Bayani is stumpedas to what type of ice cream he should get for John and regrets not asking before he left. He’s finally narrowed it down to Black Jack Cherry or Cookies ‘n Cream when a sudden presence behind him raises the hair on the back of his neck.
“Hello, Bayani.”
That voice… it slithers up Bayani’s spine and grabs him by the throat, choking him into unwilling submission. Bayani is immobilized by his own fear and dread, and so, he freezes, like prey.
“Miss me?” Emile hisses in his ear. “I missed you, babydoll.”
Trembling, just barely clinging to the groceries in his arms, Bayani turns to find Emile with one hand laid flat against the glass door, confining Bayani with his body while gazing down at him with a smug smile. Emile frowns and runs his thumb along one of Bayani’s scars.
“Look at you,” he reproaches. “That knife really did a number on your face. Well, I warned you what would happen if you ran away. I had to make my point, didn’t I?”
Bayani, for once, is thankful that he cannot speak, doesn’t think he could form the words even if his tongue was intact, so great is his horror. He should run away as fast as he can, straight into John’s arms, but his legs are like stone, stuck and unmoving.
“I’m sure we could find a plastic surgeon to fix your face,” Emile continues, “though I’m not sure there’s anything we can do about your tongue. Perhaps it’s a blessing. You know how I hated hearing the word ‘no’ from your pretty lips.”
Emile smiles again and drags his icy fingers over the shape of Bayani’s face as if trying to curse him. Bayani pulls back, wishing he could do more than just that small act of rebellion.
“Still spirited, I see. Bruised but not broken. To be honest, I’m shocked you survived our last encounter, babydoll. You made Daddy very angry. Tell me, what does that big, bad butcher make you do to earn your keep? Does he bend you over and fuck your dirty little hole like the animal you are?”
Bayani glares and shakes his head, not wanting Emile to poison what he and John share.
“No? Don’t your mouth and hole still work? What other use would he have for a mutilated boy who cannot speak? He can’t possibly have that much dirty laundry to keep you busy, unless…” Emile sneers and leans closer, “Does he also like to get nasty with you? You are a verythirstyboy.”
Bayani’s eyes sting at Emile’s cruel taunting. Even when Emile got him off, it wasn’t without some measure of humiliation. Emile used to make Bayani lie very still, and with a razor blade, would divvy up lines of cocaine on his skin. It scared Bayani, especially when Emile pressed too hard with the blade and cut him. He never gave any of the drugs to Bayani because Emile didn’t want his senses dulled in the slightest. Bayani is thankful for that in retrospect, but Emile was even stingy with the aspirin, wanting Bayani to feel every ounce of pain and discomfort.
“Despite all of that, I still want you,” Emile says with some regret. “None of the other boys satisfy me the way you do. None of them cry so prettily when I come inside them, and their fear isn’t nearly as potent. You’re like a drug, Bayani. You make me feel alive.”
If Bayani cried, it wasn’t with pleasure, but with relief that the torment was over. He takes a small step backward, and his shoulder blades knock against the glass doors of the freezer. Emile advances, pressing his body flush against Bayani’s to let his arousal be known. Nausea churns in Bayani’s stomach, and he tastes the acidic burn of bile at the back of his throat.
“I missed you, Bayani. I promise I won’t hurt you, not like the last time, not if you’re nice. I want us to put the past behind us and start fresh. I’ve bought some pretty things for you to wear for me, and after you make it up to me, we can order room service. I’ll treat you like a prince, baby boy. Whatever you want, Daddy will provide. My car is waiting for us outside. All you have to do is walk out there with me.”
Bayani is not persuaded by Emile’s empty promises or his sickly sweet words–he’s heard it all before–but going with Emile would at least keep John out of trouble. But he’d hate for John to think he chose this for himself, that hechoseEmile. And besides that, he can’t leave John. Being separated from the big man would surely break him, and he promised John he wouldn’t run. Bayani edges to the side, knowing Emile will force him if he fights, but maybe he can still get away.
“No?” Emile sneers. “Tsk, tsk, Bayani, you know how I feel about that word.” He grabs Bayani’s cheeks and squeezes until it’s painful, until it feels as though his jaw might crack from the pressure. “Let me tell you what I’m going to do to that dumb brute of yours.” Emile flicks open his knife, the same one he used to carve up Bayani’s face. “I’ll peel off his skin in ribbons and pluck out his eyes, then amputate his appendages a little at a time. I’ll keep him alive for weeks just to torture him longer. And I’ll make you watch. And once I’ve chopped him up into tiny, bite-sized pieces, I’ll feed him to you like you’re one of my father’s dogs. I’ll put you in a cage, Bayani, and I’ll keep you in there, rolling around in your own piss and shit until you’ve forgotten even your own name and all you can do is–”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” George, the grocery store owner, appears suddenly at the end of the aisle. His face is stormy, fists raised.
Bayani emits a small, keening noise, the sound of an animal dying, and Emile says to George sharply, “Back off, hombre, this doesn’t concern you.” He twirls his knife casually. The blade catches the light and Bayani’s heart lodges itself in his throat.
Please, God, don’t let him hurt George.
“If you’re in my store it sure as shit concerns me,” George bellows and takes a step closer. Bayani prays that George won’t engage any further with Emile. Emile will cut the man like it’s nothing and leave him bleeding out on the floor. Bayani’s tempted to go with Emile if it means preventing George from getting hurt, but he can’t.He can’t.
Emile shoves himself away from Bayani so forcefully that the back of Bayani’s head knocks against the freezer door. Emile adjusts himself lewdly and thankfully, pockets his knife. Emile says with a soft sibilance so that only Bayani can hear, “I’m going to be the one running the show soon, and then there will be no one to protect you or your little house hubby. I like to play games, Bayani, but I don’t think you’ll like the ones I have in mind.” Emile turns to George then and says with an icy politeness, “Emile Fournier. Ask around about me. It’s a nice little place you have here. It’d be a shame if this building of yours suddenly went up in flames. Insurance doesn’t cover arson.”
Emile blows Bayani a kiss, then struts out of the store like he owns it, heels clicking in an all-too-familiar staccato rhythm that shuttles Bayani back to the warehouse basement where he was held captive and tortured for days. Bayani sinks down to the floor as echoes of trauma wrack his body–wrists raw from the cuffs, his body bruised and bleeding. He hears the clanking of the chains and Emile’s unhinged laughter above the sounds of his own tearful cries. He remembers the obliterating fear that Emile wouldn’t stop, would just keep hurting him until his body gave out completely. Bayani knows what Emile is capable of, knows without a doubt that he will follow through on his threats and worse.
Somewhere in this living nightmare, George asks if he’s okay, but Bayani isnotokay, cannot see anything clearly, cannot catch his breath or formulate his next thought. He is overwhelmed with the terror that Emile will hurt John. Emile will hurt John to punish Bayani.
Not if, but when.
11
JOHN
John receivesa call to his cell as he’s finishing up in the meat locker, not a number he recognizes, which always sets his teeth on edge. “This is John,” he answers brusquely.
“John, it’s George from Grocery King down the street. Your boy is here. There was an incident.”
