by T. J. Hamel
"He - he hates me."
Carter hates himself.
"Hey, no. He doesn't hate-" Benny stops with a frustrated noise. "Just hold still, okay? Be a good boy and hold still. No… talking. Conserve your energy."
Carter nods, turning his face into the pillow to hide that he's crying again. God, it feels like that's all he ever does anymore. His whole life is crying.
The thought makes Carter cry even harder.
Benny sighs. "This might hurt a bit, but I need you to try to stay still and just breathe, okay?"
Try to stay still and just breathe while I rape you. If Carter had the energy, he'd scoff. But he doesn't have the energy. He doesn't have much of anything at all.
He sags in defeat. "Yes, sir…"
Carter immediately fucks up when he feels something wet touch his calf. He jerks, his head turning even though it hurts. He has to blink a few times before believing what he's seeing.
Benny is fully dressed. The bottle in his lap isn't lube. The unzipped bag beside him is full of medical supplies. His hand is covered in some sort of cool gel as it rests on Carter's red skin.
All Carter manages is a small, "Oh."
"This will make you feel better," Benny promises. He's making eye contact, looking kind again, so Carter quickly turns his face away.
It's not real. He's a monster.
He has to be a monster, because then sir is a monster.
And sir… has to be a monster.
Carter can’t let himself see sir as anything but a monster.
"Just lie still now."
It's easier said than done. For the first few seconds, the pain of Benny spreading what feels like a cool gel over his calf is manageable, but the moment he comes in contact with one of the more abused spots, Carter's mind is whiting out. He comes back to himself to find that he's begun sobbing. Benny is hushing him, saying things like I know, and You're okay, and Almost done. The pain doesn't fade. It doesn't ease. Every time a welt is touched, Carter jerks and sobs.
"I'm sorry," Benny says after a particularly painful spot on his shoulder is assaulted by his slick hand. Then, his voice hoarse, he admits, "That's it for the salve on your backside, but… I need to treat the welts that broke now."
"B-broke?"
"He… drew blood tonight. In a few places. I need to treat them so they don't get infected." Benny rubs little circles with his thumb against the uninjured skin of Carter's ankle. "Do you want something for the pain? I have morphine. It's just a quick shot. It'll probably put you out."
Carter grips the sheets tight, swallowing a moan when his muscles disapprove. He wants that, he does, but he feels selfish for it. Casey is probably dead now. The least Carter can do is suck it up and take this. He deserves the pain. He deserves worse than the pain.
This is all his fault.
He ruined everything.
"Do you want the morphine, little one?" Benny asks again.
"N-no, sir."
"Okay." There's some rustling from Benny's position on the bed as he digs in his bag. Carter can feel the heavy thud of things being set down on the mattress beside his leg. "This is going to hurt like a bitch, but I'll try to do it quickly."
Carter has just enough time to register the words before something is being poured over his left thigh. He shrieks, the sound taking enough energy from him that he sags into the mattress after, struggling to keep his eyes open. White dots float inside his eyelids. His body isn't jerking anymore. Jerking would require sudden stops between the movements. It's doing something else now. Vibrating, almost. Like a part of him is trying to escape this plane of existence altogether.
Benny is speaking again, his tone low and soothing. There's the sound of paper ripping and the pressure of something being pressed hard against his thigh. A sharp antiseptic scent fills the air. When he breathes it into his lungs, it burns something fierce.
The process repeats, this time on his ass cheek. Carter bites down on the blanket this time. He doesn't want to be an annoyance to Benny. If this is the man treating his wounds with gentle kindness, he does not want to find out what the angry version would be like.
Carter’s mind drifts eventually. It doesn't go somewhere fuzzy or safe, though. It goes to a place like his dream the other night. Somewhere cold and dark, dark, dark. Casey's sobs echo in the air. Sir is nowhere to be found. Maison is disgusted with him. Carter is choking on invisible daffodils.
Will sir come for him this time? Will he save Carter? Will he forgive him?
Does Carter even deserve to be forgiven?
