18

Nico

The inside of the hood smelled like vinyl, and the hot air of Nico’s breath, and the fragrance of his hair product. His attacker had pulled it over Nico’s head shortly after he’d been tackled on the quad, and he’d worn it during the walk across campus, then the car ride (which he’d spent in the trunk), and then as he’d been forced into a building and down a flight of steps. His initial hope that someone would see him, would save him, had guttered and died—it was Halloween, so what was strange about a couple of guys with their BDSM gear on?

Strangely, his panic had leveled out—still panic, yes, but even with his heart going a mile a minute, even with him gulping to try to get enough air, he could force himself to think. He had to think. Or else he was pretty sure he was going to die. If you see his face, a small voice inside his head told him, he’s going to kill you. Nico had been around enough cops, seen enough cop shows, to know that.

Now, tied to a chair, he tried to think. First, he took inventory of himself. He was wet, his shoulder throbbing from the fall he’d taken, and covered in mud and grass. The cold made him shiver, and his toes had gone numb. A ball gag filled his mouth, and his jaw ached from being forced open for so long. He’d lost Jadon’s hoodie and, more importantly, his phone. He had no weapons, no tools, nothing. He thought of what Emery would do. Emery would probably have a multitool up his ass. The thought made a giggle rise in Nico’s chest. He sensed the hysteria behind the laughter and clamped down on it; if he started laughing, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop.

Next, he tried to make sense of where he was. A basement, yes. The air was cool. He’d lost his slides when he’d been tackled, and underfoot, he felt tile. When he moved, the acoustics of the room suggested that it was big and empty. A basement, he thought again. In a home, he guessed. When they’d come inside, the basement stairs had been directly in front of them. That was good. If he could get to the stairs, it would be a straight shot to get out of the house.

He tested the ropes. The ones around his wrist had already chafed the skin raw, and every movement burned. Another rope ran from his wrists to his ankles, passing under the chair to keep Nico from standing. Nico pulled as hard as he could, but all he managed to do was draw the rope tight. It was too strong for him to break, and all he succeeded in doing was making his wrists burn.

The edge of his panic sharpened again. He remembered another time, another place—being cold, in the dark, alone. His breaths came more quickly. It was the hood; he couldn’t get enough air. He felt like his head was on fire, like—

A quiet laugh made him jolt upright. Adrenaline rushed through him, like pins and needles on every inch of exposed skin. He tried to determine where the sound had come from, but all he could tell was that it had not been close. Then one of the treads creaked, and footsteps came down the stairs. They crossed the room, and then a familiar sound: the rustle of clothing as someone lowered himself to the floor.

Hands touched Nico’s bare feet, and he flinched. The laugh came again. Nico kicked, or tried to. He couldn’t move his feet, since they were tied to the legs of the chair, but he tried anyway. The man kept laughing. He curled his fingers under Nico’s feet, stroking his bare soles, rubbing his thumbs over Nico’s toes. Everything felt slow, almost affectionate. He’s taking his time; the thought rose in Nico like a bubble of panic. He’s taking his time because he doesn’t have to hurry.

Hands wrapped Nico’s ankles again, squeezing—too fat, practically cankles and don’t be ridiculous, his ankles are fine; it’s his calves that are the problem and the look on Jadon’s face when Nico had told him—and then stroking upward, the fingertips now, teasing the hairs on Nico’s legs. When the hands settled on his knees, the man applied light pressure, a nonverbal cue for Nico to spread them. Instead, Nico drew his knees together. The man made an annoyed noise and let go of Nico’s knees. Then he punched Nico in the solar plexus.

The blow drove the air from Nico’s lungs. He sagged in the chair, the pain compounded by his body’s automatic panic can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe. He was only distantly aware of the man easing his legs apart, of the hands continuing their journey up his thighs. Slowly, as his body relaxed, Nico was able to suck in a breath. A tear ran to the tip of his nose and hung there. More stung his eyes, and he tried to blink them away.

If the man noticed, or if he cared, he gave no sign of it. His hands paused at the tiny red running shorts. He slid the bottle of lotion out of the pockets, and he laughed again. The sound of plastic hitting tile suggested he’d tossed the bottle to the floor. His hands continued up, and then he pressed against Nico’s dick with his thumb—soft at first, and then harder, until Nico tried to shift away. He laughed again.

