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"To."
He repeats the action again, deciding a human trafficker deserves some extreme CBT. Quinton's head lulls like he might pass out soon.
"Hurt."
He backhands Quinton's face, forcing him to wake up. The man jolts back to his tiptoes with a gasp.
"You."
He shoves forward, sending him flying. He screams hard enough to make Travis's ears fucking ring. Blood seeps out of his poorly sewn wound and piss spurts out of his cock as he swings through the air. He tries to fix his stance, but his feet slip in his own blood, vomit, and piss.
"Man, I'm tired," Travis says with a low whistle. "Night, buddy."
He walks out without a look back, even as Quinton screams after him that he's ready to talk, he promises he'll talk, he'll tell him everything.
He's not ready. Not yet.
But he will be soon.
Travis slips into the office down the hall and presses the button on the computer that turns the lights off in the soundproofed room. He adjusts the temperature to even colder now that the fucker isn't soaking wet. He relaxes the chains, letting him fall to his knees. The fucker sobs in relief, the sound making Travis smile. He waits for a beat. Then another. Then he turns the dial and the chains slowly begin to rise again.
"No! No, please, no! No!" Quinton screams above the whirring and clinking sounds.
Travis waits until his tiptoes are just touching the floor, then stops the machine.
Quinton screams and screams.
But all Travis can hear is his words earlier about people out there looking for Carter.
Travis mutes the speakers and pulls out his phone with shaking hands. His knee bounces as he listens to the call ring and ring and ring. Come on, Carter. Pick up.
Carter jolts awake to the sound of his phone ringing. He fumbles around, trying to find it in his mass of blankets. When he finally gets his hand on it, he drops it. For fuck's sake.
By the time he has the phone to his face, his heart is beating hard enough to hurt. He’s out of breath, but full of hope when he asks, "Travis?"
"Carter," Travis breathes, the single word soaked in relief. "Hey. You okay?"
Carter rubs at his face, wondering what time it is. "Um, yeah? I was sleeping, so… yeah."
"Good. That's - that's good. Listen, I need you to go to the safehouse. Please."
"Right now?" Carter pulls his phone away, wincing at the brightness of his screen. "Trav, it's fucking 4 in the morning. And I have class in the morning.”
"Not today. Today, you're sick. Please, just… do this for me. Go to the safehouse until I come back. Please."
Carter rolls out of bed, already knowing he's going to agree. "Can you at least tell me why?"
"Quinton said everyone is actively looking for you. They want you bad. More than they want Maison." He releases a shaky breath before continuing. "And I can't do this if I'm worried about you. I need you safe."
Carter tugs on a pair of sweatpants and the most recent hoodie he stole from Travis. "Okay, but I'm not moving back. So, we're going to have to figure something out once you're home."
"We will, I promise. I just need you there while I'm doing this. The things he's saying to turn the tables on me and fuck with my head, they'll get to me if I don't know you're safe."
"Okay." Carter nibbles on his bottom lip before working up the courage to ask, "How are things going?"
"Too fucking slow. He's stronger than I thought he'd be."
Carter pauses at his apartment door, then goes back for his school bag. This might last a while. His professor will probably be more lenient if he's doing online work at least. He'll have to figure something out for his shifts at the bar. "Take your time, Trav. I'll text you when I'm safe at the house, okay? I need my phone for the map."
