by J P Sayle
No, this is the worst idea ever.
He told his mind to shut the fuck up as his shaky fingers checked out the window frames.
Greg scraped at the paintwork to see if he could get in. “I have a bad feeling this isn’t going to end well. Nope, so not going to end well at all.” He quaked in despair, unaware he was speaking and not quite believing he was going to do this.
Going against all common sense, Greg shouted, “Hello, hello, is there someone in there?”
“Yes, in here. Please help, please help me.”
Greg felt himself hyperventilating at the harsh, rasped response. The little part of him that hadn’t quite grasped that this was real suddenly got the picture. Frantic adrenaline poured through his body, making his legs quake, even as his frightened sky-blue eyes swept the area looking for something to pry open the window.
Spotting a rusty old metal rod on the grass bank, Greg ran to get it. His trembling legs slipped on the long wet grass, and he slid to a stop, tumbling forward. He used the momentum to reach down with his quivering hands and cart the freezing, wet, metal pole back to the window.
He quickly examined the ends of the pole. His lips lifted when he saw the spike on one end. Using that, he jammed it hard into the wood frame, saying a silent thank you to whoever had been maintaining the building. Clearly they hadn’t bothered to repaint and left ten thousand layers of gloss paint which he knew from buying his house were a fucker to budge.
Gasping, he gave one final shove into the frame and heard the wood crack and splinter. He bashed the wood out of the frame, opening the hole up and letting the morning greyness fill the dark space. He didn’t give himself any time to think and clambered through the window, calling out.
“Hello, can you hear me?”
When his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he instantly wished they hadn’t. He blinked rapidly as his brain tried hard to adjust to the awfulness splayed before him. His earlier preposterous thoughts about cults all but hammered at his out-of-control-spiralling mind.
His sky-blue eyes widened as if trying harder to accept the reality. His face paled, and he couldn’t move his head as his gaze riveted on the man tied to the long wooden bench in the middle of the otherwise empty room.
Words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“Oh my fucking God, what the hell is going on in here? What the hell happened to you, man? This is some freaky shit. Really, when does this ever happen to people that live here?” Greg squeaked to a stop, his heart running triple time, along with the adrenaline coursing through him making him dizzy and breathless. The light-headedness had him gripping the table to stop from fainting. He figured he probably looked like a ghost, which by his estimation was a damn sight better than the man who looked like he’d gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.
The strangled words coming from the man tied down had him stealing himself.
“Please untie me. Quickly. I don’t know when he’ll come back.”
Greg tried to pull himself together when panic flared in his chest, choking him for a second as he tried to swallow while looking about for anything that could help them.
“Pleaseeee …. pleaseeee …. don’t leave …. me here.” Inconsolable weeping made Greg realise he hadn’t responded to the man’s pleas.
“I won’t leave you, but I don’t have anything to cut the rope with. Just give me a second to find something to help me get you free of those bindings, okay?”
Greg ran from the room, not waiting for a response. He was uncertain what the hell he’d find in this creepy building. The darkened rooms smelt of stagnant air and mould. The peeling paint added to the overall eerie feeling of neglect. He was also convinced he could hear scuttling coming up from the floor, but who the hell could tell when his own breathing sounded more like a steam train puffing.
His rising hysteria brought waves of light-headedness. Realising he was hyperventilating, he forced his screaming lungs to suck in some stale air as he searched from room to room.
He took his hat off to whoever had emptied the building. They’d done a good job of not leaving much behind. Stopping at the old workbench, he crossed his fingers hoping to find something, anything that would help.
He fist-pumped the smelly air when he hit pay dirt in the third drawer, finding a pair of pliers. It was rusty, but the teeth though brown looked sharp enough to cut. Well, he hoped so because there didn’t seem to be anything else, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to use his own teeth. His stomach heaved at the very idea.
Rank.
