Scared

by Sarah Masters

  “Hey!” she shouted. “Come back here! I came all this way to collect you. I'm not supposed to go back without you. Please, Toby. Come with me!”

  “No,” he screamed, the wind snatching the word and carrying it back to her. “I can't. I've got to...I must...”

  He switched his mind off from her, battling onward with just the blackness in mind. He felt better in himself for doing that, the confusion of whether to stay or go disappearing once he'd set his focus on reaching the black stripe.

  After running for what seemed miles in a short space of time, Toby reached the horizon. It engulfed him, swallowed him, a hungry monster's mouth that brought the first inklings of pain to his extremities. He ran on, regardless of his ankle throbbing and his wrists filling with indescribable agony. Sightless, Toby trusted his inner voice, those tinkles spurring him forward. The voice came again—Toby!—and then came more pain. Body-racking shards of agony spearing his body, his ankle throbbing harder, his wrists feeling as though they were about to snap.

  A whooshing sensation shunted him forward, and then he hung midair, suspended in nothing but pain and confusion.

  Shit. Have I fallen off a cliff? What?

  His heart rate soared, and he battled to breathe through the panic.

  Jolting to a stop, though still suspended, he fought to take in air.

  “Talk to me, Toby. For fuck's sake, answer me!”

  Toby finally sucked in a huge breath, his throat dry, his head pounding, and recognition came.

  “Russell?”

  “Oh, thank fuck for that. Oh, Jesus. I thought you... I thought...fuck, I thought I was alone. Thought you'd gone.”

  “Never,” Toby said, understanding flooding him. “I'll never leave you again.”

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  Frost lay in bed, flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. Tonight should have been the night he got the first good sleep in a long time, but still a decent rest evaded him. The capture of Russell and Toby proved once again that those two were a thorn in his side. He should have just had them offed, got Jonathan or Kevin to kill the motherfuckers and been done with it. He didn't even need to know what they knew. It didn't matter. The whipping with the chain had just been something to assuage Frost's anger at the way those men had messed with his head for so long.

  He'd only ever admit it to his closest employees that Russell and Toby had got under his skin the night they went to the police. Thankfully, neither of them had given an adequate description of him, his men, or this house, and nothing had come of their statements, but fuck, it could have all so easily turned to shit.

  He'd built his life up, having been a street kid himself for a while in his mid-teens. He wanted to prove that kids from a broken home could get somewhere in life if they put their damn minds to it. Helping those boys downstairs have better lives than they had previously, pleased him to no end, even though he made out he didn't give a fuck about them.

  He did a good thing.

  Frost thought back to his childhood, one where his mother, once he hit five years old, insisted he show her a good time. It wasn't much of a good time for him. The attention she wanted him to give her body had repulsed him, and not only because of the actual acts either. He'd known, shit, ever since he could remember, that girls didn't do it for him. Call it instinct, or an inner knowledge he knew as the absolute truth—he liked boys. The thought of ogling his mother's breasts like his school friends told him they did to their mothers, really didn't appeal.

  So, the first time she requested he touch her not only shocked him but also sent his mind somewhere he'd never been before. A place where he could pretend things weren't happening, where everything was all right again. Oh, she'd given him certain attention before her initial demand—a kiss on his lips, a rub of his leg, an extra good wash of his cock in the bath—but nothing he was sure his friends didn't have done to them. No, what his mother did, all mothers did, didn't they?

  Maybe a year or two of him pleasing her passed before he discovered—via a teacher at school giving “a talk” on inappropriate behaviour after one child was caught touching another's “private parts” in the toilets—not all children had mothers with needs like his did.

  He hated her then, yet loved her just the same. What he hated was the touches, what he had to do, her voice telling him in that wheedling tone it was “time". But everything else remained the same—good meals, he was well dressed and cared for, and she always told him a story before bed.

  Frost sighed and blinked hard. His eyes itched.

  He tried to stop the images, but they forced their way into his mind.

