Scared (16 page)

"Right,” Beard said. “I'll let you down first.” He stared at Russell.

"No. Let Toby down. Please."

"Russell,” Toby warned.

"Just let him get you down, yeah? I'll be all right for a while longer.” As though his body wanted to prove him wrong, Russell's tendons and ligaments shrieked out their pain. He clenched his teeth and bunched his eyes closed, hoping Toby hadn't seen.

"All right,” Beard said, stepping back into the darkness. “I just need to use the mechanism back here, okay? Like I said, no shit when I let you down."

"I haven't got the strength for any,” Toby said.

And Russell knew his lover spoke the truth. He sounded so damn weary it hurt Russell to hear it.

Something clanked, and Toby jolted. He cried out, neck tendons corded, and Russell contemplated swinging so he could stop Toby's body jerking from the chain going suddenly lax. Before he could, Toby slowly lowered to the floor. His body collapsed, the chains pooling like linked snakes. He lay on his side, arms still above his head, his back curved along the spotlight's circular edge.

"Toby!” Russell said, the urgency in his voice putting a strain on his throat.

"I'm okay,” he panted. “Just need...a minute."

Beard came back into view. “I'm going to take the manacles off. It's going to hurt, but I won't mean it to. And you'll need to lower your arms into their normal position really slowly, all right? When they've been upright like that for so long... Just be glad you've been given some respite. People are normally left hanging overnight."

Christ Almighty.

Russell couldn't imagine it. His body throbbed and pounded with pain now he knew he'd soon be down there on the floor. Like when you're dying for the loo and you're very nearly home. Your bladder starts throbbing, and you almost piss yourself.

How those who've hung here longer than we have coped with the pain I don't know.

Beard hunkered down and unlocked the manacles at Toby's wrists. Carefully, he opened the top halves—semi-circles of metal on oiled hinges. “Now, I'll leave you to take your wrists out. You know best when you're hurting, not me. You can rest when you need to. There's plenty of time."

Why was he being so nice? Was it the calm before the storm?

Toby's face scrunched up as he lifted his hands—so painfully slowly—from the restraints. Russell couldn't watch, so looked up and stared at the corner spotlight. A loud wail told him Toby had lowered his arms, and he imagined the pain Toby must be feeling in his armpits.

"That's it, fella,” Beard said. “Reckon you can try and walk?"

"Yeah,” Toby answered.

Russell listened to the shuffles below and felt Toby touch his leg with his fingertips as he walked past. A lump grew in his throat, and he held back a sob. Toby was free—for now—and that was all that mattered. What would happen once they were on that mattress was anyone's guess, but it didn't take much to work it out.

A chain tinkled behind him, and Russell coached himself to deal with the tenderness as he tried to swing around. He cried out, only managing to see infinite darkness over his shoulder.

"Russell?” Toby rasped. “What happened?"

"I'm all right. Just my wrists. You okay?"

"Yeah."

"He'll be fine,” Beard said. “Now, let me get
you
down, eh?"

Beard's face appeared midair.

Russell stared down at him. “D'you like doing this kind of shit to people?"

Beard blinked a couple of times and swallowed. “I'll just go back here and lower you."

He disappeared, the clank sounded, and Russell jerked like Toby had done. It took all he had in him to keep the building scream at bay. As he lowered, he longed for his feet to touch the floor. His feet met the concrete, and his legs gave way. He slumped down, whacking his hipbone, his skin scuffing on the harshness beneath him. Remembering what Beard had instructed Toby, he gritted his teeth as the manacles came loose, and it seemed to take an age for him to lift his wrists and lower his hands. And yeah, his armpits sang a strangled melody of warped pleasure and intense pain.

"Up you get,” Beard said. “There we go.” He guided Russell into the darkness. “There's a mattress coming up ahead. I want you to sit on the end of it while I get the chain. I'm sorry I have to do that, you know, put a manacle back on, and I can't imagine the pain you've been through but—"

Beard had feelings after all?

"But what?” The mattress under Russell's arse was bliss.

"Nothing. Forget I said anything."