Greg ran back into the other room and went straight to the man. Not hesitating, he grabbed his swollen, bloody wrist. Holding his breath, he tried not to inhale the putrid smell of stale sweat and fresh metallic copper wafting up from the table. He got to work, taking no notice of the man’s cries of distress, even when his own stomach continued to revolt as his fingers slipped on the torn, bloody skin.
“Sorry, but your wrists are a mess. I don’t think I can do this without hurting you. Take a deep breath and hold it. This bit I think is maybe worse. It’s really embedded in your skin. Ready?”
He saw the man’s left puffy eye try to focus on him. Taking that as agreement, he went back to work, grateful when the man attempted to stay still and let Greg work.
When he released the bindings, Greg had no time to think when the man lurched forward. As he pulled back, he tripped over his own feet. Struggling to right himself, he watched as the man heaved and retched in front of him.
Greg hoped the man would settle soon. He really didn’t want to puke, and the noise the guy was making was enough to have his unhappy stomach want to join in. Letting his mind concentrate on the task at hand, he shut out the sounds as best as he could and went to the man’s feet. He worked quickly to cut through the rope.
His fingers trembled when an odd feeling they needed to get out of there quick smart slithered into his brain. He put the urge to ask what the fuck was going on, on hold. Now he supposed was so not the time to settle down for a cuppa and a quick chat. Giving himself a mental slap, he nearly missed it when the man froze in front of him. Only then did he register the distant sound of an engine.
He cursed himself for shutting out the sounds. The croaky voice barely penetrated past his own sudden fear that the sound was not their friend.
“Oh fuck, quick, please. We can’t let him catch us.”
The man’s words confirmed his worst fears and motivated Greg into action. He watched the poor man stagger to his feet, wheezing loudly through swollen, bloody lips. His blood-stained, multicoloured face appeared to drain of all colour as he wavered on unsteady legs. Before he could overthink it, Greg rushed forward, breathing through his mouth. He valiantly attempted not to think too much about the man’s fifthly T-shirt sticking to his naked arm or the stench emanating from his pores.
Greg guided him towards the open window, taking as much of his weight as he could. Pitching forward, the man collapsed in a big heap against the wall and sucked in large breaths. Greg’s alarm grew when the sound of the motorbike got ever closer. Trembling in time with the other man, he gave the back of the building a wary look.
“Come on, man, you gotta move faster than this. Otherwise whoever is coming, is going to catch us both. And I for one do not want to end up looking like you, that’s for sure.” The shrillness of his voice would have irritated him if he’d had time to register it.
He watched in horror as the man took him at his word, staggering forward and launching himself out the window. The resounding thud as he landed had Greg wince in pity. Quickly following suit, he clambered out behind him and jumped to the side to avoid the man sprawled on the grass bank. Greg didn’t give himself a chance to register how bad the guy looked in the daylight. Instead he dragged him up. Staggering a little under the weight, he forced his straining back and arms to work harder, taking as much of his weight as he could.
They staggered like two drunken sailors after a night out, weaving unevenly down the slippy g
rassy bank. Greg grunted under the burden but continued to encourage the other man to lean on him. Clenching his muscles tight, he forced himself to hold them both up.
Fuck, he weighs a bloody ton.
Grinding his teeth together as he struggled to keep standing, Greg felt sweat bead on his forehead. It slid down his face and neck, soaking his collar. He blinked rapidly, hoping to alleviate the sting in his eyes. Gathering himself, he pulled his wits together and half dragged, half carried the man towards the slope leading down to the road to where he’d parked his car.
A hoarse plea had Greg glancing up.
“Please tell me you have a plan.”
The sound of an engine cutting off had Greg freezing for a second. His mind searched frantically for an easy escape route or somewhere they could hide undetected. The man’s hoarse whispers in his ear were not making him feel confident in the least.
“You go. Leave me. I’ll only slow you down. Ring the police. Let them know what is going on. Go. Please get any help you can.” The man’s obvious agitation had him give him a pass for even suggesting he would leave him in his hour of need.
