Heart (6 page)

Stupidly, Dex resisted and jerked away.

Irritation colored his assailant’s features. “Come ’ere, boy.”

Dex clenched his fists. “Fuck off.”

The man narrowed his eyes. Dex braced himself for the inevitable blow, wondering if the man would keep to the agreement and spare his face. Not that he cared. What difference did it make to him?

The punch never came. Instead, softer hands grasped his face and turned his head, and he found himself staring into the eyes of one of the younger men in the room. Clean-shaven, with scruffy, sandy brown hair, he wasn’t bad-looking for a gorjer.

“Let me have a look at him before you fuck him up,” the new man said.

“Squeamish, George?”

“No,” George replied. “I just don’t share your fetish for blood. Let me have him first, then you can do what you want.”

The first man grunted and ambled back to the card game. George grasped Dex’s arm and towed him from the room and back into the corridor. Once out of sight of the other men, he untied his hands.

“Don’t even think of giving me lip. One move, and I’ll throw you to the wolves.”

That fate seemed inevitable, but Dex held his tongue and let George take him into a side room that turned out to be a fully fitted bedroom, kitted out with a huge bed and various sexual paraphernalia.

Dex eyed the whips and chains as George shut the door behind them, went to the bed, and took his watch off. George was going to fuck him, he knew that already, but how? The other men were going to break him, of that he was certain, but George seemed different. The question was, how different?

George appeared beside him. He put his hands flat on Dex’s bare torso, each palm unmoving on either side of his ribcage. “You shouldn’t antagonize them, you know. Do what they say, and it’ll be over quicker.”

Dex kept his head down, assuming a response would give George the chance to prove his point. When he didn’t speak, George sighed and began undoing his trousers. “Have it your way, kid. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He stripped Dex of his remaining clothes and pulled him over to the bed. He sat on the edge and gestured to his open jeans. “Go down on me.”

Dex sank to his knees, ignoring the rough imprint of wiry carpet, and tuned out, staying aware enough only to hold steady enough not to fall flat on his face. Blowjobs were easy, painless, and quick, if he didn’t feel a need to draw them out to avoid something else. He’d never understood the attraction until Seb had taken him in his mouth that night.

Seb’s clean, soft bed at his back, his big, warm hands on his body, and the hot, wet heat of his mouth on his cock….

The door to the room opened and shut a few times, but Dex didn’t bother to glance up. At worst, being used by Braden’s clients was agonizing. One time, it had hurt so much he’d thrown up on his feet, but this… this was nothing. His mind drifted, and despite his best efforts, took him back yet again to his brief time with Seb. He wondered, as he so often did, what Seb was doing right now. Cooking, perhaps, but Dex doubted it. It was late, and it was October. Seb had often told him how quiet the shop got later in the year.

Maybe he was sleeping, or sharing his bed. Dex tried to picture him with another man, sucking him, fucking him, doing all the things they’d done together that night, but he couldn’t do it, the image wouldn’t come. Instead, it morphed into a bittersweet memory where Dex screamed in pleasure and his vision turned white.

George ruffled Dex’s hair. “All done.”

Dex closed his eyes, willing the image of Seb to come back. It didn’t, and in the back of his mind, he was glad of it. His memories of Seb were his most precious thing. They deserved better than this. Better than
him
.

George moved away. Dex heard him getting dressed but didn’t bother to move. What was the point? George was just the first of many.

He expected George to leave without a word, but he didn’t. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and fixed Dex with a stare that made him squirm.

“I don’t know what they’ve got in store for you, but that lot are a nasty bunch. Keep your head down and your mouth shut, got it? They’ll fuck you up if you fight them and have you that way instead.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Not yet. I’m going to try win my money back, but I’ll get you some scotch, okay? Drink it if you can. Probably best you don’t remember this.”

Eight

G
EORGE
’
S
OMINOUS
words proved fair warning. The bottle of scotch he slipped under the mattress helped too. Dex drank from it throughout the night, when he wasn’t shackled, and by the time the sun rose, he was intoxicated enough to block out much of what happened. The whiskey didn’t numb the pain, but it did help him forget to feel.

He woke in the van sometime the next day, shivering and with a vicious hacking cough from the cold. Cautiously, he crawled out of the van, but there was no one around to watch him run, naked and bloodied, across the yard to his caravan. Inside, he searched out his paltry supply of clothes, glad he’d washed them in the river a few days before. The sweatshirt was still damp, but without his coat, it would have to do.

When he was dressed, he set about completing the chores expected of him, no matter the events of the night before. He’d just finished the horses when his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten in days. Exhausted and aching, he limped back to the caravan, weighing up the chances of Braden feeling charitable enough to pass him some food. It didn’t look good. Such occasions were rare, and his other options were limited: steal some, or hunt down his own in the woods.

Stealing was tempting. He often took the blame for the thievery of others, so why not do it anyway? At least he’d go down with a full belly. But Dex couldn’t do it. Not today. He was battered enough. Briefly, he thought of the crumpled ten-pound notes buried beneath the caravan. It wasn’t much, but it would buy some food, at least. Shame he wasn’t allowed in the local shops.

That left hunting, but it was a day or so before Dex saw his chance. Then, under the cover of darkness, he crept into the woods, retrieved his snares from a disused badger set, and trod silently through the trees, searching for signs of rabbits or hares. On his way, he found blackberries and wild watercress, and later, a promising patch of damp moss. He dropped to his knees, crawled closer, and felt around in the dark. His hands found the rubbery, papery skin of a jackpot. Mushrooms. Some were deadly, but these were good to eat. Dex stuffed one greedily into his mouth, set a snare for a rabbit, and settled at the foot of a tree in a small clearing to wait for the rest of his dinner to make itself known. After a while, his eyes grew heavy. The dark, secluded woods were far safer than the site, and despite the cold, he soon fell asleep.

