They were okay, and that made it worth it.
I hated the fact that they were still being held over my head as an implied threat if I ever tried to run away, but what could I do? Tell them to go into hiding? Even if they tried, they couldn't outrun Hoss. He had his sticky fingers in everything, including the ESRB. I highly doubted they'd get anywhere he couldn't reach them, even if they'd had the funds to try.
I did manage to discreetly transfer some money to them. I didn't know if they'd spend it or not. It wasn't very honorable to make money off crime, sure, but I knew it would help them if they had it and were willing to use it. And, well, I had it to give, at least for now.
Sometimes I daydreamed about the FBI busting in and taking us all down. I'd testify in exchange for anything they'd give me. Tearfully, I'd point out everything I'd helped to steal. I'd give the money back. I'd cleanse my conscience.
But it was just a daydream, because I kept dipping into the money, rather than saving it for that day.
Hoss (I never had learned his real name) seemed pleased every time he saw evidence of my spending. I guess it showed the truth: that I was getting comfortable, that I was resigning myself to working with him for life. That I had given in, and perhaps even given up.
He wasn't wrong.
I kept mental notes of all the jobs I did — when, what, and, if possible, where. Just in case I ever got that chance to testify after all. I'd do so with relish, and if any of the jobs hadn't been reported to the police, all the better — I'd get two unscrupulous collectors in trouble. It was a nice daydream, but it didn't actually change anything or make me brave enough to try to leave.
I could have, now, probably. I think I probably could have gotten as far as the next town. But I wasn't naïve enough to think I'd get any farther, and I didn't attempt it.
#
For six months, I stole Egyptian artifacts and lazed around. And then, ironically, someone stole me.
I was shoe shopping in a large mall two towns away from the ranch. I wasn't alone; they never let me out alone. I'd made a day of it, eating out, doing a lot of shopping and window shopping, and I was just asking my "bodyguard," named Tom, if he thought these shoes would look good. (I don't know why; he had less fashion sense than I did, and he had that "glazed-eyed straight guy holding his wife's purse while shopping" look to him, so I should have known better.)
Anyway, at that point, three different men who had seemingly been browsing the aisle at random — none of whom were dressed similarly or looked particularly alarming — suddenly made a coordinated jump for me. Well, two of them made for me, one for Tom. Tom was down with a blow to the neck, choking, and the third turned back to help the other two snatch me.
"Not again," I said before they covered my mouth and hustled me away, out the back. There were, of course, lots of other people around for this kidnapping. Some of them screamed. All of them moved out of the way when one of the thugs brandished a gun and aimed it threateningly at anyone who made a move.
A couple of people looked like they wanted to intervene, but most looked like they wanted to survive. I didn't blame them.
Don't bother about me, I wanted to say. I'm used to it. Of course I didn't say anything because my mouth was covered, and I wasn't as used to it as I'd thought I was, because my heart pounded like mad, and a fine trembling had started up in my limbs. But I had a pretty good idea, overall, that I was worth more alive than dead.
Fuck Hoss and his stupid dinner parties. This had to be the work of one of his "friends." And as I was unlikely to get a nicer evil-kidnapping-supervillain-boss, it seemed like my life had definitely taken a turn for the worse.
Should have skipped the shoe shopping.
Sure enough, when they got me to my final destination and ripped off the blindfold they'd tied on too tightly, I found myself face-to-face with a scarred, pockmarked man with ice-hard eyes I recognized from the dinner party. He looked me up and down. One of the kidnappers shoved me helpfully to my knees, and I went down hard because my hands were tied behind my back.
I'd gotten a couple of scrapes and bruises from being hustled out none too gently, and my lip had gotten bloody somehow along the way — I'd probably bitten it, but I couldn't remember; it was all a blur. He looked at me now and touched his thumb to the bloody part of my lip.
"So. You're the expert thief, are you? You don't look like much."
I'm not. You should probably throw me back, sir.
