by Gregory Ashe
“I’m the one who should be fucking sorry. I’m the fucking idiot that put us in here.”
“How bad—” Shaw coughed again. “How bad—”
“It’s fine. They’re fucking paper cuts, that’s all.” North twisted, trying to turn so he could see Shaw, but the room was pitch black. “You?”
“I was planning on singing you a lullaby.”
“Yeah, well, I guess that’s fucking out of the picture.”
“North?”
Grunting a response, North tried to wriggle around again. If he could get himself, somehow, facing the crate’s door, he might be able to get it open.
“North?”
“Kind of doing something here.”
“North?”
“What?”
“For the record, I think you’d make a very good sub.”
And for just an instant, hearing the word sub in Shaw’s mouth, that image flashed through North’s head again: Shaw on his knees, the collar around his throat, his eyes coming up to stare at North. Then the rest of Shaw’s sentence transmitted, and North started to laugh.
“I was thinking about it,” North said, “if the whole detective thing goes bust, which it’s starting to look like it might.”
From Shaw’s crate came splashing, and then a thrum of metal like someone running a mallet up a xylophone, and Shaw’s voice sounded more distant when he said, “You’d look very pretty in a collar.”
And fuck, why did that make North want to fucking groan?
In the same teasing voice, Shaw said, “I bet Tuck would love you like that.”
The words popped the illusion, and all of the sudden North was just cramped and aching and cold and wet again.
“North? I was just joking.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t—”
“Did you manage to turn around?”
“What? Oh. Yeah. But I don’t have my picks, so there’s no way I can get this lock off.”
“How?”
“How did I turn around? Well, I’m not the approximate size of a water buffalo—”
“Hold on—”
“—and I don’t only work out shoulders and arms and ass when I go to the gym. I do yoga.”
“Fucking yoga again. And I don’t work out my ass.” A metallic ping came from Shaw’s crate. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for my knight in shining armor.”
“Never mind.”
“My big, butch, boot-wearing—”
“Ok, I get it. I was an asshole tonight.”
“—kicking asses and taking names—”
“Jesus Lord.” North settled himself in the crate and tuned out the rest of Shaw’s rant. It didn’t help that Shaw was right. For now, North needed to concentrate on getting them out of the cages. He set his head against the wall of wires, contorted his body as best he could, and brought his knee up to his chest. He drove his foot back with all the power he could muster. The cage rang out like a bell, the reverberations traveling from crate to crate, but the door held.
“What did you do?”
“I’m getting us out of this.”
“Oh, right. You probably learned how to bust out of wire cages when you were working your first job site—”
“Shaw.”
“You were, I forget, like six years old? Had your first toddler hard hat?”
“A six year old isn’t a toddler.” North drove another kick into the door, and the crate shook like it might fall apart. Something in the gate flexed and gave.
“And you were probably already working a crane or a wrecking ball, wearing your toddler-sized steel toe boots, smoking a pack of Camels a day and scratching your toddler-sized balls, and jacking around with the rest of the guys about how good their lays were the night before and where you were going to got a cold one after shift.”
North had to pause, water sloshing around his knees and wrists, long enough to muffle a smile—Christ, muffle a laugh—by turning his face into his shoulder. Thank God for the darkness. He kicked again, and this time the gate flexed outward. Close; North could tell he was close. When he trusted the steadiness of his voice, he said, “You wouldn’t know anything about my balls, so I’ll just tell you: they are definitely not toddler sized.”
Shaw’s voiced sounded smaller, farther away. “I forgot. In addition to the boots, and the Carhartt jacket, and your jackass-ish ability to kick your way through any problem, you also have a pair of steel ones the size of bowling balls between your legs.”
With one last kick, North felt the gate give way. It snapped free of the crate, and his foot continued into the air beyond. Splashing backward through the water, North let out a satisfied groan as his cramped muscles gained inch after inch of freedom. What would it feel like to spend an hour in there? Six hours? Twelve? Jesus, if he ever owned a dog, he’d buy the thing its own house.
