Games Boys Play (14 page)

The ice maker chucked fresh cubes into the freezer bin.

He tried to blank his mind, concentrate on his breathing, maybe even fall asleep. He closed his eyes one more time—and the first thing he saw behind his eyelids was Dylan’s face in profile, his eyes shut, his lips slightly parted. He hated to wipe that image from his mind, but that was dangerous stuff. He did not need to develop a crush on his cousin, at least not anything more than the platonic crush he’d had since he’d set eyes on teenage Dylan Denault, an ashtray threatening to spill over on his nightstand, motocross magazines half shoved under his bed. That battered, age-yellowed guitar leaning against a stereo speaker, one of its tuning knobs missing. That was the Dylan he needed to keep in mind: his
stepcousin.

He was still wide-awake when the skin behind his ears pulled tight at the distant jingle of keys.

Quickly he turned his face toward the wall.

From the other room came the sound of someone quietly stepping inside.

He tried to mimic the slow, shallow breathing of sleep, tried to relax into the pillow and mattress.

The floor creaked under the shift of weight. The footsteps entered the kitchen. The fridge door—or maybe the freezer—opened, then closed.

As the sound of boot heels came back around and headed past the hall closet, he snapped his eyes shut.

The bedroom door creaked lightly as it was pushed open.

Through his eyelids, he could sense a light moving across the wall in front of him. He tried to remember to breathe, slowly.

Soft steps moved from hard floor to rug and stopped next to the bed. Seconds ticked by. His throat tightened. His skin itched.

Easy breaths. Easy breaths
—The barrel of the gun kissed the back of his head gently, a tickle, then with growing pressure, until his fingers started to close into a fist, clutching the sheet.

“I’m back,” came the whisper.

His shoulders tingled from the sensation of someone just behind him. He cracked his eyes open. A shaft of light spilled across his face and pillow.

“Roll over.” The gun nudged.

When he didn’t move: “Don’t fuck around. I know you’re awake.”

Slowly he turned under the covers, blinking against the beam of the intruder’s flashlight.

The gun poked his cheekbone, the metal warm against his skin. The barrel still smelled like ignited flash powder. He wondered what it tasted like and closed his eyes for a moment as he swallowed thickly.

“Remember me?”

He nodded, squinting against the flashlight’s beam.

“You’re still off their list.” The bed dipped as the intruder put his knee on it. “But I just can’t let go. Something’s been eating at me.”

Brian shaded his eyes with his right hand.

“That first time,” the intruder said, “when I had to run out. I came back later. Did you know that?”

“That light’s kind of bright.”

“I know you didn’t go to the cops.” The gun barrel traced up the side of his face. “But why is that? That has me wondering too. Lots of things to wonder about. Turn on that lamp.”

He got up on an elbow and stretched across to the nightstand, the covers slipping down his bare side as he pushed the switch on the lamp’s base.

The flashlight clicked off.

“Roll over.”

When he didn’t move fast enough, the intruder grabbed his right arm out from under him. It didn’t hurt, and it was a short drop onto his mattress, his hips and stomach hitting first. The intruder twisted his arm behind him, bringing a knee over to straddle the backs of his thighs. He was on his bed, and he was about to be tied up. His mouth went dry as the intruder dragged his hand through a plastic loop. A soft zipping sound came, the cable tie snugging around his wrist, capturing him. He turned his face into the pillow, hiding the flush across his cheeks as his other hand was brought behind him and forced through a second loop.

Another soft
ziiip
and it was done; his hands were held together behind him with just two loops of plastic. He tried to pull and twist free as the intruder grasped his upper arm. “Get up.”

It was awkward from a prone position. His legs tangled in the sheets. He as much rolled off as climbed out, winding up on his knees, trying with his bound hands to straighten the elastic waistband that had gotten twisted around his waist. There was no hiding the effect this had on him—with no underwear to restrain it, his cock pushed thick and heavy against the thin fabric of his chill pants.

He wished he’d thought that out better.

“Up. Come on.”