  As he grew older, he asked himself how he could love and hate someone in equal measure. By his early teens, his leanings toward the same sex had grown in strength, so giving his mother the attention she craved had become abnormal, disgusting, not him and who he was. It was too late to do anything about it—unless he ran.

  During this turbulent time, when his mind ran amok with confusion and he acted out at school, fucked about on the streets causing trouble, he got in with what his mother deemed a bad crowd. But that bad crowd showed him how to become a runner, and he'd peddled drugs at night time, long after his mother retired. This new way of life gave him a thirst for better things, showed him he could make it on his own without her. And he had once Parker picked him off the street and took him to his home. To the home Frost now owned.

  Frost had become Parker's pet, had been trusted with the ins and outs of Parker's trafficking business as Frost grew from boy to man. And despite Parker preferring younger men, once Frost arrived on the scene, Parker hadn't taken another lover.

  Frost had loved Parker to some degree, but not enough to stop him from offing the old fucker once Parker had written his will in Frost's favour.

  Ah, I've been a bastard in my time.

  The need to become top dog had pushed him to do things most people would find horrific. And he was here now, wasn't he? Rich, with people at his mercy, doing his bidding, and a lucrative business that ran like clockwork.

  Yet he stared at the ceiling now, the big man himself, disturbed by feelings Russell and Toby had unearthed down there in the basement.

  Frost wasn't getting any younger. He needed the kind of love he had given Parker. Companionship.

  Was Stephen Frost's salvation, or just another notch in his bedpost?

  Russell and pissing Toby. Little bastards in love. Fucking up my day yet again.

  He should have them killed. Now.

  Frost moved to get out of bed and reach for his mobile phone, but he couldn't bring himself to give the order. He flopped back onto the pillow, a huff of air shunting out of him. Maybe he ought to get Stephen back in here. Tell him a story until he fell asleep. Or explain what he needed from him. Hate and love, love and hate. Perhaps the kid would get it then, realise he had everything at his disposal if he'd only just love Frost for being Frost. Hate him for being him.

  It was simple to Frost, yet he understood why other people might not be able to comprehend his reasoning, his needs. He was a fuck-up really, no doubt about that, yet—

  “Fuck it. What am I going to do about those two down there?”

  His voice, a whisper, sounded so loud in the quiet. Most of the household had retired—he'd counted them as they'd gone to their rooms one by one—and Frost had no reason now not to fall into a sound sleep, except for his roiling emotions. Croft had returned, like Frost knew he would, his rumbling voice announcing to Jonathan in the foyer that he needed to cut the basement men loose before he went to bed. He had yet to come up the stairs and go to his room, but it wouldn't be long before he did.

  Earlier, Frost had instructed two underlings to follow Croft to whatever pub he went to. Though he hadn't expected Croft to betray him, not really. Still, it didn't do to become lax with his staff. A first outing after being kept under strict supervision for six months sent some men off their rocker
, and even today had been a big test. Mind you, the van had been tracked every step of the way, so if Croft had taken it into his head to do a runner, he'd have been rounded up pretty damn quickly.

  If the situation with Russell and Toby had taught Frost anything, it was to watch his back more closely. He wouldn't be falling foul of the likes of them again.

  Frost sighed, content that his instincts with regards to Croft had been spot on. He hadn't lost his touch after all, something he'd debated after last year's debacle. And how those two had kept hidden for so long was beyond him. His contacts around the country had uncovered nothing for a long time. Mind you, Frost had guessed incorrectly that the duo would hide in a big city—less chance of being spotted then—so after every city had been picked apart in search of them, Frost had ordered everyone's attention to towns and villages. It had been a learning curve all right, but one that stood him in good stead for the future.

  No bastard would get one over on him again.

  Croft knew his place, was grateful for what Frost did for him, and he stood to become Frost's right-hand man if he played his cards right. Another six months would see just that happening if Croft continued in the vein he had. Frost had a few more tests to put Croft through first, but there was no doubt in his mind that the young bloke wouldn't pass them.