After a very long time, or maybe no time at all, Benny finishes. He says something about sir putting the gel on Carter's front later. Something about the skin there being less injured. He runs fingers through Carter's hair and convinces him to drink something from a straw. It's sweet and cold. His body hums with relief the moment of his first swallow.
Benny wipes the tears from his face with a cloth before pushing his hair off his sweaty forehead. He says something about going to get ice packs. Says something about Carter going to sleep. Something about him being a good boy.
But Carter's not a good boy.
Sir said.
"Are you gonna see him?" Carter suddenly asks just as Benny is about to leave. He blames the fog of pain for his loose tongue. Mostly because he can't blame himself anymore. His load of guilt is too full.
"Who?"
"Sir."
"Oh." Benny tugs at his tie. "Yes. Most likely."
"Can you tell him somethin' for me?" Carter asks, hoping his words aren't as slurred as they feel rolling off his tongue. This is too important.
Benny frowns, but he also nods. "Sure."
"Will you tell him 'm sorry? 'M real sorry."
Benny gives him a smile that seems sad, even though Carter has no idea what the man has to be sad about. "Of course. Just try to get some rest, now. I'll be back with your ice packs soon."
"Okay." Carter swallows hard, tears burning his eyes again. Unless he never stopped crying. There's a chance he never even stopped. It's just that he's now noticing the sensation again. "Sir?"
Benny sighs heavily, making Carter immediately regret his entire existence. "What do you need?"
"'M sorry," Carter murmurs into the blankets, closing his eyes like a child trying to hide from a monster. "N'ver min'."
"No, little one. Say whatever you needed to say."
Carter curls in on himself as much as he can before his body forces him to stop. "Just, um," he pauses, struggling for a lie. "Thank you. For - for the help, sir."
"Oh. Sure. Of course."
Of course. Like it's no big deal. Like Carter isn't less than human and not worthy of help.
Maybe men like Benny and Nathan take special classes. Contradiction 101 or Intro to Mindfucking.
Carter closes his eyes, trying to shut the whole world out. He'll get to killing himself later. He's just… so tired right now. He needs to work up the energy.
He wishes he had his moose. He wonders where it is. He wonders if maybe it'd be worth the pain to find it.
He wonders if maybe he should find it in order to hide it. What if sir takes it away as punishment? It'd be fitting. Carter doesn't deserve something as nice as his moose. He doesn't deserve anything at all.
It should have been him instead of Casey that died.
It should still be him.
The world would be better if he wasn't around to ruin everything. Sir's life would be better. He could use that other slave instead. The jealous one. What was his number again? 3.
3 would be so good to sir. He'd make him happy and proud. He'd never get other slaves in trouble by being naughty.
3 would be a good boy.
Carter falls asleep, crying softly into his pillow as he grieves his own worth.
He never even notices when Benny eventually leaves the room.
◆◆◆
Enrique Vasco is one of the most powerful men in the Mexican Mafia. No one ranks above him, and only 3 o
ther men rank on the same level as him. He's also one of Miller's biggest allies. At least, he was. They've been on the outs lately. As of January, when Miller killed one of Vasco's men for a perceived slight that Vasco didn't agree warranted a killing.
It's the perfect opening. If Nate can secure Vasco as an ally, Miller loses Mexico. If Miller loses Mexico, Miller is no longer a major player. If Miller is no longer a major player, Nathan can easily take over the rest of his empire.
And once Nathan has Miller's empire in his hands, the case is done. The majority of the Northern and Central American markets will be his. Enough where, when everything is dismantled, and bursts into beautiful flames, what's left won't be able to function. They'll crumble. Implode. They'll be sitting ducks for task forces to pick off one by one.
It's always rested on Miller, but tonight, Miller rests on Vasco.
Nathan is on his game tonight. He has to be. If he slips for even a moment, he'll break. So, he plays his part well, drinking the finest scotch and sharing a Cuban cigar with a wink, receiving a lap dance from one of the working slaves, laughing his ass off reminiscing with a few of his branch bosses about all sorts of idiotic adventures, flirting with Jamie Kensington and lying with a grin as he extends an invite to come play with Carter that he never plans on solidifying, making subtle comments about William Dugray and agreeing wholeheartedly when people say Dugray is a disgrace, subtly asking if Dugray’s slave is alive and keeping his face perfectly neutral when he gets the answer.
