These Monstrous Deeds

by T. J. Hamel

  Even though Carter can taste blood on his tongue, he can’t get himself to calm down enough to stop sobbing. He’s convinced he’ll never be able to stop. None of this will ever stop. There’s no escaping it.

  “I know. Fuck, I know. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you. You’ve done so well. Taken your punishment so fucking well. Such a good boy. My good, good boy.” Sir kisses his throat. His jaw. His earlobe. “Sir is almost done, okay? Almost done. Then we can go home. Sir will take you home and we’ll – we’ll never fucking do this again, okay? You’ll be forgiven, and this will all be over, and you’ll be safe. Okay?”

  Carter nods rapidly, wanting that. Needing that. Sir is almost done. Then he gets to go home. Then he’s forgiven. Then it’ll be over.

  Sir’s thrusts are hard and smooth as he presses more kisses to Carter’s throat and face. In between each peck is a whispered word or phrase.

  Good boy.

  So fucking good for me.

  That’s it, sweetheart.

  Fuck, you take sir’s cock so well.

  So perfect.

  No more. I promise. No more.

  I’ll take care of you now.

  I’m so fucking sorry.

  Never again.

  God, Carter, I’m so in love with you.

  The world spins and spins and spins before going blissfully black.

  ◆◆◆

  Nathan gives up when Carter passes out. He can’t come. It’s not in the cards tonight, little blue pill or not. No fucking way. How could he when his perfect boy – the boy he fucking loves – is wrecked in such a terrible way? Nathan’s not even fully hard for fuck’s sake.

  Faking an orgasm with a few jerks of his hips, Nathan sighs in relief and pulls out of the boy. He plugs him quickly before anyone can notice that cum isn’t sliding out of him before tucking his cock away. Everything fades as he steps back to look at Carter. There’s an ache in him. Something deep. Primal. It’s like Nathan’s body can recognize that he’s done something wrong on a cosmic level.

  This isn’t what Nathan signed up for when he took this job.

  This isn’t what Travis signed up for.

  He realizes it then, standing on the stage, faded applause in his ears, a broken boy in front of him - Travis isn’t going to make it out of this alive. It was a delusion to ever think otherwise.

  And after tonight… Nathan’s not sure if Carter will either.

  Chapter Twenty

  The two American heroes playing the roles of monsters don't say a word as they carry the boy off the stage. As they follow the directions of the hosts to a guest suite. As they lie the boy on the bed without a care for the expensive bedding.

  Benny wipes Carter's body down with a warm, wet cloth. Nathan paces around the room. Benny uses a combination of toilet paper and band-aids to dress Carter’s wounds. Nathan throws up in the toilet twice. Benny tries to wake Carter up in the hopes of checking on his mental status. Nathan hovers nearby with his breath held. Benny fails at waking the boy. Nathan kicks a chair over. Benny comments that being a cliche white male isn't going to solve anything. Nathan debates the merits of punching his best friend during a time like this. Benny checks Carter's vitals. Nathan decides Benny can be punched later instead.

  Carter's vitals are good, all things considered.

  “Okay. I’ll take him home,” Benny says, gesturing towards Carter’s limp body. “You need to get back to the party. You have a man to schmooze."

  Nathan sneers at his friend in disgust. "The fuck I do! The night is fucking over."

  "No. Carter's night is over. My night is over. I'll take him home and get him settled. You need to seal the deal with Vasco."

  "Benny, you can't possibly ask me to do that."

  "I'm not asking."

  The two men glare at each other, but only one is heartbroken and defeated, so the one who has his shit together wins. Nathan looks away.

  "Wash up first," Benny advises. "You've got blood on your hand."

  Nathan looks down at his hand, startled to find that Benny is right. His skin is streaked with angry crimson. "It's not mine," he says unnecessarily.

  “I know.”

  “I – I made him bleed.”

  “I know, Nate. Don’t think about it. Not right now. Just wash it off and get back to the party.”

