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"Every time you don't answer me, I'm going to hurt you," he repeats as he continues slicing until there's a good 2-inch wound in the man's side. It's a pretty good bleeder, rivulets already making their way down to the man's thigh. "Who did you sell him to?"
Quinton sneers at him. “You know they’re looking for that boy of yours, right?”
Travis keeps his face blank. He returns the scalpel to where it was before, slicing a second time so the wound is deeper and wider. Quinton makes a choking sound and jerks in his chains. Travis frowns, realizing the man has too much slack. He waves his hand toward the camera and spins his finger. A moment later, the carabiner machine starts to whir and the chains pull. He doesn't put a hand out to stop it until the man is dangling on his tiptoes. It stretches his side out, making the bleeding a hell of a lot worse.
“Who bought Elliot?”
“It didn’t take long for us all to figure it out, you know. Sure, we got part of it wrong, we didn’t know about you, but we’re not idiots, Roarke. Maison just happens to get captured by you and then everyone dies in a mysterious fire? No slaves mentioned in the news reports? We know that fire wasn't an accident." Quinton grins. "We’ve been looking for Maison, but we’ve been looking even harder for that slut brother of his. We know they got away."
Don’t give away your emotions, Travis, keep it the fuck together.
"That looks nasty," Travis muses. "I should probably handle it for you. Wouldn't want you bleeding out before you're useful."
The man spits on him.
He ignores the action, not even bothering to wipe away the spit on his chest. He takes the suture kit out and sets up a needle and thread. He pinches Quinton's wound and begins to harshly sew his skin together. Quinton screams and tries to jerk around. It makes the needle slip once or twice, but Travis couldn't care less.
"There we go," Travis says when the wound is crudely sewn. He pats it harshly. "All set. Feel better?"
"F-fuck y-you!"
"Who did you sell him to, Quinton?"
He tries to spit on Travis again, but this time it's pathetic and weak, the spit never making it into the air. It's just a glob that slowly slides down his chin.
Travis places the scalpel and suture kit back on the table and pulls on a set of Kevlar gloves next.
"Every."
He slams his fist into the man's cheek, hearing the bone crack.
"Time."
He hits his eye socket. Something pops.
"You."
He slams a fist into the man's chest, knocking the wind out of him.
"Don't."
He hits the other cheek. Wouldn't want him going around not matching.
"Answer."
In the spirit of matching, he hits the other eye next.
"Me."
He hits him in the gut, stepping back just in time to avoid the vomit the hit expels from the piece of shit's body.
"I'm."
He hits him in the gut again. No vomit this time, but a lot of wheezing and groaning.
"Going."
He brings the back of his hand down on the man's pathetic, soft cock. Quinton's knees give out. His shoulders make a sick, wet sound as they bear his weight. Travis doesn’t help him.
