Run This Town 04 - (Watch Me) Save You Page 2

  It could be Elias. He sounded like him. Tek wanted it to be him.

  Stavros smiled at him, almost gentle, almost kind. “Let Elias fuck you, Tek. Tell him how long you’ve waited.”

  So long. As the cock in his ass slid in and out, delicious, burning, reaching him in dark, hidden places, he sobbed and confessed. “Love me,” he whispered in reverence. He tightened, and the man hissed and growled, pulling out then slamming back in. Tek yelled and Stavros shoved four fingers into his mouth, choking him.

  When he quieted, Stavros removed the fingers. His smile was crooked now, cruel.

  “Tek,” Elias spoke behind him. “Let me love you.”

  He kept repeating it, the words echoing, in the room, in Tek’s head, his blood.

  “Yes.” He cried then, the tears sliding down his cheek. He’d waited for this moment. All these years. “I love you.” Hands gripped his balls, squeezed, pulled on him. The orgasm roared up, hot and bubbly and Tek’s body bowed with the force of it. He came screaming Elias’s name.

  He floated, his head on Stavros thigh, ass burning as the man inside him pulled out. He tried to turn, but his strength was gone.

  “Thank you, Hector.”

  “My pleasure,” a male voice rumbled. “She’s got a sweet ass.”

  Stavros chuckled. “That she does.”

  Footsteps retreated and a door slammed. Something licked Tek’s ear.

  “Tek.”

  He jumped up and lost his balance, falling on his ass on the floor as Stavros got up and stood over him, laughing as he held a small tape recorder. He hit a button and Elias’s voice filled the room.

  Random phrases. But despite what Tek had hoped, Elias hadn’t been the one fucking him, telling him he loved him. He should have known better, but to a drowning man like him, any lifeline was better than none, right?

  Stavros dropped on one knee beside Tek and grabbed at his dress, pulling it, tearing it. “Our friend would never love you, you know that right? He wants a man, Tek, not someone who desperately wishes to be a woman.”

  He knew that. The shame was hot and all-encompassing, eating him alive. Tek dropped his gaze.

  Stavros got to his feet and caught Tek’s cheek, bringing his gaze back to him. “Tell me.”

  “I’m not a man,” Tek whispered. “He will never love me.” He clung to Stavros, hugging his thigh, looking at him, through the wig, tears falling.

  “Why won’t he love you?” Stavros lifted an eyebrow.

  The words stuck in Tek’s throat, lodged there along with the tears that just wouldn’t stop falling. The emotion he just couldn’t stop feeling. “I’m nothing. Trash. I deserve to be treated like the garbage I am.” It was the truth. The reason he courted danger like this, letting faceless men run up in him with no protection. The reason he didn’t safeguard himself. He needed to be used and discarded.

  “Now. Now.” Stavros smiled at him and held out a hand to Bruce. Tek’s heart rate kicked up when he saw the needle, and he almost smiled. “I don’t treat you like garbage, do I?” Stavros’s tone went lower, soothing as he patted the top of Tek’s head. “I take care of you.” He held up the needle. “I give you what you need.”

  Tek nodded. “Yes.” He licked his lips, drooling. He wanted that needle. Needed it so bad, and Stavros gave it to him. The prick was barely felt, but he moaned anyway, head falling forward.

  Already the fire was spreading through his veins and he was only dimly aware of dropping to the floor, of the fingers crammed into his ass, the dick in his throat. He wasn’t aware of anything but Elias, touching his face, smiling down at him, and telling him he loved him.

  Stavros was a liar.

  Because Tek could hear him saying it. He could hear Elias.

  “I love you.”

  He smiled as the darkness swallowed him before he could respond, but Tek bet Elias already knew. “I love you, too.”

  Chapter Two

  The noise was only the branches of the tree outside his window brushing up against the side of the house, but Quinn couldn’t go back to bed.

  Not that he’d been asleep. He’d been laying atop the covers in the darkness, gazing up at the ceiling. The sound had made his heart lurch in his chest and he’d immediately pulled the handgun from his nightstand, fingers ice cold and trembling.