Greg tried to get a grip on his growing temper.
“Fuck that, man. I’m not leaving you. See over there?”
The man seemed to attempt to follow his hand. Greg went on to explain, “My car is parked just there. We need to get to it before whoever did this shit to you gets back. Well, that is if that’s not him on the bike, but anyway, I’m not leaving you, and you wouldn’t ask if you could see yourself, man. Your face looks like chopped liver, and I value my face far too much to get caught. So come on, get your arse in gear.”
His harsh, angry whisper had the man attempting to move with him, though Greg could feel the man’s body vibrating with the strain of keeping going.
The man stopped, his body leaning towards the long grass. Greg cast a quick, unbelieving glance in the direction the man was guiding him to. He didn’t quite believe what he was seeing. The man’s next words confirmed he wasn’t hallucinating.
“There, look, help.”
Greg’s eyes teared up hearing the raw emotions in the man’s hoarse voice. He didn’t understand why he felt he should trust the two men currently sidling low to the ground towards them. But he did.
This is definitely a morning of surprises.
Greg rolled his eyes heavenward when his gut feeling told him to go with it. He propelled them towards the other men, praying he wasn’t making a mistake. A feeling grew in the pit of his stomach that the man he was holding knew his rescuers.
Greg’s legs wobbled and made him waver when loud, angry cries came from behind him, inside the building. The tiny hairs on his body erupted, standing on end, telling him at no point did he want to get caught by the screaming loony.
He lurched forward and ignored the cries of the man he was holding as he forced him to move.
“Arrrrrgh.”
Offering what little reassurance he could, Greg prayed his voice would be steady and not show how terrified he was.
“You’re all right. Come on! Your friends are here to help. Stay with me.”
Greg braced himself for the fall. He realised the man he held hadn’t heard a word he’d said as he crumpled towards the ground.
Greg felt his body convulse. His mind went blank at the sound of a loud bang. His heart stuttered at the meaning before warmth surrounded him, causing the world to stop moving.
Arms as large as the Hulk’s grabbed hold, cushioning him into a solid chest. Heat spread like wildfire, coursing through his veins, burning him inside and out. Images of flames danced before his eyes as they latched on to the fathomless depths of the blackest eyes he’d ever seen. A click inside his brain seemed to switch off all reality and switch on the brightest light that blinded but gave clarity as it bathed everything inside him with colour. It had stupid thoughts of love at first sight beam into his heart while his world tilted on its axis, shocking him senseless. Greg gasped for air as the world ceased to exist as he knew it.
Aaden forcefully set aside his worries over Max and the need to get answers. Answers he was sure would not be as forthcoming as he’d maybe like or want.
Threading his fingers through the scruff on his chin, he set his mind to making a list of what he needed to sort through. Going to his bag, he pulled out the essentials. He tucked a small throwing knife into his boot and checked that his Browning 9mm pistol was locked and loaded before he pushed it into the back of his trousers. His eyes narrowed. He held up tranquiliser darts and inserted them into the chamber of the tranq gun with hope that this would be all they’d need.
If there was any chance he could use that instead of the 9mm gun, then he would. Immobilisation was the key before Joel could take a pot shot at them. The fact Joel had already fired indiscriminately and injuring Princess said he was loose cannon. He prayed he didn’t have to shoot him because there was no way he was going to be able to explain that away, not on a small island where murder was non-existent.
Aaden automatically pulled out his mobile, searching for Brody’s number. Brody Quilliam, the chief of police in the northwest, was also his best friend and hopefully saviour. The last thing he wanted was to go to prison, even for Joe and Stuart. His last thought lingered, making him fire off a quick text to Brody. He groaned when he checked the time.
Shit, five o’clock in the morning. Brody was no doubt going to kick his arse for this. His knuckles whitened as he held the phone, but he realised there was little choice. Brody was integral to his plans. The phone in his hand vibrated immediately. Seeing Brody’s name flash up, he braced for the questions he wasn’t sure he would be able to answer.