The intruder hauled him to his feet by one arm and pushed him forward, through the bedroom door, snapping on lights as they went. At the dining table, the intruder hooked a chair and carried it with them.

He stopped Brian in the living room, set the chair down, let his pack slide off one shoulder onto the floor. He made Brian straddle the chair, his stomach against the seat back.

He needed a discography, though, something to get his mind off what was going on.

Instead he watched the intruder draw a coil of rope from the pack.

He cleared his throat. “So, they’re not going to show up this time either?” Whoever
they
were.

“Fuck them,” the intruder said quietly, turning to Brian with the coil in his fist. He grasped Brian’s chin, forcing him to look up.

Leather and tobacco flooded his nostrils. He was hit with a perverse urge to stick out his tongue and lick slowly along the edge of the glove while meeting those eyes, see if they widened a little in surprise or narrowed in disgust. He licked his lip instead and quickly pulled his tongue back in.

“I had such a good time here before, I figured I’d come back on my own time for some more fun.” His grip tightened, fingers digging against Brian’s lower jaw. “That, and to get answers to some questions.” He let go and began tying Brian against the back of the chair, passing the rope around him, taking care to make sure each wind lay alongside the previous, no messy crossing over.

Brian’s breathing shallowed as he wondered if Dylan had done this before, and with whom. And when. And how often.

The intruder jammed a finger between Brian and the ropes, checking the tightness before tying the ends off.

Brian struggled against the rope’s hold, his sternum digging into the edge of the chair back—he’d lay money on ending up with a bruise there by the time the night was out.

Every breath pressed his ribs against the chair.

The intruder crouched to dig through his backpack.

“So,” Brian said. “So what would have happened if they
had
shown up like they were supposed to?”

Without looking back, the intruder said, “They’d have slipped you out of here, dumped you in the trunk of their car, and you’d have…”

“What?” He hung on that unfinished sentence.
He’d have
what?

“Disappeared like the others.”

Brian swallowed, picturing it: blindfolded, hard fingers jamming into his ribs, digging into his armpits and the backs of his knees as he was dumped into a trunk, the lid slamming closed, the engine starting up. He squirmed, but squirming didn’t help thwart the thrill building inside him. Dry-mouthed, he asked, “So what happens now instead?”

The intruder looked over his shoulder. “You know, I don’t remember you talking so much before.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I remember why too.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t?” He came to his feet, turning. “Did you just say ‘don’t’? ’Cause that’s what I just heard. Tell me that’s not what you said.”

“Please don’t.”

“Relax.” He petted Brian’s hair. “I’m not gagging you yet. I want to hear the sounds you make first.”

Before he could say
The sounds I make when?
the intruder’s chin was against his jaw, the ski mask scratchy against his ear as he spoke: “That threat about the piss and dirty socks—do you remember that one?—that still stands, got me? So any sounds you make, they’ll need to be quiet ones.” He gripped Brian’s neck. “I like quiet sounds.”

Watching him walk back to the bag, Brian said, his voice rasping, “The sounds I make when?”

“When I hurt you.”

Closing his eyes, he swallowed. And swallowed again. When he pulled his eyes open, the intruder was rising from the bag, turning toward him with another fistful of rope. He needed a drink of water. He needed to get up. His tongue was thick in his mouth. His chest tightened as the intruder lifted his wrists behind him, stretching his arms taut, and secured them, pulled as far back as they’d go. The position forced his chest harder against the chair’s back.

He could do nothing as the intruder lifted both ankles and tied them high behind him. The seat’s hard edges bit into his inner thighs as he tried to pull away from the light trace of gloved fingers up his bare shoulder.

The push of fingers up into his hair.

“You remember that word, right?” He used Brian’s hair to draw his head back so Brian was looking up at him.

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s see if you’re going to need it this time.” He came around to stand in front of him, lifting Brian’s chin with a finger. “You don’t get to get away with slipping free and taking off on me like you did.” He pushed Brian’s chin up another notch, holding it, saying nothing before removing his finger.

Brian had time to take half a breath before the intruder’s open palm smacked him across the face.