  Now, he sat on the floor, knees hugged his chest with his back against the wall, facing the bedroom doorway, the gun on the floor next to him. He shook so badly his teeth rattled. Fear was the most powerful thing he’d ever felt, it took his breath, his mind, his movements. And no matter how hard he tried, fear never left him alone. Years had come and gone, but fear—his old trusted companion—was right beside him. Never leaving him alone.

  Sometimes, he had panic with him. Paranoia, too. The reason Quinn was on leave from his job as an EMT. He couldn’t function, couldn’t focus. Everything scared him. He hated who he was, what he’d become.

  He held a hand out without looking, feeling around until he touched the cool, smooth barrel of the gun. The weapon had been one of the first things he’d made sure to get when he moved to Atlanta. His gated Sandy Springs community was safe, but he’d thought he was safe before. He’d thought he was immune before. He couldn’t afford to be that naïve again.

  Quinn picked up the gun and stretched his legs out, examining the Glock. Until he’d been violated he hadn’t been much of a weapons person. He’d never allowed it in the home he’d shared with the man he thought he’d grow old with. The first time Quinn touched a gun, he hyperventilated. But he’d stuck with it, taking the lessons necessary to protect himself.

  He didn’t know if he could, though. The fear choking him was too much, never ending, unrelenting.

  He brought the gun up, put it to his temple, finger on the trigger.

  Inside his chest, his heart slowed its beating, getting sluggish as blood rushed in his ear. A thundering. He wanted escape, from the fear and the pain and the memories. Even in his sleep they came for him, the men, dragging him out of bed by the ankles, cutting away his clothes with knives as big as swords. Violating him so thoroughly he couldn’t stand to look at his body.

  The gun’s muzzle touched his temple and a whimper fell from his trembling lips. Escape. That was what he wanted. He didn’t know peace, not anymore. He didn’t know himself, not since that night. He saw himself drowning, but refused to call out for help. All he wanted was an ease to the suffering.

  Maybe the Glock would be his escape. The weapon was loaded. All he had to do was put some pressure on the trigger. Squeeze down. It would be over. He’d be at peace.

  Would anyone miss him?

  His parents had passed away while he was in college and he had no siblings. Sure he had some distant cousins or something somewhere, but no, they wouldn’t know he was gone. They probably didn’t even know he was alive.

  Would his ex-husband know Quinn was gone? Xavier had kept the distance Quinn put between them. It wasn’t as if he didn’t love the man he’d promised to honor and obey. Wasn’t as if he didn’t still mourn that loss profoundly. But just thinking about Xavier Storm brought up the faces of the men who’d hurt Quinn beyond measure. His husband’s family. Xavier’s flesh and blood.

  They killed Quinn that day, stole his life, his reason for living. His relationship. And now, he was just a shell, a fucking wraith looking for a way to end it all permanently.

  He’d tried. Oh yeah, he’d tried once. Swallowing some sleeping pills, but all he managed to do was throw up all over himself then pass out for the better half of a day.

  Couldn’t even do that right.

  He heard the voices taunting him, telling him he wasn’t a man. They’d wanted him to leave Xavier, because their love was wrong and sick, and they wanted him to walk away. But that Quinn could never do. He loved Xavier Storm, loved that man beyond reason and understanding. He’d been stubborn and sure those bastards would see reason.

  His arm ached from being held up for so long. He ignored it, eve
n though his eyes burned.

  Quinn missed himself. His happy, alive self. A day didn’t go by that he didn’t mourn that man, that life. This life? He wanted to leave it behind. Would Xavier hate him for taking this way out? He’d be disappointed, Quinn knew that. Xavier always wanted to fix things, always wanted to take away Quinn’s burdens. This wasn’t something he could erase, though for a little while after Quinn had hoped he could. He’d hoped Xavier’s presence would wipe away the horrific events, but every time he looked at his husband, Quinn saw their faces. The faces of the men who used a flashlight to show him what they thought about his sexuality.

  He’d given up on trying to get over it and Xavier let him give up, never trying to stop him when Quinn packed his bags and left. He wouldn’t have stayed if Xavier had asked, they both knew that. They lived like that, married but apart, for years until divorce papers came in the mail with a little note from Xavier on a yellow post-it.