  “Right.” Nathan stares down at his hands, transfixed by the sight of Carter’s blood slashed across his skin. His hands begin to tremble. "I should call Maison."

  Before he can comprehend, Benny has Nathan by the arm and is shoving him into the bathroom. He shuts the door before pinning Nathan up against it and growling at him. "Are you a fucking idiot?"

  "I-" Nathan stops himself, trying to remember what he even said. Maison. He should call Maison. He should. But… he shouldn't have said it in front of the boy.

  Maybe it's time Carter knows.

  Hell, maybe it's time all of this ends anyway. Nathan will take the hit. He'll happily die for this boy.

  "He can't be here any longer, Ben. We can't keep doing this to him."

  "There's no other choice!"

  "We can let him go! Claim he escaped. Claim he killed himself. I'll go down for it. I don't fucking care."

  "Jesus. You've fucking lost it." Benny shoves off of him, shaking his head in frustration. Then he's back against Nathan with a hand around his throat. "There are two ways this ends - that boy safe with Maison once we've finished this mission, or that boy in the hands of someone like Miller or Henley or God forbid the fucking Kensington’s because we failed. That's it. There's no clicking our heels and sending him home. We're this close, Nate. We are this fucking close."

  "Ben…" Nathan meets his friend's gaze, searching for the man he knew before. The man Benny really is beneath this cold persona he’s always managed to maintain so much better than him. "Jake, we have to save him from this."

  Benny flinches at the use of his real name. He pushes away again, maintaining his distance this time. He won't meet Nathan’s eyes. "We'll figure something out, okay? We'll figure this out. We'll call Maison. But not right now. Right now, we have to do what's best for Carter and the mission. Right now, we have to stick to the fucking plan. Otherwise we'll wind up dead by morning, and he'll be even worse off. Do you understand?"

  When Nathan says nothing, Benny changes tactics. "Did you see what they did to that other boy tonight? Casey?"

  Nathan shudders as the memories burst through his mind. Of course he saw it. So did Carter. God, Carter had wanted to take his place.

  As if Benny read Nathan's mind, Benny asks, "Do you want Carter to be like that? Do you want him in the hands of someone like that?"

  "No."

  "That boy is probably violently raped and beaten nightly. Do you want that for Carter?"

  "No."

  "Do you want him to be gang-raped? To be used like a sex toy for an entire group of violent, fucked up men?"

  "No!" Nathan growls, snapping his gaze to his friend. He flashes his eyes in warning. "Stop."

  "No, Nathan. You stop. It's not me who is putting him in danger right now. It's you."

  Fury bubbles inside of Nathan's chest, threatening to burst. He wants to destroy something. Someone. He wants to claw and break and shred all of these people until they're nothing but piles of filth and sin. Until they can't possibly hurt anyone ever again.

  “Who was that piece of shit?”

  Benny tosses a hand up in confusion. “Who?”

  “Casey’s owner. Who is he? What do we know about him?”

  “Christ, you’re scatter-brained today.” Benny rubs at his forehead, eyes half-closed as he thinks. “Dugray. William Dugray. He’s a cleaner. Works for Hanson, I think.”

  A cleaner isn’t one of the people who launders the dirty money for people like Nathan. They’re who accepts the money once it’s been laundered and makes damn sure it’s squeaky clean by running it through all sorts of stocks and funds. Launderers take away th
e obvious filth on the cash in case anyone decides to snoop around. Cleaners make it so no one ever even thinks of snooping in the first place.

  They’re valuable, yes, but they’re not irreplaceable.

  “How high up is Dugray?”

  “I don’t know. Up there. Not the top.”

  “Disposable?”

  Benny’s lips part, a question clearly on the tip of his tongue, but then realization relaxes his expression and he’s smirking. “Oh. I see now.”

  “So?”

  “So, I’m pretty sure we could make that work, yeah. Let me dig around a bit. Give me 24.”

  Nathan nods. He can do that. He can be patient.

  Or he can at least try to be.

  The idea of William Dugray getting eviscerated will certainly hold Nathan over for the night at least.