He stroked Nico’s belly, tracing the definition there. Then up again to tease Nico’s nipples. He leaned in and sniffed Nico’s pits. In the chill of the basement, his body heat radiated against Nico. A long finger followed the line of his collarbone. And then a hand wrapped around his neck, thumb pressing against Nico’s throat, hard enough that Nico fought the urge to gag, and then harder still. With the rubber ball still in his mouth, it was already hard to convince himself he was getting enough air. Now, for a moment, Nico couldn’t get any. He fought again, trying to kick, wrenching his body in an effort to get away. The man laughed longer this time, a rolling chuckle.

The hood was ripped away—and, with it, some of Nico’s hair. He blinked, partly to adjust to the light, and partly from the fresh tears. He tried to breathe through his nose, but the tears had made him snotty, and it was harder than ever. He felt dizzy. The basement tilted. Nico tried to focus on the man.

Vic. His name was Vic. He had wanted—Nico wasn’t sure. Something about coffee. They’d been in the coffee shop.

Vic stared back at him. The veneer of flirtation and good humor that Nico remembered from their first meeting was gone; now, his eyes were hungry. He was smiling, and it widened as he took Nico in. He still hadn’t said anything yet. Say something, Nico wanted to shout. He bit into the gag, and the dull pain in his jaw spread into his teeth. Say something!

But Vic only stared. His hands came back to Nico’s thighs, and again he pressed his thumb against the thin fabric of the running shorts. What had seemed, earlier, to be part of the costume’s appeal—the knowledge this body was almost completely on display, that Jadon would be looking, wouldn’t be able not to look—now made Nico shout into the gag, trying to draw his knees together. Vic moved his thumb slowly but insistently. Nico screamed again. With Vic between his legs, though, there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go. Vic bent and kissed him through the shorts, and then his thumb came back again. Groping. Mashing. Determined, Nico thought with a kind of bewilderment that straddled horror and a kind of manic hilarity. Determined to get me hard.

Finally, Vic sat back on his heels. His smile had flattened out into a blank-faced fury. Then he slapped Nico, and Nico felt his lip split under the blow. His head jerked sideways. Droplets of blood sprayed the tile. More drops landed on his thigh, hot. It was hot on his chin too. Hot dripping onto his chest.

Vic’s own chest was rising and falling, but his face still had that terrible blankness. He hit Nico again. And then again. For a while, pain and the physical disorientation of the blows rendered the basement for Nico in snapshots: the fluorescent light fixture overhead; exposed drywall painted with something that looked like liquid rubber; the red of his blood like pomegranate seeds on the small, white rectangles of porcelain. The final blow rocked Nico sideways, and the chair went with him. He fell hard, his injured shoulder ablaze with pain as he landed on it again. The tile felt cool against his cheek. The smell of bleach and mildew met him, mixing with the taste of blood, like he had a mouthful of loose change. The world continued to spin, and Nico closed his eyes. I can fall asleep, he thought dizzily. I’ll go to sleep.

But when Vic moved, Nico opened his eyes. From where Nico lay, still tied to the chair, Vic looked enormous. His face had relaxed again, the wide mouth hinting at a smile. Little drops of blood flecked the back of his hands. Some of them had tails curled like commas. A pause in the sentence, a dull voice said in Nico’s head, before we start again.

Maybe Vic noticed his gaze. Or maybe the movement was reflexive. He turned his arm and wiped the blood on the back of his jeans. His erection bulged in front. He took deep breaths, but even deep and measured, they still sounded excited.

Upstairs, a doorbell rang. Nico flinched. A glower crossed Vic’s face. The bell rang again and again. It kept ringing. Nico could imagine a child’s hand pressing the button. Or teenagers trying to stir up shit. Vic made a disgruntled noise and went upstairs. He didn’t look back.

Adrenaline and fear had kept the worst of the pain at bay, but Nico could feel it waiting for him, ready to rush in the moment he started to lag. A part of him wanted to close his eyes again, lean into the cool tile, and stop. But that way lay death. If he lets you see his face, he’s going to kill you. The thought came back with the quality of a struck bell. He’s going to kill you.