I kept my mouth shut. It wouldn't surprise me if he was a lot less civilized than Hoss — who still left a lot to be desired in the "not making me break the law" area.
"Xavier swears by you. But I want to see for myself," he said, and gave me a kick for no good reason I could discern. I went down, and tried to scrunch small to protect my vital organs, but he didn't kick me again. He left the room, taking his goons with him, and locked the door behind him.
Was this supposed to be a demonstration? But my hands were tied, tightly enough that I was losing feeling in them. I couldn't unlock anything like this — could I?
I stayed where I was. I tried not to cry. The floor was cold and hard, and I hurt where he'd kicked me. I wished I hadn't gone clothes shopping. I wished for the familiar comforts of confinement on the ranch.
Was Xavier Hoss's real name? Or another code name? It wouldn't surprise me if he had more than one. I would, if I were a supervillain.
Eventually, they came back for me, untied my hands, let me up and took me to the bathroom, where I relieved myself and got cleaned up. When I was more or less presentable, I was shown to my "new boss" and offered a bunch of locks.
I regarded them warily, and then him. He looked like he wanted me to put on a show, and wasn't above beating me if it wasn't entertaining enough.
"I can open locks," I warned him. "But I can't tell when I'm doing it. If any of those are unlocked, I won't know."
"Just open them, boy."
I opened them. Then I opened some more for him. Then I opened his safe, when he wanted me to open that. He seemed satisfied at last. By this time, I was shaky with hunger and wanted to lie down. He shooed me away in the care of some goons, and they took me to a bedroom which locked on the outside with a wooden bar across it, no real locks at all.
They brought me food and let me sleep. The bed was uncomfortable.
I missed my dog.
I tried not to think ahead, to accept that this was what my life had become: a series of forced employment opportunities, illegitimate jobs with very poor retirement plans.
I wanted to go home.
#
Hoss's people found me on my second job for Scar-Face. (I had no real name for him, either.) It was a bank job, which I really didn't want to do, but Scar-Face had shown himself to be the sort of psycho you didn't refuse to listen to. You didn't even hesitate, since he'd just as soon cut you across the face as look at you. I was fortunate not to learn that one firsthand.
I was pretty scared of him, and I was definitely stepping up my escape plan efforts. He didn't seem to have as many resources or as much security as Hoss, which was in my favor. But on the other hand, his staff was a lot more dangerous and a lot more motivated not to get on his bad side. I'd probably have to kill someone to get past them if they caught me, and that wasn't something I was willing or able to do. I didn't know anything about killing.
So, anyway, now I was stealing from a bank.
That's where Hoss caught up with us, his men wearing ski masks and dropping in on us unexpectedly, opening fire without hesitation. I froze where I stood, and all around me, Scar-Face's men dropped like stones. I stood there trembling, flicked with their blood, my eyes squeezed shut.
"Come on," rasped Tom, and he yanked on my arm, hauling me after them and away. The floor was slick. I felt as though I might throw up.
They were rough with me on the way out of there, but I was too much in shock to be sensible, and if they hadn't hurried me along, I'd have stood stock-still till the cops got there.
>
I wasn't okay for the next few days. Hoss tried to say something to me, I know he did, but it didn't register. Eventually, they just left me alone with my dog and time to rest.
I'd never actually seen anyone killed before, and they'd been killed because of me. I didn't know how to deal with that.
Hoss stepped up security after that, cutting back on my trips away and even my theft trips. I wasn't myself for quite some time. I rode a lot; I ran with my greyhound. I thought of home and family and the bookstore, and Neal, my bodyguard-crush, but they all seemed very far away, maybe even pretend, like I'd made them up to get through a bad reality.
Hoss, my dog, the ranch, and the horses were all real. And my skill was real. And theft.
I began to steal from Hoss, just little things, just to prove to myself that I could. I wanted to punish him for making me stay here, for killing over me, for letting me get captured in the first place. All of this was mixed up with a very unpleasant sense of gratitude, of feeling at home when I was here. I didn't like how conflicted I felt, and it made me angry with him, angrier than I'd been before. So, I stole his spare change to make myself feel better, or a tie he'd left lying around, or some of his ammo, and hid it away. It was a small way to reclaim some sense of mastery over my life, but I couldn't think of another at the time.
