bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter twenty-five.

Maybe that's why what happened at the party happened. Maybe that night was a predetermined pitstop on Case's roadmap through life; so, when he inevitably crossed paths with Sir, he was already damaged and on the verge of breaking.

Maybe that's why Sir had gone through all those victims before finding Case. Maybe they'd all been a test for Sir, showing him everything he didn't want in a whore, so that way he'd know for certain that what he had with Case was special.

Maybe every dark and painful thing that had happened in their lives was part of some grand scheme from a higher power—God, the Universe, Fate, something far greater than Case or Sir—to lead them here: twisted, damaged and perfect for each other.

These were all the maybe's that, for days, swirled through Case's head. He still couldn't bring himself to read Fellowship of the Ring after the spit incident, not even to distract his rapid-fire mind. But if his choices for mental anguish were between reminiscing on his life before the basement, or trying to think of a reason why it had all happened . . . well, he'd choose the latter.

A week or so later, Sir randomly brought him something new to read. Not The Two Towers or a new fantasy world offering escape, but a small stack of thin paperbacks, their spine's flaking and pages yellowed with age. Case's reading choices now included random copies of The Baby-Sitters Club, all of them signed by Sophie Scobie, her messy attempts at cursive decorated with flowers and smiles. Sure, Stoneybrook, Connecticut felt a little too close to his hometown Thurmont, Maryland (and when he first started reading, he had to concentrate on suppressing the pangs of homesickness) but after a while Case appreciated the simplicity of bite-sized books for preteen girls. The fluff, the light dose of morality, the way violence and sex didn't seem to exist in this world.

A different kind of escape.

Case was skim-reading, the book in his hand feeling like junk food for his brain, when Sir entered the basement with a heavy thud. There was a groan, some muttered curse words—Case lowered his book, unsure about all the noise, his body tensing on alert—then Sir called out: "Casey! Get up here and help carry this thing."

"Sorry," Case answered, forgetting his book and rushing to his feet. "I'm coming—woah." He stopped, eyebrows raising at the sight above him. The shiny, square face of a chrome case stared down at him as it balanced precariously on the stairs. Sir stood at the top landing, holding the other end by the handle, keeping it from soaring down the steps like a runaway toboggan.

"Don't just stand there, it's a heavy bastard of a thing."

"Right. Sorry."

"It's heavy," Sir warned again as Case took the other handle. He tried to lift his end, but Sir wasn't lying—whatever was inside this thing had serious weight.

Is it a flight case? he wondered, picturing the equipment and gear carried by roadies and rockstars. Months ago, he'd asked Sir for a guitar. And when Case was first taken, Sir had found a video of him playing and singing online. Was Sir really that generous?

He did say you have a nice voice . . .

The underside of the case scraped across the concrete as they dragged it next to the supplies container. Sir dropped his end, and wiped the sweat from his brow with an exaggerated sigh. "Now, you remember me telling you I was a surgeon?"

"Yeah . . . trauma, or something."

"Correct, very good. Most of my cases are responses to vehicular accidents or anything by impact force. There's a storm warning this weekend, which usually means we'll get a wave of fools who'll drive on black ice and spin out, or trudge through snow and lose bits and pieces to frostbite. The folly of heroism. Which means, I'll likely be away longer than usual. So . . ." He unclipped and opened the lid, a swirl of mist unfurling around the hidden treasure, "this is to tide you over."