Hello assorted gremlins, cretins, sadists, readers- the assorted and unique seashells to have arrived on this sandy shore- I have returned with an update. I had to figure out where I was going with this before writing. Sorry for the enormous gap, but I hope you enjoy the little video I attached. It sums up my editing sentiments and probably the main reason this took a fat four days since my last update to release.
Travis's POV
My mind keeps reeling me back to my actions.
A barely-living drug dealer at the end of a heavy bat. The feeling of raising the weight of it in the air, like an extension of my arms, before letting gravity do the work to bring it down. Deliberation and anger were driving me, with an undertone of fresh, hot pain scoring my back. There had been red blocking my vision, a driving force in me that carried on through the night and blotted out all but loud sounds and short thoughts—
BAM. Damn it.
BAM. Messy blood.
SMACK. Fuck him.
SMACK. Fuck him.
SMACK. FUCK HIM!
Wait. The red had lifted with a dizzying rush.
Why did I do that?
Why does it feel... better?
The sound of a car, an arm around me.
How did this become my life?
I was passed a gun.
I am not your sweetheart, asshole.
BANG.
Here he goes again.
A change.
You will listen to me.
James did.
There was no longer danger.
— Snap snap snap-
"Travis? Travis."
I was dragged unceremoniously back to the present by fingers snapping in my face, a lifetime of memories from one night uncovering themselves before being stowed away. The present was with me, sitting at a restaurant bar beside James.
"Order."
"Right, I will have a grilled cheese and some water." I hand over my menu to a man who I recognized by face. I came to this place plenty of times, back when I watched Brandon on the perfect-picture TVs. Now I was a stranger, coming by at just past six in the morning for drinks and delicious sandwiches. The place had barely opened the doors before we sat down.
"Grilled cheese? This early?" James asked, apparently not seeing the issue with so many margaritas this early in the morning. Still, coming this early saved me the cost of Mr. Psychopath having a hangover. Or so I hoped.
"It is a wonder that there are no laws forbidding you from drinking this early." I marveled, flicking a hand towards him. As much as that deflection might have provoked him, I had a feeling he would not act out. Worse than a feeling- I was starting to read him.
James' mouth twitched in disapproval, but he said nothing. When he was angry, his fists clenched. His eyes narrowed. Pupils dilated with rage. If I wasn't careful, his mood could flip like a switch. But I could read the signs- the very same ones that Alistair had managed to set off all at once last night.
And this was the way to redirect James' rage. Margaritas.
Last night, Alistair had said something that nearly caused James to go off the deep end. At that moment, I could read his anger just from James' hands. The night had made James furious like... possibly worse than when I slapped his face or hit him with the headboard. Those were the peaks of rage I witnessed, and there was more he could conjure.
In the moment, I had picked up the signs and I put myself between James and Alistair. Alistair seemed like he had an underlying personality disorder, but he was polite enough to me all night to not fall on the shit list. If James attacked him, the idiot would probably be killed by the others, and then I would be alone.
I didn't want to be alone with psychopaths without my own.
Thinking fast was terrible. The first thing I did was brace against James' chest so he couldn't walk forwards, stopping him from advancing towards Alistair. That felt more instinct than sane thinking. More intimate than an actual deterrent. I bet James loved that play.
Then James looked at me with an expression that chilled me to the core. The face of a man who wanted to see pain and suffering. Murderous wasn't the right word for his look. He wasn't thinking of ways to kill me. James was thinking of ways to make me hurt. It was like the little red gleam caught in his eye from the taillights just to emphasize how completely insane this man was.
There was that moment I took a breath and put on my courage act. I changed what James wanted.
Thank goodness that worked.
"Here you are." Setting down margaritas and a glass of water in front of us, the bartender reminded me that I needed to focus in the present.
This is where I was. Now. I was sitting on a bar stool, changed into a white shirt and jeans. James was dressed in slacks and a button-down. My back burned faintly, primarily bruised from being tossed at the club, and also from a broken lamp being tossed at my back. Cho gave me bandages and James got us new shirts, but I wanted to go home, take a shower, and forget last night's mess. Blot it all out like the first time.
However, even if I did- no matter how many times I tried clean up- I knew the blood of four men was never going to wash off my hands.
"What is on my sweetheart's mind?" James brushed my cheek with his fingers, probably tucking a single stray hair back or something. His other hand was occupied by a half-finished margarita. One hand on me, one on his vices.
"Nothing that concerns you." I wanted to give him nothing. No real responses. No peek into my head. He didn't deserve that.
The narrowed eyes, the slight clench of his hand by my face, the grit of his teeth. The start of rage. As much as I gave him nothing, he was willing to give me plenty of pain. Again, I redirected him, leading him to believe I relented with a conceding wince.
"Just... where do we go, from here?" I asked him, fidgeting my hands together on the table, nails brushing against my palms. The feeling of a broken manicure threatened to drive me up a wall. A innocuous problem seemed to make all my problems feel like ducks in a row. Everything to be fixed with a little work.
"Hmm? After this we go home, maybe 'celebrate' our long night, catch some rest together after...." With that dirty smirk of his, and the quick finish of his first margarita in a... unique manner, James clearly had intentions. Ones that I never approve of. Putting my dick in a cheese grater sounded more appealing than whatever 'catching rest' or 'celebrating' with him could be.
"I mean... you killed one of this legendary 'Hand.' Does anything about tonight bother you? Is it possible that each of them could turn on you the same way?" I probed James a bit, not responding to his advances.
"Of course not. I am fantastic. My business is booming. Those whiney children owe me their asses. Plus, the Hand can only be directed to kill one another by the boss. And since I am practically his son, I have nothing to worry about!" James shined with a little of his egotistical side. It was hard to look at him with a straight face, when my instinct was to glare at him. He sounded like a liar.