I also got quite good at horse riding, and spent even more time working out. I actually had (gasp) visible muscles at this point in my life, and that was kind of amazing. But I didn't have anyone I wanted to impress, and I certainly didn't go out clubbing or anything. Not that I probably would have before, either. I had always been a bit more shy than I liked to admit, kind of a wallflower. Even if it wouldn't have been a security issue, I doubt I'd have gone out dancing or tried to pick up a date.
Not that I even wanted to date, not really. Being around me was dangerous, and I didn't want to put anyone at risk. Plus, I felt kind of hollow and empty inside, like there was no heart in me anymore, or it was locked away somewhere I couldn't find it. I didn't have anything to give anybody, that's for sure.
One day, Hoss found my stash. I supposed I hadn't been careful enough. There were, after all, always people watching me.
He cuffed the side of my face. "Why would you do this, eh? Steal from me? I've given you everything. You want me to be mad at you? You want to be punished, is that it?"
I didn't say anything, just kept my gaze down, as stubborn and hard as I could make it. He cuffed me again, then made a sound in his throat. "Ah, you're a good boy. Why are you doing this?"
He drew me against him in a rough hug. "You're like a fox in a trap," he said, messing up the back of my hair.
I grimaced at the mental image of chewing my own leg off.
"I know what you need."
To be killed? Maybe he would. At least then it would be over.
"You need yourself a boyfriend. You're not a secret, you know. I thought you could do without, but someone your age? Don't you worry. I'll fix that for you, then you'll get back to work without this stubborn streak. But no more stealing from me, or I really will be angry."
I promised I'd stop. I meant it, too. His saying he'd get me a boyfriend made my heart sink. I didn't want a boyfriend. I really didn't. I didn't want anyone to care about, or to care about me.
#
Even though I protested, he was fixed on finding me a boyfriend. I never found out what that might entail, however, because before anything happened there, Neal walked back into my life.
I was riding my favorite horse, practicing some of the pointers I'd gotten from a coach the other day, working on improving my seat, when who should appear but a familiar figure at the end of the fence. He leaned against it, watching me for a long moment, one boot resting on the bottom rail of the fence. He pushed up a straw hat as his eyes followed me.
I wound down to a walk, then stopped. I dismounted and walked over to him, holding the reins loosely.
Seeing him reminded me of feeling young and hopeful, of the exhilaration of a crush and the excitement of finding out I had a talent. It reminded me of watching TV together and teasing each other over cafeteria fare. Of jokes and walks and the feeling that, if only I could have him, life would be perfect — but it would be all right even if I couldn't.
"Howdy, stranger," said Neal in a Texas accent, tipping his hat at me. He hadn't had a Texas accent before. "That's some mighty fine riding there."
I squinted at him. Should I pretend not to know him? How was he here, and didn't he realize he was risking his life? I turned to pet the horse's neck, keeping my eyes on her instead of Neal. "Some people don't have the sense they were born with."
"Just checking out what the place has to offer," he said mildly.
"It doesn't have anything you'd want."
I stared at him, and he stared back. It was Neal, or someone who looked exactly like him. His familiar eyes seemed to beckon to me from his otherwise impassive face.
"Horses, apparently."
"Yeah. Horses." I snorted and gave in, walking over to join him at the fence.
"You okay?" he said, real soft, lips barely moving.
"Not really. You should go. If you stay here, he'll find out and he'll kill you."
He shook his head. "We're gonna spring you. I had to be sure, though."
"Well, now you're sure. Go."
He looked me up and down, his eyes kind of...hungry? Sad? Something emotional and more intense than I'd have expected. I hadn't been feeling much of anything lately, so a lot of emotion from him surprised me. But of course, my capture meant he'd failed as a bodyguard. No doubt he wanted to make up for that.