By the time he's able to organically make his way to Vasco, he's walking on the air that comes from being the Nathan Roarke. Vasco instinctually recognizes it, straightening his spine for half a second before remembering himself. Then he slumps back into a lazy stance and gives Nathan a sharp smile.
"Have you forgotten who my friends are, Roarke?" Vasco asks as he tries to play it off like he hadn't for just a second recognized Nathan as someone who deserves his respect.
Nathan lets it slide, of course. He has to allow Vasco to believe he has the upper hand after all.
"I've forgotten why I've never considered being one of them," Nathan says smoothly. He waves a service slave down, gesturing for refills on what both he and Vasco are drinking. Vasco's expression twists, but he doesn't argue. He looks mildly curious. Good. "Would you care for small talk? I could ask you how business is, pretending I don't have files on your numbers. You can ask me the same, pretending you don't have files of your own. I can bitch about the latest FBI task force that's been the bane of my existence this past quarter. You can bitch about that new identification policy that Border Patrol just passed. We can agree that this shit was much easier before technology advanced, and stay-at-home moms decided to start an uprising to save the children. Or-" Nathan pauses. Waits.
Vasco takes the bait. "Or?"
Nathan doesn't smile, but oh how he wants to. "Or we can cut to the chase."
"Which is?"
"Which is that I'm having a very exclusive, very extravagant birthday party in 2 weeks, and I've placed you on the guest list."
That gets Vasco's attention. "Why?"
"Because I think we'd be fantastic friends." Nathan flashes a smile then. It's controlled. Calculated. Cunning, but in an obvious way he knows Vasco will see and respect. "It's merely an invite. Come. Don't come. No harm either way."
"And how do I know I won't be walking into a trap?"
"Because your men are invited as well."
"Weapons?"
"Are expected," Nathan says casually. "Anyone not packing at my party is an idiot."
Vasco watches him carefully, considering. Then, "And your whore?"
"What about him?" Nathan asks, unfazed. He knew it was coming. "If you're concerned about his behavior, I assure you that he learned his lesson tonight."
Vasco smirks. "I wouldn't mind if he hadn't. It was a damn nice show."
"That it was." Nathan breathes once. In. Out. You're doing this for Carter. "Perhaps there will be an encore. It's my birthday, after all. What better way to celebrate?"
"That's awfully tempting, Roarke."
"Then come." Nathan nods at the serving slave who appears with their drinks. He takes his own from the tray and raises it in cheers towards Vasco. Surprising the hell out of him - not that he shows it at all - Vasco returns the sentiment. "We don't have to work together, Vasco. We don't even have to be friends. But we do share a border. No harm in being neutral, don't you agree?"
Vasco studies him for a long moment. Then he smiles. "Yes, Roarke. I believe I do."
Chapter Twenty-One
The second time Carter wakes up, it's to the sudden feeling of his stomach lurching. He slaps a hand over his mouth and scrambles off the bed, nearly falling flat on his face when the sheets wrap around his ankle. He half-crawls, half-stumbles to the bathroom, swallowing the first wave of vomit that crawls up his throat.
He tries to open the bathroom door only to find it locked. Carter rests his palm on the wood, his other hand still covering his mouth, and closes his eyes. He tries to breathe through the nausea. Tries to calm down. He doesn't know who is on the other side - Benny or sir - but it doesn't matter. They'll both be pissed if he makes a mess.
Somehow, he manages to croak, “Sir?” at the same time as he pathetically hits the door a few times with his palm.
There’s a loud sound from the other side of the door, as if the person bumped into something. Carter hears a grumbled, “Fuck,” and then, “I have to go.” Then the door is opening, Carter falling forward as he suddenly loses the only thing keeping him on his feet. Sir catches Carter, hands steadying him.