"Right, great." I took in a deep breath, and let it out, along with all the problems I accumulated overnight. No more thinking about the people I killed, no more thinking about my mental state. Survival had to come first. And James downing a second margarita helped with that.
"Once I finish these delicious margaritas, honey, the next item on my list is to call into work and tell them the king is coming back." James gave a solemn nod to me, taking the next drink in hand. "I know you probably don't remember, but I have a company to run, and," James took a long, deliberate sip of his margarita, "that bitch Lydia is going to court again. I don't think she deserves parole."
I gave a slow nod, resisting the urge to just walk away from his dramatic pause. Something barely came up in my memory about a 'Lydia.' Whatever happened seemed so long ago. Though, the memory lead me to my initial promises, especially ones unkept.
"So, if you are going back, I can return too?" I offer, not letting myself treat that like a question. My muscles tensed, remembering the last time I wanted this.
I did not want to 'pay' him with my body again for a inch of freedom.
"I can defend myself now. You were supposed to let me go back a long time ago. I don't mean being escorted to a spa and lead around either, I want to work and roam. Away from you." My words were justified, but I did not want to see his face. I could not stand to imagine what he might be looking at me like. The only thing in my vision was a strung-up fish on a postal card, part of the restaurant's unique bar. Something about the layer of clear resin between me and the dead-eyed stare made my world feel boxed in.
And the asshole who put me in this box set down his margarita with a dainty little 'ding'.
"I don't get...." James started to talk, his hand in the edge of my vision. I watched his shadow move as he talked, and when he realized I was not looking at him, I could tell he was agitated. He wanted attention.
"I don't get this 'need' to be working." James continued, with annoyance in his tone. My eyes followed the shadow of his hands on the table. "Travis, pick up a hobby. Start picking the prettiest clothes. Spa days any day."
My turn to speak. "I have to work." That was not a good enough sentence. "I have to do something with my life, besides sit on my ass. I was not raised to be idle."
James seemed like he would be upset for a moment, before letting out a low chuckle. The sound made me think of a villain about to give his monologue to a chained hero. I knew I was not the hero of this story. My hands weren't clean enough for that.
"What?" I finally dared to look up at his face, regretting it instantly, as he looked down on me with a smug grin.
"My first offer, when I captured you, made you my little mouse?" His voice was low, conspiratorial. No one at the restaurant was to overhear him. "I wanted you live with me, dress how I wanted, and be completely mine. In return, money would never be an issue ever again."
I must have looked how depressed I felt, thinking back, because his face lit up. "What about that?" The memories of his kidnapping, gaslighting, and attacks weighed on my mind. "That was not something I ever said yes to."
"Would you say yes now?" James caught me by surprise with that question.
"Well... I said I would never." I commented dolefully, but now, I regretfully was thinking about that offer. If I denied him this time, would he go for my throat in public?
"You submitted to me then, but never really agreed." James had sat up on his chair, drinking and looking at me with the cockiest smirk he could wear. That pissed me off.
"It's a shit agreement. It doesn't even apply right now." I pointed out, not holding back my input on this, hands flying, curse words flinging. "You already have what you want. I already live with you, you already dress me, and...." I was definitely NOT his, and he caught what I was about to say, the third margarita leaving his lips like I was causing scandal. "I want to work. You could hire someone else around and act pretty. I am a man who doesn't care to sit."
"Truly?" James was hung up on that third, skipped part of the agreement. I could tell with how his eyes squinted at the salt on the rim of the margarita glass. We weren't even having a conversation at this point.
"Just let me have a little more freedom to do something." I put firmly, wanting to be heard. "I can live with you. Be dressed by you. Be a compliant little doll for you." I figured that is really what he wanted from me, and turned my gaze away from him. "I don't care about the money. I have what I need, material wise. But fuck, man." I felt like I was unloading to a coworker for one minuscule moment, rather than the psychopath that owned my life. "Let me do something with my hands besides stroke your fucking ego."
Oh, that really did it. In hindsight, I should have been more careful, watched him closer. That sort of thing. Just as I started to learn him, I dared to look away.
So for my rant, James grabbed me roughly by the shirt and pulled me in to threaten me.
"Watch your mouth before I rip out that tongue." James shot at me. He was several margaritas down but I doubted this was a side of him being drunk. His face was the usual angry, narrowed eyes and clenched jaw, but something else also. I did not want to speculate.
The hand nearly bruising my shoulder let off and shoved me back, and I had to catch myself before I fell off my chair. Stunned, all I could do was look around at the other people in the bar.
No one wanted to deal with this. No one seemed to care about us and the fucked up world we were in. The apathy from other patrons reminded me that perhaps I covered my eyes from the problems too. If I begged them to help me out of the city and escape some mafia-like crime lords, they would see a madman.
If I wanted to return to anything I once considered normal, I had to buckle down and get this done. I powered through college. I powered through a career. Just needed to burn through whatever hell this was. "What would it cost to let me live freely?" I lowered my voice, trying my best to be gentle and cooperative.
"Agree to my offer." James stated. "Roam around if you want. But every night, lay with me. Every morning, wear what I want you to. And above all else." James took his finger and tapped the table hard with his nail, almost like he was trying to murder the postcard beneath with his point. "Be completely mine."
Then the psychopath let out a burp. A rather loud, punctuating, human burp. The alcohol really stayed on him and made me bat the air.
A stiff end to the conversation. We both were quiet as I ate my sandwich, and he kept with his goal. Six margaritas. Better than twelve martinis, at least.