Actually, I was kind of surprised he hadn't given up looking for me. I'd figured I was lost to the ESRB and everyone else — just a casualty of the trade. Gone, and definitely forgotten.
"Hang in there, champ," he said, real soft. "I'm going to get you free."
I nodded listlessly and turned back to the horse. I tasted something like sadness. Did this feeling mean I wanted to cry? I hadn't cried in a long time.
I spoke as quietly as I could. "There's nowhere I could go that I wouldn't be hunted down by someone. I'll just stay here. It could be worse."
He didn't respond to that, but ducked his hat at me in a reassuring way and then got off the fence. Security was coming over, perhaps to see why the stranger was taking such an interest in me. "See ya, champ."
He turned and walked away, and the staff members watched him carefully.
I had seen guests around the ranch on occasion, of course. I'd always taken them for family or shady business associates Hoss was planning to do deals with. Either way, I'd stayed out of theirs.
Was Neal undercover? He was very foolhardy, if so. How long would it be till Hoss discovered him?
I really didn't want to see my crush die. I was going to have to think of something.
I was still thinking about it, and still getting nowhere, when I headed off to bed that night. I no longer had to take my meals in my rooms, and I tended to eat in some comfortable alcove situated around the place, usually with the TV on to distract me, although sometimes I read instead.
Tonight, I wasn't able to concentrate on a show, and I certainly didn't have enough brainpower to read. I was really worried about Neal, but I was also yawning my head off and not getting anywhere, so off to bed I went.
In my room, Neal was sitting in the dark, on the edge of my bed, a sort of coiled tension about him. He rose immediately as I entered the room.
"Hey, there," he said in his sultry fake accent.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe, and then, very weakly, I managed, "Hey, yourself."
He walked up to me and boldly put his hands on my waist, then swayed me closer to him till we were chest to chest, almost touching. His hands on me felt very warm and solid.
"What's a pretty boy like you doing in a place like this?" he said, corny and yet somehow still sexy.
He leaned close and kissed me on the cheek.
My heart drummed. I turned into his neck. "Neal," I whispered. "You need to get out of here." I couldn't help it; I let myself lean against him. He felt so solid and real, and for one moment only, I let myself revel in the safety and warmth of his embrace.
One of his hands moved, gentle and firm, to rest in the middle of my lower back, drawing me closer yet, till we were pressed together. "They think I was hitting on you. So now I am," he whispered back, around another small kiss on my face.
It felt good — it felt so damned good. I closed my eyes and drank in this small comfort, the solid warmth and strength of him, and this fluttery-soft, sexy sensation. It felt like I hadn't actually felt anything this strongly in ages, about anything.
"He'll kill you," I whispered.
"Naw. He wants you to get laid." A soft chuckle, and he guided me towards the bed. He peppered me with kisses as we sat down beside each other, very close, his arm around me.
I turned toward him like a plant to the sun. "Please. Go. There's no way he'll let me go, but you—"
"Hey, don't be noble. Not with me." He reached up and stroked my hair back from my face. "Damn, you're beautiful."
I grimaced. "You don't have to fake-compliment me. Just pretend to make out for a while and then go. Leave. Go as far and as fast as you can and don't look back."
"Who's faking?" he said, and kissed me again, on the mouth.
Oh, his lips against mine felt so good. I was melting, and I didn't want to. This was too important to — to — oh. "Neal," I whispered. "You sh-shouldn't."
"I'm Tex now." He pulled me against him and kissed me even more thoroughly. We fell gently down on the bed, on our sides, still facing each other, kissing, holding on.
"Tex," I said, very soft, and smiled against his mouth. It felt like the first time I'd smiled in months, even though I knew it probably hadn't been.
My dog whined and jumped up on the bed, and that woke me up from the heady cocktail of hormones enough to pull back and sit up, running fingers through my disheveled hair and tugging my shirt back down. My skin tingled everywhere his fingers had trailed. I wanted more, but his life was more important.
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