“Not steel,” was all he said. “Tucker likes how warm they are.”
Then, gaining his footing, North navigated the darkness toward the door, his hand groping blindly over the wall for the switch. “Let’s hope they didn’t hear us. Thank God he bought cages designed for dogs and not for humans—those things had shit reinforcement, but they probably worked really well for guys that just wanted the fantasy of being locked up.” His hand found the plastic face plate, and he thumbed the lights on. “Just a second, I’ll get you—”
When he turned around, Shaw was sitting on top of the crate, his legs tucked up against his chest. Below him, the gate to his crate hung open.
“What—” North tried to rein himself in, but it was too late.
Shaw was grinning. “You just sounded so proud of yourself. The huffing. The grunting. The powerful explosions of breath when you kicked.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“It was very impressive.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“I think it’s great how tough you are.”
“Oh fuck me Jesus.”
“You’re right: they’re made for dogs. So you can unhook this—” Shaw tapped a metal joint. “And the whole thing starts to come apart.”
“Stand up,” North said, his boots slapping the wet cement as he crossed toward Shaw. He took Shaw’s face in his hands, turning his head, studying those hazel eyes, the pupils, the sharp symmetry of his face, his neck, palpating Shaw’s throat for damage, tracing his ribcage. “Did that fucker hurt you?”
Shaw gave a bare shake of his head but didn’t move.
Moments like these—very rare, very few—were like catching fireflies. North had to be so careful. So gentle. And for a few heartbeats, when he got to touch Shaw like this, feel the reddish stubble on his chin, smell the spiky musk of whatever he combed through his hair, the micro-tremors of Shaw’s pulse—faster now, his pupils dilating, his breath stirring a tendril of chestnut hair that hung over his face—for these few heartbeats when North could allow himself this, even knowing he shouldn’t, it was like he held glowbursts of light in his hands and the rest of the world had dropped away to darkness.
It had gone on too long. North knew that; he had trained himself with Shaw, a very long time ago, never to let the touching go on too long, never to let the looking go on too long, never to let all the thoughts he had chained to the bottom of his mind break free and float to the surface. But North wasn’t ready, not yet. So he pulled Shaw into a hug. “Fuck.” And some emotion North couldn’t name caught him by the throat, strangled him. “Fuck, that was so fucking terrible.”
And he waited for Shaw to laugh. To make a joke. To tease. He might say something about playing doctor, that was low-hanging fruit. That was how they’d always done this, skating so close to the line that, fuck, they’d probably blurred the line out of existence. But Shaw didn’t say anything, and after a moment, his arms wrapped around North, pulling him tight, and his head dropped into North’s shoulder, and his body shook once. Then he twisted free and left North’s arms hanging i
n the air, left North’s body growing cold where Shaw should have been.
Shaw’s face was dry, but he wiped at his eyes anyway and said, “Sorry, I just—” His fingers went to his throat. “It freaked me out.”
He needed to talk about this; North could see how desperately he needed to talk. That was Shaw all over. But now wasn’t the time, now wasn’t the place.
“We’ve got to get moving,” Shaw said, his narrow face turning to the door that led back to Brueckmann’s office, then to the door on the opposite wall. He padded past North, checking the second door, and a rush of damp, April air swept past him. “A fire escape. Come on.”
North shook his head. “I want Brueckmann.”
“Then we’ll come back.”
“I want him tonight. I want him right now. No, don’t shake your head, Shaw.”
“If this is—”
“It’s not about you. If this were about you, I’d go pick up my CZ, come back here, and open up the back of Jeremy’s head.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“This is about the fact that there’s a timeline here. Some kind of clock that’s running down, ok? Brueckmann might be an idiot, but he’s not a major idiot. When he shoved us in here, he knew it was kidnapping. It didn’t matter what cock-and-bull story he came up with about bondage and subs and—
“You know, in reality, the BDSM scene is incredibly supportive and positive, and it’s a way for people to healthily express trust and—”
“No speeches. Just listen: Brueckmann knew he was kidnapping us, and he knew he couldn’t keep us in here forever. He took that risk because something’s going on, something big. Bigger than Matty.”
