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“What about oral? Maybe you haven’t held someone down and fucked their unwilling ass, but have you had someone non-consensually suck you off? Fucked their mouth? Choked them when it’s not a kink of theirs?” Travis pauses. “No? How about beating someone who doesn’t want or deserve it? Beating them black and blue? Beating them fucking bloody?” Travis laughs dryly. “For fuck’s sake, Mais, have you ever even killed someone up close? Not a shot during a firefight, but looked into someone’s eyes, felt their pulse, smelled their breath, and killed them?”
“You’ve made your fucking point.” Maison gestures at the computer. “All of that shit is happening to Elliot as we speak, though. Maybe even the killing part. So get your head out of your ass and go deal with Quinton, yeah?”
And he’s pissed.
Fair enough.
Travis stands up, grabs the small bag of tools he put together himself - inspired by Mica - and heads out. He needs to change.
Clad in one of Nathan Roarke's favorite suits - tailor made by a cranky old Italian designer named Antony who liked to call Nathan his bell'uomo – a pair of buttery soft leather shoes, a perfectly knotted tie, and a Rolex, Travis takes a deep breath and centers himself. Or, more accurately, separates himself.
Then he enters Quinton’s cell.
“R-Roarke?” Quinton coughs. There’s some blood on his bottom lip from when he tried to fight his way to freedom after they caught him. Travis smirks. “Fucking - is that - Nathan R - no, he’s dead, he’s fucking dead, god, I’m fucking losing my mind.”
“No, the hallucinations stopped-” Travis pauses, looking at his watch for dramatic effect. “-about 50 minutes ago. I'm very real."
"You died."
"Obviously not.”
"B-but - but you - and they - wait - I-" he shakes his head as much as he can with the collar. "God, I'm so fucking confused."
"I was undercover. I was working with Maison Beckett the entire time. It was all a ruse."
He jerks in his chains, anger giving him a moment of energy. "You what?"
"Let's skip that part. It's dreadfully boring, really. And not what we're here to discuss."
"You motherfucking-" Travis tunes him out, setting his bag on the metal table near the wall.
When Quinton falls into a fit of coughs, Travis turns back to him and raises a brow. "Finished now?”
"What the fuck is this, Roarke? What do you want?"
"Funny you should ask." Travis strolls over to him, unbuttoning his suit jacket. He reaches into the inside pocket and pulls out the photograph. Quinton squints at it. "You remember him?"
"No."
Travis believes him. That's okay. He knows how these men's minds work. He'll get him to remember. "You sold him just before the auction where I bought Carter."
"I don't sell kids," Quinton mumbles, averting his eyes. "It's not my market."
"Oh, fuck off with that. I already know you sell kids, Quinton. Skip the bullshit."
"Why do you care about him?" Quinton lifts his gaze, assessing Travis. Then he smirks. "Oh, this is for the Beckett whore, isn't it? Did your slut make a friend with one of my pretty babies during his time in the cage?"
Travis ignores him. "You might not remember the kid, but you'll remember the sale. I know you're careful with those. Probably handle them all yourself. You'd be ruined if anyone ever found out you're selling minors. You remember the sale, Quinton. Who did you sell a kid to in the days leading to Carter's auction?"
"Carter, huh? First name basis with the boy you raped for my audience's entertainment. How does Maison Beckett feel about that?"
Travis chooses a sharp scalpel from his tools, slipping a suture kit into his pocket as well. He finds Quinton smirking when he turns to him, but the man's expression falters when he sees the scalpel. Good.
"Every time you don't answer me, I'm going to hurt you." He presses the scalpel to Quinton's ribcage, just the flat of it for now. "His name was Elliot, if you ever even bothered finding such things out about your victims. Who did you sell him to?"
"I was at that party, you know. The Kensington’s. When you whipped him bloody and raped him while his friend - who I also sold - became the evening's dedicated party favor."
Travis remains calm, not giving him the satisfaction of a response. He tilts his wrist and presses down until crimson spills from the man's pale skin. Quinton gasps, then hisses a string of curses at him.