Aaden went straight to an apology, not wanting to piss off his friend more than necessary. Brody had never been a morning person. “Hey, Brody, sorry for the early morning wake-up call, but I have a situation.” That was probably the understatement of the year, but he was also careful about what he said out loud, careful of who may be listening.
“This better be the fucking emergency of all emergencies to wake me up with that text. SOS. Seriously, couldn’t you come up with something else?” Brody’s sleepy, deep sexy rumble had him chuckling.
“Hey, it worked, didn’t it? Listen, I can’t go into great detail, but can you meet me at the boat in Heysham tonight, and bring the cavalry with you so I can offload a rather large problem to you? I’ll have all the evidence you need to sort the issue.” Though cryptic, he was sure Brody would understand him. They’d been friends far too long for Brody not to get he couldn’t talk about what he was doing, or that he needed backup to deal with the problem he was going to bring to him.
“This sounds serious. Okay, how many men do I need, and what time does the boat arrive?”
All traces of the sexy, sleepy voice from earlier were gone. Brody had gone straight into Police Chief mode, the steel in his tone causing a shiver to run down to Aaden’s balls. Memories surfaced of his self-discovery with a fifteen-year-old Brody and their first kiss. It was also Aaden’s first anything with a boy, besides his dreams, that was.
It had confirmed what he’d known for months about his real sexual orientation. He could clearly remember those first few months after Brody had moved in next to their home and started going to school with him. The dreams of the past were frequent, and Aaden found himself becoming desperate to confirm what was happening to him. Devising a plan, he’d pinched a bottle of vodka from his dad’s stash and headed out into the forest with Brody to camp for the night. He’d finally got up the courage after they’d gotten rip-roaring drunk. Somehow they’d ended up in one sleeping bag, sharing a life-changing, wet, sloppy kiss. It had not been the best kiss of his life, too much teeth and tongue, but it had been memorable in how aroused he’d gotten at the mere touch of Brody’s strong body pushing against his. And though it hadn’t gone any further, that shared first kiss had forged a friendship between them that had lasted nearly two decades.
“Aaden. You there? Shit, yo
u’re not having one of your funny turns, are you?”
Brody’s panicked voice interrupted his trip down memory lane, pulling him up short.
“No, I’m here. Sorry, just working through some stuff I need to do.” The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he really didn’t want to give Brody any more ammunition to fire at him. He couldn’t forget Brody loved to remind him of how he’d turned him gay. He hated talking about that shit with anyone.
Sighing in frustration, he pulled the phone closer to his ear. “And, what do you mean funny turn. There isn’t anything funny about where my mind goes, you arsehole.”
Aaden’s mock anger gained him a rumbling chuckle in his ear.
“Okay, okay, I hold my hands up.” The lightness faded from Brody’s voice as he continued. “I’ll be there, man, waiting for you. Text me the details, and I’ll see you tonight.” He ended the call, forcing Aaden to consider his next move and allowing him to put his past back right where it belonged, in the past.
Aaden’s jaw locked, the ache a constant reminder of the pressure he was under to make this better for all of them. Grabbing his bag and the keys he commandeered from Martin’s earlier, he locked up. He strode across the empty cul-de-sac, the quiet greyness of the morning seeping past the fading black sky. He went directly to Martin’s garage. As he lifted the door, his eyes glowed with envy at the Audi R8. Aaden rumbled a groan of pleasure when his warm palm touched the cold metal, caressing the smooth contours as he moved down to the driver’s door. When he opened the door, his lips drew up at the lingering scent of leather, and Martin’s distinct odour wafted out of the small confines of the car. A thousand butterflies made up the content of his stomach at thoughts of driving this thing of beauty.
He drove out of the garage, parked behind Joe’s van, hopped out of the car, and banged on the side panel of Joe’s van. He was appeased from earlier to see Joe check who was there before opening the door.