  I will always, always love you. Let me set you free.

  To this day he didn’t know why he’d stalled for so long, why he cried every time he pulled out those papers from his desk and picked up a pen. He didn’t know why his heart cracked and broke into a million pieces every time he thought about signing his name on that document. He just knew he couldn’t. So he didn’t, and Xavier never called him on it.

  He didn’t call period, respecting Quinn’s plea of no contact.

  The gun trembled at his temple, grazing Quinn’s skin again. Reminding him of what he was doing. The anticipated bliss of freedom and escape flooded his mouth with saliva. He could do it. End it. Take his power back. He’d been powerless for so long, floating for so long. What would it take for him to be free?

  This.

  The gun wavered.

  Just this.

  Do it.

  The words he heard whispered in his ear weren’t his own. They belonged to his attackers. He’d never told Xavier this part, never told him they’d taken his numb fingers, twitching from the pain of their assault, and forced it around the handle of a gun, as they’d whispered those words to him.

  Do it. Squeeze it. End it.

  He’d listened, wanting to escape, wanting to hide. He’d used the last of his strength and pressed the trigger. He hadn’t even flinched at that hollow click.

  Empty. It had been empty, no bullets, and they’d laughed at him as he cried then. The first time he’d cried since they’d broken into his home. He’d cried because it was at that moment he realized there’d be no escape.

  None.

  He’d been right. Now, with the gun pressed to his temple, this time of his own free will, Quinn couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do the one thing guaranteed to end his suffering, his pain, the nightmares.

  A sob tore from his throat and he tossed the gun away. It dropped to the carpet with a muted sound.

  Coward. He was such a fucking coward. He buried his face in his hands. His failure once again meant another night spent right here on the floor, rocking back and forth, trying to outlast the night and his memories.

  They’d been right. The men who’d destroyed him had been right. He was a bitch, not a man at all. Maybe he’d deserved it, maybe this was where he was meant to be, flat on his ass, sobbing into the darkness while those insidious voices taunted him.

  They’d show him what a real man was. They’d give him what faggots like him deserved.

  “Faggot. Faggot,” he muttered the words as he reached for the thin branch he’d picked from one of the trees outside. The last time he’d used it, he’d dropped it to the floor and it had slipped under the bed. As long as his arm and about three times smaller, it had become his favorite thing.

  He lashed himself with it, his upper thighs, crying out at that first strike. It hurt, made his eyes water, but he didn’t stop.

  “Faggot. Faggot.” He closed his eyes, but didn’t stop hitting himself, distributing the blows from one thigh to the other. “Gonna show you how to be a man. Take it like a man.”

  He did, he took it. Unrelenting, hot tears running down his face. He knew what he did to himself was wrong. He knew he needed help. He knew a lot of things, but he didn’t know how to stop this. How to get a good night’s sleep or how to quit blaming himself for what happened to him.

  Quinn whipped himself until his arm just stopped moving from sheer exhaustion. His head bowed and he opened his swollen eyelids. The room was dark enough that he didn’t see the damage he’d done to his skin, but he touched the hot, raw flesh with a fingertip, traced the marks. He’d see them soon enough come morning. He’d hate himself, but he’d do it again.

  The agony clouded his mind, lulled him under, so he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Maybe there’d be no nightmares tonight.

  But he knew better.

  ****

  Tek woke to his phone ringing. He lay on the floor where he’d fallen asleep. No one else was round. He got to his feet, dazed, and staggered to the bathroom where he’d stashed his regular clothes. He retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket and answered.

  “Yeah?” His voice was beyond rusty.

  “Tek, that you, my yout?”

  He cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah, Is. What’s up?”

  “I’m headed out of town,” his friend, Israel Storm, said. He didn’t sound happy about it either. “To lay low in a cabin for a few days,” he grumbled. “Out of sight of the Russian trying to kill me.”

  Israel was the leader of the Jamaican group, the Rude Boys, out of Queens. He’d recently been in a tug of war with the Russians in Coney Island. He’d ended up in the hospital for a few days with a concussion and other shit. “You good?”