Although Russell wanted to press the man, his energy had vanished on the short walk. The manacle went around his right wrist, giving a fresh burst of hurting, rubbing against the raw skin there.

"Now, I've got to give you a drink, all right?” Beard walked away, his back a momentary flash as he strode beneath the spotlight and onward into the darkness.

Russell could do with a drink all right, even if it was rat poison.

Beard rustled and clonked about in the darkness, and Russell caught a glimpse of him holding two glasses as he passed through the centre shaft of light.

"Here. Drink this."

Russell felt about in the air until his hand found a glass. “What is it?"

"Lemonade,” Beard said. “Toby, can you sit up without help?"

"Yeah."

More shuffles.

Russell heard Toby gulping his drink. Sipping his own—blessed relief on his parched throat—Russell felt the fluid oozing down into his stomach and pooling there.

"I need to get something,” Beard said.

He seemed to have been gone a long time—time enough for Russell to feel woozy and off on another planet. He tried to speak, ask Toby whether he felt the same, but the words died on his tongue. As though listening through water, Russell made out the sound of Beard coming back and a loud click like a briefcase being opened. A flashlight came on, the beam pointed toward the contents of a briefcase. Russell couldn't see inside—the lid sticking up prevented it. Beard, on his knees, fumbled around inside, then gripped Russell's hand.

"I have to do this, understand? Doesn't mean I want to."

A sharp stab pricked Russell's arm, and he was vaguely aware of watching a needle float through the semi-darkness back toward Beard. Another one appeared in Beard's hand, and he jabbed it in Toby's arm.

Russell fell backward, knees bent, feet on the concrete, his body too weighty to hold up. He closed his eyes, and the mattress undulated beneath him. He supposed Toby had fallen back too. Russell was hauled up so he lay flat, and he closed his eyes, the mattress jostling beneath him again. Stormy seas.

Then the questions came, probing Russell's memory for answers. About last year. Frost putting Toby in the grave:
Did you see him do this? It's important that I know
. The man with Frost in the graveyard:
Do you know who that was? Describe him for me. Would you recognise him again?
To Toby:
The men approaching the boy on the corner. Did you see who did that? You did? What did they look like?

What the hell was going on?

Russell answered him without hesitation, his voice sounding nothing like he remembered. Sluggish, drawn-out, alien. Toby's voice merged with his own, and Beard kept the enquiries coming. It wasn't long before Russell couldn't speak anymore, and he closed his eyes, not giving a shit where he was or what would happen next.

Sometimes, you just had to give in and sleep.

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Frost woke, the early morning light searing his retinas. He'd forgotten to close the damn curtains again last night. He'd left Stephen in his room, the boy well used and hating Frost a little more. No sign of love in the young man's eyes, but that was okay. It would come. Frost had a feeling about it.

He had a lot to do today, preparing for the night ahead. Everyone knew the drill, had their specific tasks to perform, but he'd make sure his men were reminded all the same. It didn't do to solely rely on their loyalty and the memories of previous auction nights. One slip and they'd all be fucked.

Flinging the quilt back, he padded to his en-suite and switched the shower on. Instant heat billowed out of the stall along with a cloud of grey steam. He smiled at what money could bring, what Parker's death and his own determination had brought. Riches. Never having to worry about where his next meal was coming from. Never having to walk the streets with his gaze glued to the ground in search of stray pennies. That the boys he re-homed were helped in the process was the icing on the cake.

He stepped into the shower, letting the water play over his body for a bit. Just to stand like this for a few moments before his busy day began always made him feel good. Gave him time to reflect and be grateful for what he'd achieved. Some would say God had a hand in it, but Frost had stopped believing in Him long ago. Around the time his mother issued her first request. How could a so-called good god allow things like that to happen?

Frost ousted thoughts of the fact he had done the same things to boys himself. After all, they'd agreed, hadn't they, to have him test them? He had signatures. Witnesses that they'd nodded and said yes, yes they wanted the life he offered.

All sorted then. No guilt needed here.

He reached for the shampoo and washed his hair, closing his eyes so the lather didn't get into them. Last thing he needed was his eyes to look red-rimmed as though he was less than alert. The punters expected him to be on the ball; after all, he knew their identities, their addresses, every damn thing about them. If they thought he wasn't up to the job, they might not return to him time and again.