  “But Casey,” Nathan thinks out loud. “If he survived tonight, you make damn sure he gets taken care of. Even if we can’t get rid of Dugray. I don’t want that boy with him anymore. Things have to change for Casey. Understood?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll keep you updated.” Benny reaches out and squeezes Nathan’s shoulder in what he knows is meant to be a comforting gesture. It’s not comforting, but nothing would be right now. Nathan appreciates the effort. “Hold it together, man. Clean yourself up, get a drink, mingle for 20 minutes, find Vasco, and get this shit over with. Then come home and be with you boy.”

  "Promise you'll take care of him?" Nathan asks like a pathetic idiot. He knows Benny will take good care of the boy. Of course he does. But… he just needs to hear it.

  "Yeah, Nate. I've got him."

  "Okay." Nathan takes a deep breath, steadying himself. "Okay. You go. I'll stay in here and clean up. I - I can't see him again. I need to stay focused."

  Benny nods, giving him a tight smile. "He's going to be okay, Nate. I promise."

  Nathan turns away from Benny before he can say what he's sure they're both thinking.

  That's not a promise Benny can keep.

  Carter Beckett may not ever be okay again.

  ◆◆◆

  Carter wakes slowly, taking stock of every new thing he feels as he crawls back to awareness. A violent, burning sensation is licking across most of his skin. His hole is throbbing. His cock and balls feel raw and heavier than they should. His mouth tastes like copper and bile, the inside of it dry and tacky. His cheek aches.

  The first emotion that returns to him is a deep, overwhelming sadness.

  Terror isn’t far behind.

  Then he remembers.

  Casey. Seeing him. Holding him. Relief. Peace. Then being torn away, kicking and screaming.

  Sir smashing Carter’s face against the table. Growling at him. Angry at him.

  He remembers watching Casey’s master whipping him bloody. The men who used him after. The way his body had gone as slack and lifeless as a sex doll.

  He remembers his own whipping. The toy shoved in his hole. The pain. The pain. So much fucking pain.

  The laughter.

  The cheering.

  The dark.

  The dark, again, again, again in the dark. Alone in the dark.

  He pissed himself.

  He sobbed.

  He screamed.

  Sir fucked him.

  Sir… promised him things. So many things. They’re all a jumble in Carter’s mind. Something about forgiving him, maybe? Something about being good. But that can’t be right… because Carter wasn’t good at all. He was naughty. Disappointing. Carter ruined everything. He always ruins everything.

  Was there an apology?

  Did sir apologize?

  No. Certainly not. Carter must have apologized to sir. That must be what he’s remembering.

  There was something about love, too. A confession. A heated surge of emotions. That couldn’t have been sir. No way.

  Which means…

  Oh god, did Carter confess his love to sir?

  No.

  No, no, no.

  He wouldn’t be that stupid. He wouldn’t.

  He doesn’t even love sir. Not at all. He hates him. Despises him. The man is a fucking monster.

  Maybe it was all just some fucked up mind game that his traumatized brain decided to play with him. It wouldn’t be the first time Carter’s mind has done that to him. It’s never had a problem creating whispered apologies and gentle touches out of cruelty and pain. It’s practically a fucking expert at it by now.

  Carter startles when the bedroom door opens. He jerks into a sitting position, an agonized sound ripping its way up his throat as he immediately falls back down. Every inch of his body burns and throbs. Tears fall down his face, stinging the small cut on his cheek from where he was slammed into the table earlier.

  “S-sir? ‘M sor-” Carter chokes down the apology when he sees that it’s not sir at the door.

  It’s his friend. Benny.

  The instinct to toss the covers over his head and hide is overwhelming. The only reason he doesn’t give in is how painful it would be to do such a thing with his body right now. Even turning his head to look at Benny fully is enough to have fresh tears springing to his eyes. His body jerks with every panicked intake of breath, pulling whimpers from him.

  Carter wants to ask where sir is.

  He wants to ask if Benny is going to hurt him.

  If Benny is going to fuck him.