  Good man, Croft.

  Frost closed his eyes, thinking about tomorrow night and what needed to be done before the bidding began. The lads didn't need clothing—purchasers preferred to take them home naked, letting them know their place from the very first. A light meal would be given around four p.m. so their bellies didn't distend and make them appear unattractive. Slender was the name of the game—no punter of Frost's had ever requested a kid with a paunch.

  Security would be stepped up. Frost had outside contractors coming in to guard the immediate grounds—he must confirm with Croft whether he'd done as he was told on that; Frost couldn't believe he'd forgotten to check.

  Irked with himself, he threw the quilt back and padded toward the door, grabbing his robe and covering his naked form. He made his way in the dark downstairs, squinting in the light spilling into the foyer from the kitchen.

  Croft sat at the breakfast bar, a glass of orange juice before him and a newspaper spread out on the marble surface.

  “Still up, Croft?” Frost asked, approaching the man.

  Croft turned and smiled. “Yeah. All right, boss?”

  “Enjoy your evening?” Frost placed one hand on the breakfast bar, the other on Croft's shoulder.

  “Yeah. Was good to get out. Thanks.”

  Studying the man's face for signs of deception, Frost found none and nodded. “Where did you go?”

  “That pub up the road a bit. The Red Lion.”

  “Nice and quiet, was it?” Frost squeezed Croft's shoulder.

  “Yeah. Enjoyed a couple of drinks. Bit of time to myself.” Croft nodded. “Yeah, it was fucking all right, actually.”

  Frost patted his back. Hard. Just to let Croft know he was still being watched. “Fucking brilliant. Did you let them two ponces downstairs off the hook?” He laughed uproariously at his joke.

  Croft laughed too, nodding to the newspaper. “Yeah. Was just having a gander at what's been going on in the world before I headed up to bed.”

  “Right. I meant to ask, did you sort the security out for tomorrow night like I said?” Frost didn't doubt the man for a minute, but he needed to hear it just the same.

  “Yep. Twenty of them.” Croft took a sip of his orange juice.

  “Brilliant bloke, you are. Right, I'm off to bed. Need my sleep before I deal with those two tomorrow.” Frost jerked his head in the direction of the white corridor. “Know what I mean?” He sighed dramatically and left Croft to his reading, certain of the man's loyalty.

  For now.

  Frost had a little trick up his sleeve. One Croft would find out about in the morning. It would be a test of his loyalty.

  “A test indeed,” he whispered.

  * * * *

  Croft waited until he imagined Frost's bedroom door had closed before he released the breath he'd held. What had Frost been questioning him for?

  Did I fuck up somewhere? Did someone follow me to Framcott, see me with Darrow?

  Another thought struck him—a damn unpleasant one.

  Is Darrow in Frost's pocket?

  “Shit,” he whispered, his heart rate picking up speed. Then he consoled himself with the fact he'd known Darrow well before he'd known Frost. And Darrow appeared a good sort.

  No, the detective didn't strike Croft as the kind who'd be on the take.

  Despite coaching himself calmer, Croft remained uneasy. He wouldn't put it past Frost to keep him under the false illusion that everything was hunky fucking dory when it bloody well wasn't. He'd have to watch himself now, watch Frost and his men more carefully for any signs they suspected him of double-crossing them.

  Fuck. That's all I need at the moment. I'm so close to getting those lads back home.

  The thought of the boys had him contemplating going to see the new one. It would be easier to find out his name now, while the house was quiet and no one was around to know he'd spent longer in his room than the others in the morning.

  Reckon the kid needs to see a friendly face.