“Something with Mark?”
“Mark’s name definitely got him interested. But it was the video that got his attention.”
Shaw nodded; he was doing his Shaw thing where he was deep inside his own head.
“Shaw, I need you here. Now.”
“Yeah. Here.”
“What are the odds they heard us?”
“Low; the walls are soundproofed. It’s really patchy around the door, so I could see it when we came in.”
“So we’ve got the element of surprise.”
“And that’s all we’ve got. Brueckmann has a knife. He might have a gun. And Jeremy probably does have a gun, and even if he didn’t—” Shaw rubbed his throat.
“If they’re both in there, do you think you can keep Brueckmann busy for a minute? Maybe two minutes?”
Shaw nodded; his fingers had died on his throat, marking the spot where Jeremy had asphyxiated him. But he nodded.
“Then let’s go find out why these fuckers shoved me in a dog cage.”
“Technically, you crawled in there.” North glared at him, and Shaw cocked his head in puzzlement. “Remember? You were scared they were going to kill me, and it was really sweet, so you scrambled in here and got right down on your hands and knees and—”
“Ok. Ok.” North patted the air with his hands, trying to quiet Shaw. “You’re really killing the mood.”
“I just—”
“Keep him off me for at least a minute, ok?”
Without waiting for an answer, North yanked open the door and plunged into Brueckmann’s office.
Chapter 16
Shaw scrambled after North. A few things were different inside Brueckmann’s office: the wall of cabinets was open, exposing a bank of screens showing feed from security cameras; the chair that Shaw had fallen over had been moved back into place; and Jeremy’s big, bald head was moving away from them. North dropped into a full-on sprint, and for a guy in steel toe boots, he moved like a fucking bullet. The sound of his passage must have alerted Jeremy because he started to turn around, and North hit him at the waist, carrying both of them through the door and out into the hallway.
That was where Shaw lost sight of him, and he turned his attention to Brueckmann. Brueckmann had been standing at the bank of screens, watching a dark-haired boy perform fellatio on a middle-aged man, and now he was turning, his attention cutting first to the doorway where North and Jeremy had disappeared and then to Shaw.
“Hi,” Shaw said.
Brueckmann’s knife whicked open again.
Shaw shuffled forward, putting Brueckmann’s big, clunky desk between them. There was a fountain pen lying open on the desk—that might be good—and a ceramic mug that said World’s Best Dom and had a cartoon whip snaking off from the S, and a stack of manila folders, and a roll of Lifesavers and a banker’s lamp.
“Kid, when I’m done cutting you up, you might actually have a face interesting enough to look at. I might be doing you a favor.”
Shaw nodded. Then he picked up the mug and chucked it.
Shaw had never really played baseball. He’d never really gotten into anything like that. But spring and summer of junior year, North and Tucker and Rufus and Peter and Paul had insisted that they have a gays-only softball team, and because North had wanted to do it, Shaw had bought every single piece of softball-related sporting equipment that Johnny Mac’s had. And he’d spent God only knew how many hours practicing throwing with a guy who had been kicked off the Chouteau Water Moccasins’ baseball team for steroids and who had been eager to make a little extra cash. And all of it, all of it, had been worth it their first game when Shaw threw out some Alpha Phi Alpha asshole and North had picked him up in a hug and whirled him around.
Even though the years had put some rust on his arm, Shaw still remembered the basics, and the mug hit Brueckmann in the face. In the forehead actually. There was blood. But there was also coffee. And, judging by Brueckmann’s startled yell, the coffee had been hot. Very hot.
Brueckmann swiped at his face once—the skin where the coffee had sprayed him was already pinkening—and then he staggered, righted himself, and fixed on Shaw. With another yell, he blindly rushed the desk. He didn’t even seem to see the clunky wooden furniture in his way; he held the switchblade out, his elbow locked as though he were charging with a spear.