As awful as the campus assaults must have been, Nico knew, this was worse. Because he’d been escalating. Either he was learning what he enjoyed and trying to get more of it—more of the hurting, more of the control. Or his usual tricks were starting to wear thin, and he had to work harder and harder to get the high he was chasing. And he’d been planning for this: the rubberized paint on the walls. The tile. His eyes fell on a drain at the center of the floor. When it was over, Vic would bleach every available surface and wash away any sign that Nico had ever been here.

Nico strained at the ropes again, but he still got nowhere. The ropes around his wrist had a tiny amount of slippage, which was why they’d chafed the skin there so badly. And if he twisted and pulled, he could get the loop to the heel of his hand. But then, no matter how he compressed his hand, he was stuck. There simply wasn’t enough room to slide his hand free.

He squirmed in the chair, hoping the fall had loosened the construction. Wood squeaked and protested, but no matter what Nico did, the chair refused to give.

Upstairs, Vic was yelling.

It wasn’t fair. The surge of outrage and indignation only lasted a moment, but it left Nico on the brink of tears. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t done anything wrong. It was like the last time—he’d gotten caught in the crossfire through no fault of his own. And this time, Emery wasn’t going to save him, and Jadon—he could hear Jadon’s furious shout: You can’t take care of yourself.

No, Nico thought. I guess not. But the memory of Jadon, of how hard he’d tried to keep this from happening, of what this would do to him—

Destroy him, it’s going to destroy him.

—was enough for Nico to make an effort again. The rope around his wrist seemed to be the weakest link. If the ropes had a little more give, or if he had something to ease the passage of his hand. Blood, maybe. If he could get his wrist to bleed, maybe that would—

And then his eyes fell on the bottle of lotion. The one Vic had taken from his shorts. The one he’d dropped on the floor. For my zinc stripe, Nico thought, and another giggle washed through him. He fought it off and began to squirm around, rocking his body back and forth. The chair moved with him, inching forward and back as wood screeched against tile.

The sound seemed tremendous, but Vic didn’t come running. After what felt like an eternity, Nico had to stop, the muscles in his back and abdomen screaming. He listened, and from upstairs came a strange thump-thump noise he didn’t recognize. A gun? Was Vic shooting someone? But then Vic’s shouts picked up again, sounding even more distant, and Nico realized he was wasting a golden opportunity. He rocked and wiggled and squirmed. And slowly, he spun the chair around until, searching blindly behind him, he closed one hand around the bottle of lotion.

It took a fumbling moment before he got the lid open. Then he squeezed the bottle again and again, emptying the lotion over his hands. It stung when it made contact with his scrapes, but Nico barely felt it. He turned his arms. The lotion was slippery and ran along bare skin. He could feel it soaking into the ropes. When he felt like he’d coated his wrist as best he could, he pulled his arm up, bringing his hand to the loop enclosing it. He could feel his hand sliding, sliding, sliding—

And then stop.

Tears sprang to Nico’s eyes. He huffed around the ball gag.

Jadon sleeping in his car. Jadon waiting in the hall with two coffees. Jadon, and the run through Forest Park. The prism of the Jewel Box opening in the autumn morning.

Tears turned to rage, and Nico began to yank. Control was gone. Planning. Reason. He was an animal with his leg caught in a trap, and he went wild. The lotion made his arm slip back and forth within the circle of rope, his hand jamming against the opening each time he tried to draw it free, pain building as he brought all his strength to bear, trying to force his hand through the opening.

And then his hand slid free.

Disbelief froze Nico. Then he fumbled with the rope around his other hand. His fingers were slick. The rope was slippery. But he found the knot and undid it. When he brought his arms around in front of him, he was shocked by the blood—it coated his arms up to the elbows, mixed with the pearly streaks of lotion. Pain blazed to life in his shoulders and elbows, which felt locked solid after being immobilized for so long. But he fought through the pain, loosening the knots around his ankles. The ball gag went next, his jaw on fire. And then he was free. He got to his feet, slipped on the tile, and caught himself. His hips and knees protested too. His next step was slow, uncertain, shortened like an old man’s. And the next. But then his body limbered up, and by the time he reached the stairs, he took them two at a time.