“Carter,” sir breathes, his eyes going bright.
Carter flinches. He doesn’t like that name anymore. That name was attached to the boy from before. He’ll never be him again. “No. Not - not him. Jus’-” before he can explain himself, another wave of nausea ripples through his body. He quickly presses a hand to his mouth again, wavering on his feet.
Sir’s grip tightens, his eyebrows pulling in as he searches Carter's face for something. Carter’s not sure what. He’s not sure if he has anything to give the man. There’s not much left. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Everything.
“Don’ feel s’good.”
“What doesn’t feel good? Is it your cuts? Your head? Your stomach?”
“E – ev – v- v- v- thin’,” Carter tries to explain through chattering teeth. His body is starting to tremble. He has to lean on sir to keep from falling again.
Carter wants to tell sir that he’s afraid, but he can’t find the strength to form the words. The room spins, spins, spins. He thinks he starts to fall. If he does, he never hits the ground. He realizes then that sir has him. He carries Carter bridal style into the bathroom, setting him down on the fluffy rug by the toilet. Carter inhales, planning to thank him.
Instead, he ends up vomiting right there, his body violently lurching forward just in time for the liquid to spill into the toilet bowl. Even after the initial surge of puke, Carter clings to the edges of the toilet for dear life and suffers through a series of dry heaves, his body determined to purge its already empty stomach.
Sir pushes to his feet and walks past Carter, heading to the sink. His face is blank as he runs the water and searches in the cabinet for something. Carter wonders if he’s upset that he’s stuck taking care of Carter.
He wonders if he’ll get in trouble for this.
He wonders if he’ll even survive.
Maybe it’d be better if he didn’t.
A cold, damp cloth is placed on the back of Carter’s sweaty neck. Carter looks for sir, hoping to give him a thankful smile, but he can’t find him. He must be nearby though because a cup of water is magically placed on the floor beside Carter a moment later.
The man finally shows himself when he leans down and presses a kiss to Carter’s temple. “You stay here, okay? I’ll be right back.”
“No!” Carter lifts a shaking hand to cling to sir’s shirt.
He barely has the strength to curl his fingers around the fabric, but he uses every ounce he can muster. Sir is all he has now. Sir is… sir is all that’s left. There’s no Carter anymore. He doesn’t want to be Carter anymore. It’s just sir now. Only sir.
He needs sir.
“Ple – please don’ lea’me, s-sir. P – please,” Carter begs, not caring how whiney and pathetic he sounds. He needs sir to stay. Sir made him into something new tonight. He proved to Carter that he truly is just a slave. Just a set of holes. Worthless. An object. Entertainment. The show during dinner. Nothing more. Not even human.
Sir took Carter up on that stage and emptied him of his humanity. He can’t leave Carter alone after that. Without sir, Carter doesn’t have a purpose.
Without sir, Carter is… nothing.
Nothing at all.
◆◆◆
Once Nathan has calmed his boy down, sitting beside him and promising over and over that he won’t leave, he sends a 511 text to Benny to let him know he needs him for a Carter-related emergency and they need the doctor. He gets an almost instant response that he’s grabbing the doc and heading their way.
Nathan puts his phone to the side and begins running his hands through Carter’s hair, hating how sweaty and matted the locks are from the night’s abuse. His thoughts run wild as he tries to figure out what could be happening to his boy. All he knows is he did this. Him. Whatever the fuck is wrong right now, it’s Nathan’s fault.
Is he sick? With what? The flu? An infection? Something he got from the traders? Something he got when he accidentally swallowed some of Henley’s fucking piss? Is he just in shock? Has his body been through too much? He hasn’t been eating much the past few days. He hasn’t been sleeping well either.
But he was fine earlier. Benny said when they got here that Carter was fine. Even after getting his wounds dressed, all that was wrong was the boy being emotional. What changed?
A few sharp knocks on the door yank Nathan out of his panicked shame spiral. He yells for Benny to come in. His loud voice causes Carter to jump beside him, getting startled out of the foggy half-sleep he had begun to settle in.