For a moment, the speed of the attack paralyzed Shaw. Then Brueckmann’s hips connected with the desk, and the top half of his body lunged forward, hinging at the waist, the knife lancing toward Shaw. Shaw darted back. The blade caught him—his brain sent up a panicked flare: how bad, how bad?—but all Shaw felt was the tug on the Lululemon shirt.
Brueckmann’s attack had been driven by a hell of a lot of speed, and now, as the knife reached its terminus, the rest of that force carried Brueckmann’s upper body forward, still folding at the waist, until the hand with the knife skewed to his right and his forehead clipped the top of the desk, as though he were performing some sort of bizarre bow to Shaw.
Then Brueckmann started to gather himself again. He put both hands on the desk, raising himself, readying himself to push off and over the desk to stick the blade in Shaw’s throat.
Shaw located the fountain pen and grabbed it. Brueckmann jerked a nasty little swipe with the blade, catching the inside of Shaw’s wrist. Shaw drove the fountain pen straight down through the back of Brueckmann’s knife hand, pinning it to the desk.
Brueckmann screamed. This close, Shaw could see the raw red skin and painful swelling where the coffee had scalded him. This close, Shaw could see spinach caught in Brueckmann’s back molars. This close, Shaw could see Brueckmann’s injured hand bloody and open and fluttering and tacked to the desk like some sort of butchery of a butterfly.
Wresting the switchblade from Brueckmann, Shaw collared Brueckmann’s free hand and set the knife to the edge of Brueckmann’s throat. The dom sobbed, but he stopped screaming.
That was when North appeared in the doorway. At the perimeter of one of North’s perpetual black eyes, the skin had split, and blood trickled down North’s pale cheek. Even from a distance, Shaw could see the goose egg rising on North’s forehead. The two men locked eyes for a moment, and then North circled around Brueckmann’s desk and looked at the dom’s bloody
hand pinned to the desk. Then he looked at Shaw.
“Don’t say it.”
“Just once.”
“Shaw, don’t say it.”
Waggling the switchblade, Shaw said, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”
“Jesus.”
“Where’s Jeremy?”
“Out cold in the supply closet. I jammed a chair under the door to keep him busy in case he wakes up.”
“Smart.”
Brueckmann was taking those rapid, hissing breaths between his teeth that Shaw associated with people in extreme pain. Now, he screeched, “My hand, get that thing out of my fucking hand.”
“Please,” North said.
Shaw jabbed with the switchblade, opening a pinprick on the fleshy underpart of Brueckmann’s jaw. “All North’s boys learn how to say please.”
“Please, please, oh Christ, my hand.”
“You stick people in dog crates,” North said. “You slap them around. You spank them. You whip them. You watch them.” He glanced at the bank of screens, where camera after camera observed a variety of sex acts. “And I’m sure they don’t know they’re being watched. Maybe even being recorded. But you can’t handle a little bit of pain yourself. Is that right? That makes you a pretty poor fucking dom.”
“You’re a blight on the whole BDSM community,” Shaw said. “BDSM is an opportunity for people to explore a variety of trust and power issues in healthy ways while—”
North laid a hand on Shaw’s arm. “Ok, Shaw.”
“He needs to know—”
North shushed him, his hand running down Shaw’s bicep, and the touch was like static electricity. “Ok, Shaw.”
“Please. Oh my God. My hand.”
“This hand?” North said, and he grabbed the pen and pushed it a few millimeters.
Brueckmann screamed. He collapsed to his knees, and his forehead clapped off the desk so loudly that for a moment Shaw thought he had heard a gunshot. But Brueckmann didn’t pass out. He just leaned there, crumpled against the side of the desk, unable to fall completely because of his hand.
“You know, the hand is one of the most nerve-dense parts of the body,” North said. “Sensory, motor control, all of that. So.” He shifted the pen again, and this time, Brueckmann’s scream was cut off by vomit, which poured down the front of his leather jacket as he struggled to keep from falling and letting the pen tear through his hand. “It’s really sensitive.”