The plaintive whinny of a distressed horse woke him sometime later. Startled, he uncurled himself from his damp, uncomfortable nest. The horses on the site weren’t treated well, and he often slept with an ear open in case they needed him. He listened hard for a moment, but heard nothing more. Irritated, he shook himself. His spot in the woods was three miles from the site—too far to hear the horses there.
Maybe that john really did kick my brains in last night….

He stretched, feeling the burning throb of bruises all over his sore body, and got to his feet. He picked his way over the ground to check his snare. He was a foot away when he heard the call of the horse again. He froze, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. So deep in the woods, he had to be hearing things.

He had to be.

The undergrowth rustled. A muffled shout pierced the air. Dex’s heart jumped into his throat. He wasn’t supposed to be out here. No one watched him to be sure he didn’t leave the site, but they didn’t need to. Even when he took a chance and slipped away to forage, he always went back. Where else would he go?

He swallowed a cough and backed away from the fast-approaching footsteps, knowing he should leave his snares behind and run back to the site. Whoever he could hear, he didn’t want to get in their way, but the renewed, frantic cries of the distressed horse stopped him in his tracks, and indecision warred with instincts until it was too late. The first man stepped into the clearing as Dex panicked and shot up the trunk of the nearest tree.

He made it up into the leafy branches as a group of men swept flashlights and torches in a wide circle around the clearing.

Up in the tree, Dex held still and gripped the thick branch he clung to until his knuckles felt like they would surely split his skin. He counted the men. Six of them in total—two keeping watch, a leader, and two others guarding a man who appeared to be their prisoner. Dex couldn’t see their faces, but deep in his hammering heart, he knew they were his own kind. Travellers were like that—invisibly and inescapably bonded.

But where was the horse? Dex scanned the clearing again, chewing his lip. The silence felt wrong, like the devil was dancing around him, and his stomach rolled when he found the outline of a dead horse, crumpled on the ground in a pool of her own blood.

Cora. Oh God. Oh God.
Cora
.

Dex didn’t recognize the man held captive on the ground beside her, but, fuck, he knew the horse. The cream-colored mare was aloof, but beneath her ingrained suspicion, she was gentle and warm. Some nights, she’d stood with her chin on his shoulder for hours, doing nothing more than simply huffing out straw-scented puffs of air. Now, in the moonlight, he could see her lifeless eyes were still open, wide with shock at the violence of her death.

Dex trembled so hard he nearly fell from the branch, feeling the loss of the animal like a knife to his gut. Fear tore through his veins too. The men were from the site, they had to be, and if he was caught, there was every chance he’d share Cora’s fate. Or that of the prisoner, whatever they were about to do to him. He’d heard too many stories of men disappearing in the woods, never to be seen again, to kid himself it was anything good.

The leader stepped forward, opening his arms in a deceptively friendly gesture. A familiar gesture. Dex closed his eyes as the man began to speak. He didn’t have to look any closer to know he was in the presence of Uncle Braden.

There was little preamble as Braden directed his goons to hold the man against the trunk of the very tree Dex had taken shelter in. Their exchange was brief. The man shook and begged for his life, but Braden’s eyes were cold and blank, and Dex wondered how many times he’d heard the same pleas.

A silence fell over the clearing. A pause. The eerie calm before a storm. Dex watched with bated breath. He wasn’t ready for this… wasn’t ready to watch a man die. But nothing happened, and the longer the lull went on, the more he began to hope. Perhaps he’d misjudged it, and the man had been brought here as a warning, Cora’s murder an example of what would be done if the man didn’t comply with whatever Braden wanted.

Then Braden put a gun to the man’s head and fired.

The shot ripped through the night, bouncing off the trees and echoing louder and louder until Dex couldn’t bear it. He slapped his hands over his ears. Shock rippled through him, up through his stomach and into his chest. A vicious cough jumped into his throat. He held his breath, fighting it with all he had, but it was no good. A desperate scratch of sound escaped his lungs.

He slammed his hand over his mouth, but it was too late. Braden followed the noise and looked up, and Dex knew in a heartbeat he’d been seen.

Fuck!

Dex scrambled through the branches and leaped into the air. His feet hit the ground, jarring his ankles, but he didn’t look back as he ran through the woods, faster than he’d ever run before.

The trees blurred as he darted through them. Shouts echoed behind him. More gunshots pierced the air. But he didn’t look back. He couldn’t look back. He jumped over branches and ditches. Tripped over his own feet.

And he didn’t look back.

He stumbled onto the main road, dripping with sweat, the freezing night air long forgotten. Cars and lorries honked as he dashed across the northbound carriageway, and even as he crossed into the southbound lanes, he didn’t dare stop.

He reached the far side by the skin of his teeth and turned south, jogging up the hard shoulder until he reached the slip road for a service stop. It was late, but the pit stop housed an all-night café, and four or five articulated lorries lay idle in the car park, their drivers elsewhere.

Breathless, Dex crouched in a hedge and debated his options. He couldn’t go back to the site. Of that he was certain. Braden would slit his throat without thinking twice. How many times had he held Dex down and uttered those very words? Question was, did it matter? Did Dex care enough to run? Maybe not, but the thought of giving Braden the satisfaction of ending his misery galled him. The bastard had taken enough.

Resolved, he considered the dormant lorries and their possible cargo. He’d hitchhiked before, but never alone, and not in England. The last time had been in Dublin when he was a boy, and his father’s wise warning then echoed in his head like it had been just yesterday.