  Croft finished his orange juice and went to the centre island. He took out a plastic cup they used specifically for the lads and filled it with orange juice from the fridge. In a burst of daring, he prepared the kid a sandwich—cheese and ham on brown bread with a little salad on the side—and used his keys to open the door beside the breakfast bar. Placing the food and drink on a tray, he went into the corridor and lowered the tray to the floor. Back at the door to the kitchen, he locked it—Frost would go ballistic if Croft left it open and the kid managed to get past him and into the house—then picked up the tray again. The lad would be in room five, which had stood empty since...yeah, since the other one had...yeah.

  He knocked softly so as not to frighten the room's occupant. After getting no response, he held the tray in one hand and unlocked the door with the other. Going inside, he took in the sight of a naked, black-haired teenager, bathed in the shaft of light streaking in from the corridor. The lad was curled up on the bed, above the quilt, his back to the door.

  His whole body shook.

  Croft put the tray down on a chest of drawers beside the door and locked up. Pocketing the keys as he walked over to the bed, he said, “Hey. You all right?”

  Fucking stupid question. Of course he's not all right. Look at him shaking. He's shitting himself.

  Not for the first time since he'd arrived here, anger sped through Croft until he thought he'd shout out his frustration at having to wait until tomorrow night to save this kid. But at least it was tomorrow night. This one was lucky, only having to endure just over twenty-four hours in this place.

  “I've brought you some food,” Croft said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  The boy shook harder.

  “Cheese and ham sandwich. Bit of salad. Some orange juice too.” He kept his voice calm, knew he'd be lucky to get this kid's name out of him tonight. It usually took them a while to trust him, to realise he wasn't going to hurt them. “If you don't want to talk, that's all right. And if you want to eat facing the wall, that's all right too.”

  The only response was a whimper.

  Croft rasped his palm over his beard. He'd be damn glad to shave it off once this nightmare was over. Growing it had been Frost's idea. Apparently, Croft looked more menacing with a face full of hair.

  He tried again, softening his voice further. “I can't leave the food here, mate. If you don't eat it, I'll have to take it away.”

  From where Croft sat, it looked like the kid could do with a bite of food. The ridge of his spine stood out, and his ribs reminded Croft of a birdcage, pushing against the thin skin like that.

  Fuck, this is awful. Years, bloody years this shit has been going on here.

&
nbsp; The soles of the kid's feet were rough, the heels bearing hard skin. This child hadn't been brought up pampered. If Croft's plan didn't pan out, whoever bought this lad wouldn't be pleased about those feet.

  Where had the boy come from? Was he a runaway like most of the others, or was he abused at home? If he was a street kid, he'd probably thought he was a tough nut too, out there on the streets in his little world, but in here, he'd been reduced to the minor he was. Afraid. Vulnerable. Sad.

  “I was like you once,” Croft said gently. “Laying on one of these beds and wondering what was going to happen next. As far as I know, no one's going to hurt you. Certainly not me anyway. I'm the one who brings the food, changes the sheets, makes sure you're okay. Stuff like that.”

  No response except uneven breathing.

  “Did the boss give you lemonade in the basement?”

  A barely imperceptible nod, but the boy gave one all right.

  “Did you tell him your name?”

  Another nod.

  “What's that then? I can't keep calling you mate, can I? Unless you want me to. And if that's what you want, it's fine. I don't want you doing anything you don't want to.”

  Croft didn't catch the answering whisper.

  “What's that, mate? You'll need to speak up a bit.”

  “Fraser,” the boy said, his voice cracked. “I'm Fraser Croft.”

  Croft's body seemed to hollow, like his bones had liquefied and everything inside him had disappeared. He instinctually reached out but remembered to hold back just before his fingers touched the kid's skin.

  His brother's skin.

  “Fraser?”

  Turn around. Let me see your face. Show me you're not him, that this is something Frost told you to say to me.

  Fighting panic, anger, and burgeoning tears, Croft took short little breaths to erase the many questions streaking through his mind. He needed a clear head. He needed to remain emotionless.

  Fuck, it was hard to keep from crying, from grabbing that bony shoulder and forcing the boy to look at him, but he had to gain his trust. Couldn't let this fuck up months of hard work.