The door at the top of the steps was open, and beyond it lay a small landing with another door, clearly some sort of transitional space between the upstairs, the downstairs, and the outside. Nico reached the landing and wobbled as a wave of dizziness rushed over him. Black spots ate away at the edges of his vision. Blood pressure, maybe. He’d been still for so long, and now—

He had to grab the door jamb to keep himself upright. He glimpsed a kitchen to his right: walnut cabinets, an old trestle table, mustard-colored laminate counters with matching wallpaper. Then he felt steadier, and he flipped the deadbolt and let himself out into a darkened carport. An old Buick was pulled all the way up under the aluminum awning, old, close to twenty feet of chrome and fins. An Impala was parked behind it. Beyond that was the sloping driveway, the street, the dusty glow of a streetlight, a yellow-brick house with a vinyl decal in its front window of a witch riding a broomstick and the words WE KNOW HOW TO HAVE A GOOD TIME in spooky script.

I have to get to the house, Nico told himself. The concrete pad was rough under his bare feet as he took his first hobbling step.

Arms closed around him. Vic’s breath whispered against his ear, loud and rasping. Nico screamed, and this time, without the gag to stop him, he gave full voice to his fear and rage. Vic grunted, his arms tightening, and lifted Nico’s feet from the ground—no easy feat, considering Nico was taller and had been eating way too many carbs under Jadon’s influence. Staggering slightly under Nico’s weight, Vic took a step back.

Their reverse journey flashed through Nico’s mind: the vestibule, the stairs, the bleachy tile and the rubber paint on the walls. He screamed louder.

And then he remembered Jadon in the park, his arms around Nico.

If someone grabs you from behind, there are a few simple ways to escape.

Nico couldn’t drop to the ground—it was too late for that, with Vic already holding him in the air.

But.

Nico planted his feet on the side of the Buick. He kicked off, and the unexpected force sent Vic off balance. Combined with Nico’s weight, it sent him reeling backwards, trying to catch his balance. Then his foot caught on something—the doorstep, Nico guessed, and they went down.

Beneath Nico, Vic took the worst of the fall. Nico heard his head crack against the concrete. Vic’s arms loosened, and when Nico elbowed him in the ribs, Vic let out a gasp, and his arms loosened. Nico broke his hold and scrambled upright. He couldn’t seem to catch his balance, so he leaned against the Buick, dragging himself down one retro fin.

A gargling noise behind him made him turn. Somehow, Vic was on his hands and knees, spitting blood onto the concrete. His head came up. Blood made a mask across his face. He planted a hand against the side of the Buick and tried to push himself up, but his hand slid, leaving a bloody smear behind it. He tried again, grabbing one of the Buick’s rotting tires, and this time, he got to his feet.

“Get back here, you fucking faggot!” Vic screamed. “You’re mine!”

“You have got to be shitting me,” Nico said and tried to go faster.

He released the Buick and forced himself into a jog. Beyond the carport, the wide expanse of the street waited. All he had to do was—

A shadow moved in front of him, blocking his path. Instead of panic, outraged disbelief rolled through Nico. Not here. Not this close. Not now. He ducked his head, jogged faster, and braced himself for what was going to be the worst tackle in the history of the world.

“Nico?”

It was Jadon’s voice.

And then, “Vic, show me your—Nico, down!”

Nico dropped.

A gun barked. A flash of light. The hot expelled gas. The smell of gunpowder.

Silence came roaring in. Nico kept his face to the rough concrete. Whatever reserves of energy he’d had, they were gone now.

Footsteps moved past him. And then a familiar ratcheting sound—handcuffs.

Warm hands settled on Nico’s shoulders, and a moment later, Jadon was helping him sit up. Jadon’s darkly sandy eyes roved Nico’s face, and Nico opened his mouth to say something. Instead, he noticed that Jadon was dressed like Superman. The white dress shirt, the suit, and underneath it all, the spandex costume. Only not Superman. A G. Super Gay. And he remembered that stupid jab about being Superman. The stupidity of all of it. He touched the G, felt the warmth and solidity of Jadon’s body beneath it. He started to laugh, and Jadon cupped the side of his face. And then he started to cry.