  If Casey is dead.

  If maybe they’d be willing to take pity on him and kill him too.

  But everything hurts, and his brain is fuzzy, so he stays silent. His body continues to jerk.

  He jolts when a hand touches his shoulder, a new wave of panic welling up in his chest when he realizes Benny made his way across the room without Carter even noticing.

  “Shhh,” Benny coos. His eyes are gentle. Warm. Kind. He looks at Carter like he cares about him. God, Carter’s mind is even more fucked up than he thought. “Just breathe, little one. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just here to make sure you’re alright.”

  Carter doesn’t believe him, but he doesn’t say that. He thinks it’s safest if he continues to say nothing at all.

  “Sir is still at the party.” Benny smiles softly. "He had me take you home so you could be cleaned up and put to bed."

  More questions bubble along Carter's tongue, but he manages to hold them back.

  "I was hoping you'd sleep longer, but that's alright. This gives me a chance to get a proper look at your wounds now."

  Carter flinches at the words. They sound sincere, caring even, but he knows better. This man is a monster. They're all monsters. Even sir.

  Especially sir.

  The blanket is gently pulled off Carter, revealing a body littered with welts and bruises. He quickly looks away from himself before too many details can register.

  "Roll onto your front." When Carter hesitates, Benny asks, "Do you need help?"

  Carter squeezes his eyes shut, terror thick in his veins. "Please," he manages to choke. He feels tears spilling through the tight seam of his eyelids. "Please, it hurts so bad. Please don't fuck me."

  "Shhh." Benny runs a hand through Carter's hair. It feels just like sir's. Instead of calming him, it just makes Carter feel worse. A sob catches in his chest. "Your master didn't give me permission to do anything like that to you. I'm just here to make sure you're okay."

  The words I'll never be okay again materialize on Carter's tongue. It takes a great sacrifice to keep them inside. They burn like acid.

  "Do you need help, or can you roll over on your own?"

  If he's being honest, Carter probably does need help, but he refuses to give anyone permission to touch him if he has the chance to avoid it. So, he grits his teeth and forces his body to move.

  It doesn't hurt. Hurt isn't a word that is even close to describing the sensation of his skin dragging against bedding, his muscles stretching and twitching, his bones weak, his mind fuzzy. There is no word. Not for Carter, at least. Not anymore. If it existed in his vocabul
ary once, it's been evicted. Beaten from his mind. Burned away by the acidity of words left unsaid.

  Agony is the closest thing, but even that's not enough.

  He wants to die.

  Carter would give anything to die.

  The bed shifts as Benny climbs onto it. Teeth of a zipper hiss as they're torn apart. A bottle softly clicks open. Something is squirted onto something else.

  He's going to fuck Carter. He lied. Of course he lied. These men always lie. Carter is about to be raped by someone other than sir for the very first time.

  Carter makes himself a promise right then. When Benny finishes with him, leaving Carter behind like he's nothing, Carter will kill himself. He'll end this once and for all. Then, maybe, if he's lucky, he'll end up with Casey in heaven. Carter has never been much of a believer, really, but he's had to have earned that at least, right? After surviving this hell, God would surely take pity on him.

  He just has to die first.

  Carter wonders if sir brought all of his weapons with him to the party tonight. Of course, a gun would be the best option, but a knife would do.

  Otherwise, Carter can improvise. There are the sharp blades from sir's shaving kit. Or the sturdy beams of the ceiling in sir's closet and the red rope sir used to tie him up before. Or the bathtub where he can force his lungs to fill with water.

  Carter begins to drift along with the safety of his new plan. So many options. It’s blissful, really, to realize how easily he can escape it all when he’s ready.

  This is his mistake; the drifting. Carter forgets to control his mind.

  He forgets to keep the acid words from bubbling past his lips.

  "I made him mad…" Carter whispers, the truth of the words impossibly heavy as they pull him out of his false bliss and back to the present.

  Benny tenses, the air between them suddenly heavy. Then he sighs and places a gentle hand on Carter's ankle. "I know."