  “Fuck no, but whatever.” Someone spoke in the background, likely Israel’s best friend Reggie. “I need you to head to Atlanta,” Israel said. “Mackie’s gonna give you what he owes me.”

  “Okay. I’ll head out in a few hours.” He could use the trip to clear his head, consider his options.

  “Keep me in the loop.” Then Israel was gone.

  Tek put the phone down and faced the mirror finally. His wig was askew. Makeup smudged. Mascara was all over his face. He bared his teeth and grimaced. Lipstick was in his teeth. He’d lost the heels, but the garter and stocking remained although the stocking was torn in a few places. He slumped over the sink.

  Fuck. He checked his phone. A missed call from his mother.

  He knew what she wanted and it was impossible.

  Everything was fucking impossible.

  He tore off the garter and stockings and stepped into the shower. Washing away last night and Jennifer. He’d put back on the black t-shirt and leather jacket, the jeans and the boots, and he’d be Tek again.

  Step back into the old familiar. People liked familiar, they liked what they could understand. No one would love him when they couldn’t understand why he did what he did, why he was the way he was.

  Hell, he didn’t even love himself.

  Chapter Three

  Quinn came awake to the sound of the grounds crew’s leaf blower outside his window. He blinked then groaned when he tried to move his legs. They hurt. Fuck they hurt. He took deep breaths and fisted his hands against the beige carpet, trying to find the strength to rise to his feet.

  He shook his head. A mess, he was a mess. No escaping that. No sir. He moved slowly, incrementally until he was hunched but on his feet. His legs trembled under his weight and the pain.

  Jesus.

  He took two steps and almost collapsed. Thank God the bed was right there so he fell onto it, face first, then crawled on fully, breathing heavy, chest burning. His thighs throbbed, hurting even more with every brush against the sheets. He moaned, using a shaking hand to cover his mouth.

  You need help.

  No one could help him.

  No one.

  He lay on his back, eyes closed as he tried to calm himself. He had stuff in the medicine cabinet to put on the welts on his thighs, but that required getting up and making his way to t
he bathroom.

  Wasn’t happening.

  Instead he stayed there and let the tears turn his vision hazy again. He listened to the drone of voices of the workers outside and the noise of their equipment as his tears ran across the sides of his face and into the pillows. This was his life now, until the day he finally gathered the courage to end it.

  His phone rang, the house phone, making his body jerk in surprise. He hissed and gritted his teeth, ignoring the phone as it rang and rang. Dealing with people wasn’t on his agenda anytime soon. The ringing was loud, echoing through the empty house then it stopped.

  Then rang again.

  “Fuck.” He rolled to his side and grabbed the cordless off the base. “Yes?”

  “Hey man, it’s Low. Are you okay?” The hesitance in Lowell Scott’s voice stung. His friend and former work partner was the only person Quinn spoke to at all these days.

  “Low, yeah.” Quinn cleared his throat and mustered up a tone that didn’t hint at what he’d been doing or where he was in his head. “Still in bed, luxuriating. You know I hardly get to do that.”

  He’d been using work as a distraction, doing as much as he could, as much as his supervisors allowed, in order to keep his mind busy and off his demons.

  “I know.” Low chuckled. “Listen, I just wanted to check in, see if you need anything.”

  “Nah, I’m good. Trying to rest.” Quinn shifted and a shot of pain in his thighs made his breath catch. Fuck again. “Gonna take the time to rest, you know. Take care of myself.” He’d asked for the time off when he’d lost his mind in the middle of transporting an elderly man to the hospital. The guy had been weaving through traffic on Georgia 10 East, drunk off his ass, and gotten hit by a MARTA bus.

  The man, Freddy Meeks, hadn’t been too badly hurt to spout his vitriol while lying strapped on a gurney in the back of Quinn’s ambulance. Freddy went off on the Black people committing crimes in his neighborhood and the sissies—his words—who were fighting to have the same rights as everyone else. As Quinn sat in the back with him while his female partner drove, he’d fallen right back in time, hearing those words about how sick gay people were, how they deserved to be taught a lesson, raped, killed off.