was fucking sure Vincent had never told him what his motives were. Well, maybe ninety percent sure. Vincent pushed him away and Javier stumbled, tripping on the edge of his mattress and falling to the musky surface.
“Eat up! Phase two of your training will begin shortly,” Vincent said as he walked out of the room.
He had to figure a way to secure his release. Clearly nobody was coming for him. Hell, he didn’t even know if anyone had figured out he’d been taken. When he counted the number of close acquaintances in his life, it was pathetically low. And everyone was so tied up in their own lives that it wasn’t unreasonable to assume nobody was screaming at the cops that something was wrong.
He scooped up the piece of bread and chunks of cheese that Vincent had brought him. If he was going to fight for his life, he needed fuel. But how was he going to escape? He’d never seen the walls outside this room. Anytime Vincent took him somewhere else, he was hooded. In the space Vincent called his playroom, Javier was always blindfolded. He knew there were no stairs between rooms, but the space didn’t feel like a home. It was cold. He’d never encountered a soft surface. The air had a staleness about it. On the other hand, the spaces didn’t have a large feel to them, like an industrial or warehouse setting. The first thing he had to do was figure out the layout of the building. It wouldn’t do him any good to start stumbling around blindly. That was assuming he found a way to break free of Vincent in the first place.
* * * *
Ten…eleven…twelve…
“Here we are. Time for your shower. As much as I enjoy working with you, I have no desire to wear a nose plug due to your stench.”
Vincent gave Javier a little push. He felt tile beneath his bare feet. He stretched his arms out and turned, trying to get an impression of the space. He cried out when Vincent yanked him backwards by the ties of the blindfold. He squinted as the blackness disappeared. His eyes burned from the bright light, but Javier noticed he was still partially standing out in the hallway. He quickly assessed as much as he could before Vincent pushed him into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.
“Don’t think to try anything funny. I’ve removed any tools or items that could benefit you in any other way than to clean the stink. You have five minutes.”
This was a new room. Javier’s standard ‘bathroom’ was a bucket and bathing was no more than a quick dousing of liquid soap then spray from a garden hose in the corner of his cell. Why would Vincent give him access to a real bathroom at this point? Javier assumed it was because Vincent’s favorite form of tormenting him was to play up uncertainty. There was never a schedule or pattern to when things happened, or even where. Sometimes Vincent would take him to the playroom and other times he would torture him right there in his cell, to ensure that Javier had no safe space.
The bathroom was utilitarian for sure, but he now knew that this room was twelve steps to the right of the playroom. Since he’d made the decision to start mapping his surroundings, he’d learned that his cell was twenty steps to the left away from the playroom. That one had taken some extra time and math because sometimes he’d been unconscious when leaving the playroom, but come to partway back. Other times Vincent would inject him with a sedative before they left and he wouldn’t wake up till he was strapped onto one of the pieces of bondage equipment.
He’d yet to encounter any corners during his mental mapping. So that would indicate at least this part of the building was one long hallway. There had to be other doors, though, and logically an exit someplace. Those were thoughts for another time. There was only a wall sink, toilet and small shower stall. No mirror to break, curtain or glass door on the shower to use as a weapon. No knickknacks to use as missiles. Hell, there wasn’t even a plunger he could use to beat the shit into Vincent. There was, however, a commercial grade paper towel holder. A bit vague, but a clue about his location nonetheless. He took a look inside.
Just the thing I need.
He turned on the shower just in case Vincent was listening on the other side of the door. He even stepped into the stall and checked the visible areas for cameras. He couldn’t lose the element of surprise. The water splashing at his feet was so very tempting, but being free was infinitely better than being clean. It looked like the room was clear of any surveillance. At least as far as he could tell. He would just have to risk it.
Javier retrieved the liner that was sitting on the bottom of the mini trashcan attached to the paper towel holder. For good measure he squeezed a giant blob of shampoo into the liner and tried to mush it around.
Now where to wait for my prey?
Behind the door seemed the most logical place, but he didn’t want to trap himself.
