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"I'm sure you and Jake will be disgusting soon enough. In fact," Carter pauses for dramatic effect and wiggles his eyebrows. "I have some advice for you. A way to get that oaf to give into you."
Casey's eyes light up. "Do tell."
"How do you feel about daddy kink?"
It takes 67 hours, but Travis breaks Scott Quinton. The fancy Italian suit is ruined, he’s covered in enough bodily fluids to make him gag every time he inhales, and he’s done a few things Lucifer himself would have been proud of, but Quinton is broken.
Elliot was sold to Aleksei Pavlov, a 43-year-old Russian man, old money but also a president of a very lucrative international investing firm that’s a front for dirty, monstrous things.
“Aleksei won’t have him anymore,” Quinton had whispered, curled up in a ball in his own filth on the floor, holding his knees tight to his chest and trembling. Every time Travis shifted - hell, anytime he breathed a little too hard - Quinton would whimper and cower away. “He wants virgins. Wants to watch them break. Then he’s bored.”
Then Quinton had begged Travis to kill him.
Travis had been all too happy to oblige.
“He’s right,” Maison says from his spot on the closed toilet lid beside the shower Travis is currently using to wash away his most recent sins. “Aleksei doesn’t have him. But Aleksei’s business partner does. As of three nights ago, at least. Borris Pasternak. 52. Looks to be out of character for him, as far as the intel we have. Never had a kid slave before. I’m not sure of the story there yet obviously.”
“What was three nights ago?”
“The last time Borris uploaded something with Elliot in it. A picture, in this case. He has a file on his computer he keeps for the boy. Ace is tracking it now.”
Travis hangs his head, trying not to imagine what that file must have looked like. They all owe Ace a-fucking-lot after what he’s had to see lately digging into this case.
“Do we know how to get the boy yet?”
“Not yet. We have to find out why he likes him first. Why he suddenly has a kid when he’s never been interested before.”
“And how will we find that out?”
“Lucky for us,” Maison drawls. “We all have someone in common.”
Travis sighs in relief. “Ronan?”
“Ronan,” Maison confirms.
After a really shitty group therapy session where Nolan sobbed himself hoarse, Casey told Dr. Singh to fuck off, and Matt silently threw a glass for a reason no one is fully sure of, the survivors in the safehouse agree to another boy’s night. This time, it’s heavy on the tequila, and they never even make it to Carter’s bedroom.
Someone puts music on at some point. It’s loud and ridiculous and Carter shakes his ass with Casey and laughs way too hard and - for a little while - he forgets it all.
And then a group of men walk through the door, stopping short when they see the party.
It takes Carter's tequila-fogged mind a few seconds before it registers who exactly he's looking at. Then he tosses his arms in the air and cheers, "Travis!" He barely notices that the tequila in his glass goes flying through the air.
Travis’s handsome face splits into a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful grin. "Hey you."
"I missed you!" Carter barrels toward him, determined to get a hug. "You're alive!"
Travis grunts when they collide, but quickly wraps his arms around Carter and holds him close. Everyone behind them start making childish kissing sounds, but Carter is too happy to care. "I missed you too, sweetheart."
"I'm drunk!" Carter tells him for no reason.
Travis chuckles. "I can see that.”
“God, you’re so hot.”
“Thank you.” Travis kisses his nose. It makes Carter feel all fuzzy and warm and happy. And also like he might sneeze. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“I’m a fucking catch. Let’s go have hot sex.”