And they did, though where the boys they'd previously bought ended up he didn't know. Didn't care. Couldn't. When the lads started looking older, the punters tired of them, didn't get their jollies in quite the same way as they had before. Frost received a phone call, let the customer know when the next auction would be, and that was that.

Fucking excellent business. Good old Parker.

Frost rinsed the shampoo from his hair and reached for the shower gel. He soaped up, going through today's inventory. Once washed, he stepped out of the shower and dried off, the luxurious feel of his expensive towel heaven on his skin.

Not as heaven as Stephen's mouth.

No, not as heaven as that.

His cock hardened as he thought of the man, who looked so much younger than his age. He might be eighteen, but he appeared around fifteen. How long would it be before Stephen aged?

It doesn't matter. I'm keeping him anyway. I want...

What
did
he want?

A life partner.
He laughed, drying his armpits.
Yeah, I'm going soft as I age.

He needed someone in place to hand the business down to. Once tonight was over, he'd talk to Stephen, let him know what the future held if he toed the line. It was surprising what the dangling carrot of money did to a person. Stephen would see sense, no doubt about that.

Back in his bedroom, Frost selected a grey suit, white shirt, and red tie. He hung them on the handle of his wardrobe door and turned to make the bed. He had a thing about doing it himself. The woman who came once a week to clean—when the house was empty of everyone but one man guarding the front door—he instructed her to leave his bed alone. No one tucked the sheets as tightly as he did. No one smoothed the quilt and plumped his pillows in quite the same way.

Satisfied his bed looked as he wanted it, he took some grey socks from his chest of drawers and a thong of the same colour. He enjoyed the way the strip of fabric chafed his arsehole when he walked. Reminded him of a lover's finger.

Dressing, making sure his suit hung just so, he left his bedroom and paused outside Stephen's door. Soft snores sounded, and he smiled that the young man had succumbed to sleep. Once they had established a pattern and Stephen accepted his life was here, everything would slot into place. Frost would get the sense of well-being he craved, and Stephen would be cherished like no other man alive.

He wanted to open the door, peek at the man who stood to inherit his fortune. Frost lifted his arm and clasped the handle, a shiver of desire rippling over his skin. He closed his eyes and imagined Stephen in bed, legs possibly sprawled on top of the covers, one hand flung over his forehead. Frost saw every line and curve of Stephen's body, the dip just below his ribcage, the thatch at the juncture of his thighs. Cock growing harder, he rubbed himself through the fabric of his trousers. The man on the other side of the door had the ability to make Frost come in his pants without ever touching him. That meant something, didn't it? Stephen was the one for him.

He opened his eyes and curled his fingers tighter around the handle. Turned it.

No, he couldn't allow for distractions. Not today. Tonight, once the auction had finished and the punters and boys were gone, was a different matter. The week off he allowed his men, the lull between the sale and the start of rounding up ten more boys, would be spent showing Stephen how wonderful life could be. They'd make love all week, and maybe, by the end of it, Stephen might start looking at Frost with the adoration he so wanted.

Frost let the handle go and leaned toward the jamb. He sniffed. Stephen's scent reached him along with the fuggy smell of sleep, a room where the windows remained locked. Frost had air conditioning and a system that filtered dirty air out and allowed fresh air in. It would be folly to have the windows open in
this
house.

The aromas tantalised him, almost had him reaching for the handle again, and he rubbed his cock harder, wishing Stephen's hand there instead. His balls throbbed, and the tip of his cock ached with the need to slide inside his lover's arse. A click to Frost's left brought him into the here and now, and he snatched his hand away from his erection and walked along the landing. Jonathan came out of his room, suited and booted for the day ahead, and Frost nodded good morning, heading for the opposite landing.

Taking the door to the corridor, he made his way to the office, ready to do his morning check. Although he trusted his employees, Frost had a thing about rituals. It didn't hurt to always be on the ball. Once inside the office, he stood still and sniffed. Did he detect Stephen's scent in here? Or was it because that beautiful aroma still lingered in his nostrils?