“One minute!” Vincent yelled through the door
Javier closed his eyes, said the fastest prayer in history and let out a long breath. He shut out the lights and stood in the corner on the opposite side of the door. Everything hurt and he sincerely hoped his body still had the strength to pull this off.
The door banged open and Javier struck. He jumped and covered Vincent’s head with the trash bag liner.
“Motherfucker!” Vincent screamed through the bag. “You’re going to die even slower for this!”
The threat only made Javier grip tighter. Vincent spun and Javier’s back slammed into the wall where the towel holder was attached. A rib definitely snapped and he almost lost his grip, but Javier put his feet against the wall and pushed with everything he had. They flew across the room and Vincent’s head slammed into the tile wall. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Vincent tried to stab his fingers into the thin plastic covering his mouth.
No!
Javier drew on his last reserves of adrenaline to roll them so that Vincent was face-planted on the floor. Vincent tried to push up, but Javier kneed him in the kidneys and tightened the bag incrementally more. The other man was bigger, stronger, healthier, but Javier had pure rage on his side. He was going to get the fuck out of here. He was not going to let himself be a victim anymore.
The sound of water pounding on the tile mixed with their screams. The floor started to get wet, and Javier slipped. He didn’t dare look up at the shower head. He’d seen too many movies where the good guy was just about to win and got distracted, only to have his ass handed to him.
Javier gave Vincent several more sharp jabs with his knees, striking wherever he could reach. With each hit his damaged knee throbbed so much that it felt as though the insides were about to explode. Vincent tried to grab at the back of the bag, but a quick slam of his head onto the tile floor stopped that effort.
How fucking long does it take to make the guy go unconscious?
Vincent suddenly went slack, but Javier wasn’t about to fall for the abrupt change. He knew that suffocation was a slow process, not something that happened from one second to the next. He kept hold of the bag and angled his head to the side of Vincent’s, placing his mouth near Vincent’s ear.
“Not falling for it, asshole,” he growled.
Vincent heaved and tried to flip Javier off his body, but the lack of oxygen had weakened him.
Just a little longer. I’ve got to hold on just another minute or so.
Javier’s arms screamed with fatigue. He had a hard time drawing a deep breath. Suddenly a lightning bolt of pain speared through his right quad. He fell against Vincent, driving the knife that his captor had someh
ow managed to stab him with deeper till he swore the tip glanced off his bone.
“Gilipollas!”
Tears streaked down Javier’s face. His fingers started to go numb and snot dripped from his nose. But with every second, Vincent’s air supply became smaller. The man’s muscles started to spasm, a sign hypoxia was finally setting in.
The thrashing, screaming body beneath him slowed. Vincent’s curses stopped pummeling Javier’s ears. With every jerk of their bodies, the knife in Javier’s leg shifted, rending more muscle tissue. The floor was slick, but Javier dug his toes into the grout for traction. At last a blanket of stillness finally settled over Vincent.
Javier tried to catch his breath as he finally lost the battle to hold back his tears. He reached and used the sink to pull himself up, favoring his right leg. Blindly groping for the wall, Javier tried to find the light switch. He found the door handle first and jerked it open. Light from the hall spilled into the small room, highlighting Vincent’s body on the water- and blood-soaked floor. The plastic bag concealed the face of his torturer, but the man’s image was burned into Javier’s mind forever. He forced his eyes away from the scene to look down and saw the knife protruding from his leg.
He knew he couldn’t run looking like a stuck pig, and he had to get out of there. He gripped the hilt of the dagger.
“Really hope I’m not about to bleed out.”
He pulled, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood, to avoid screaming. The blade came free and there was no indication that an artery was compromised. He did need to stop the residual bleeding somehow. A few shuffled steps back into the bathroom and Javier leaned over Vincent. He used the knife to slice a strip of cloth from the man’s shirt.
He stared down at his unconscious kidnapper. The man wasn’t dead yet, but Javier gripped the knife tighter, knowing he could make it so if he had the fortitude to take a life. His body hurt, his heart hurt. Trails of blood tickled his leg, waking him from his stupor.