So busy wondering what kind of harm Dylan would work up to, he hadn’t seen that coming. A sting prickled his skin. His mouth hung open for a second until he got hold of himself, thrusting his jaw up and narrowing his eyes at the intruder.

“How’d you get free the first time?”

“Fuck you.”

Smack!

The force turned his head. He jerked against the rope holding his wrists, his cheek burning with shame. He’d never been slapped by a man—and only by women in jest. And now twice in under a minute. He wanted to knock Dylan to the ground and punch him.

He glared, his lips drawn back from his teeth.

“How’d you get free?” the intruder asked.

“Fuck. You.”

Smack!

With his head turned to the side again, he touched his tongue to the corner of his mouth. He jerked his body, tried to break his wrists free.

The plastic loops bit into his skin.

The intruder grabbed his face with both hands, bending forward to stare into his eyes. “How did you get free?”

“I told you: Fu—” A hand clamped over his open mouth, grinding his lips into his teeth. Cigarette smoke and leather assaulted his tongue. The intruder came around the back of him, hugging Brian’s head against his shoulder so Brian couldn’t shake free of his grip.

Then he reached down and grabbed Brian’s nipple. Hard.

Brian yelped against the glove.

The hand on his chest moved to his forehead, lying there like a mother’s checking for a fever.

“
Fuh
.” His teeth rubbed against the glove over his mouth. He panted through his nostrils.

“How’d you get free?”

He tried to shake his head.

At the first touch of the glove on his chest again, he moaned, the leather a whisper against his skin, stirring a confusion of desire and panic.

Gritting his teeth, he braced himself.

“How’d you get free?”

He shook his head again.

The fingers clamped down, twisting, the pain driving straight toward his groin, becoming something else along the way, something demanding and carnal. His thigh muscles tightened, his body trying to buck forward against the chair’s back.

The twist deepened, the pain searing. It came edged with fear: could you rip a nipple off? A distant whine reached his ears, like a teakettle just starting to whistle; he realized it was coming through his nostrils.

“How’d you get free?”
Twist.

“A frien’! A frien’!”

The pain deepened the moment the intruder let go, before receding in pulses—each throb echoing in his cock, urgent and needy.

The intruder’s hand came away from his mouth, giving him air, which he sucked down in gulps.

“Say it again.”

He was breathless. Dizzy. “A friend came by,” he managed.

“Which friend? What’s his name?”

“Maybe it was a her.” He gulped, closing his eyes. His muscles ached, from his chest through his shoulders and upper arms.

“Maybe it was. Either way, he/she had a name. Let’s hear what it was.”

“Fuck you.” His voice sounded like he’d been half strangled.

The intruder snaked his arm around Brian’s neck, like a hug, sliding his hand slowly along Brian’s jaw, across his cheek, clamping over his mouth.

He turned his face away, but the hand stayed with it, gripping his jaw.

His chest heaved in anticipation. He stared at the blinds at the balcony door, drawn closed, hiding what was going on in his apartment.

The intruder twisted his nipple, and Brian cried out against the glove. He jerked his head, trying to throw the hand off his face.

The intruder just hugged their heads hard together and applied more pressure.

His ankles fought against the ropes holding them up.

“I’m asking for a name.” The intruder’s mouth was so near that the mask rasped against the stubble on Brian’s cheek. He could feel hot, moist breath through the fabric.

He gave a quick, short shake of his head. Tobacco and leather and sweat pressed harder against his mouth, jamming his lips against his teeth.

Another twist came. He tried to shake his mouth out from under the glove so he could yell out for help.

“Jim, Joe, Jenny,” the intruder said. “Names are easy. Who got you out of the chair?”

He tried to bite. His teeth slipped across the leather. A groan filled his mouth as the intruder’s thumb and finger clamped down harder.

He gritted his teeth, his eyes clenched shut.

A rough rub from the intruder’s palm brought another groan from him—and then his breath was stopped in his throat by the fresh pain of another hard twist.

A high, small sound started to climb from him.

“What’s the name?”

He shook his shoulders, trying to get loose.

Twist. Muffled cry. “
Name
.”