Switch Blade Romance

Sweet Jane

Charles Grady ditched the Buick station wagon forty miles outside of town, the same long-roofed beast that had once belonged to Burt and Romona Greenwood-well, the late Greenwoods, as he thought of them now, with a private grin. They were still back there in the cargo hold, blue as freezer burn, faces puffed and ruined, mouths hanging open like they wanted to complain.
Sorry, he thought, not meaning it. And thanks for the loan.
He parked the wagon in a shallow cut off an old logging road, a place where the trees leaned close together like conspirators. He wiped the car down inside and out, slow and careful, until the rags came away clean. Then he dragged branches and leaves over it until the Buick vanished into the woods like a bad memory. Six months, maybe more, before anyone stumbled across it-by then, he and Andrew could be anywhere.
Charles walked back to the highway and stuck out his thumb, already rehearsing the story he'd tell the poor bastard who stopped.
Back at the cabin, Andrew was drifting up from black water.
The drugs didn't let go all at once. They released him in pieces.
At first he was floating through a dream that felt like a home movie left out in the sun too long-his family's old living room, laughter warped and slowed, his sisters stepping over him as he slept on the couch. Someone said his name, but it came out wrong, stretched and echoing.
Then the dream slipped.
The walls peeled, the faces melted, and Andrew became aware of the weight in his legs-dead weight, like boards nailed to him. He looked down. Chains. Real ones. Cold.
"Oh," he said out loud, his voice small. "Oh... wow. I forgot."
He tried to sit up. Nothing happened. Pins and needles burned through him and fizzled out. He lay back, breathing fast.
It's okay, he told himself. Think. First escape. Then-
Then the other thought came, sharp and mean: Then kill the bastard who did this.
That thought carried him under again.
This time the dream was darker. Charles stood at the foot of the couch, smiling, his eyes glowing an impossible green, like traffic lights stuck on go. Charles opened his mouth and beetles poured out, skittering across the floor, crawling up Andrew's legs-
Andrew woke with a gasp.
The room was dim. Evening light leaked across the far wall in long shadows. He couldn't see the window from where he lay, but he didn't need to. He'd slept the whole day away.
Seven. Maybe eight.
His stomach growled, loud enough to scare him. He hadn't eaten since breakfast. The defeat crept in slow and heavy, like a hand pressing him back down. He slept again.
The lock clicked.
Andrew snapped awake, heart hammering, and then he heard Charles's voice-cheerful, normal, wrong in the way only normal could be.
"Hold on a minute, guys. Gotta clean up and make sure my husband isn't still asleep."
Two male voices laughed outside. Sure, man. Take your time.
Andrew pushed himself up as far as the chains allowed. "Hey, babe," he said, forcing warmth into his voice. "How was your day? What are you doing, Charles? Why are there people here?"
Charles's eyes went cold. Not green-just empty.
"Wow," Charles said softly. "Look how selfish you are, Andrew Grady. I've been gone all day and I bring you some company because I thought you were lonely-and you snap at me?"
He lunged.
Andrew tried to scream, but Charles's hand clamped over his mouth, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt.
"The last thing you want to do is scream," Charles whispered. "Look at me."
Andrew didn't-at first. Charles sighed and grabbed his face, forcing their eyes to meet.
"If you make one sound," Charles said, calm as a bedtime story, "I'll kill them. Then I'll break every finger you have, both your legs, and tie you up in the cellar. Cold and dark. Bones don't heal right down there. Do you understand?"
Andrew nodded, tears sliding sideways into his ears.
Charles smiled and gave him a light, almost playful slap. "Good. I'm going to uncuff you. Bathroom. Shower. Then we'll have fun."
Andrew stood on shaking legs and made it to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. His face looked wrong-too pale, eyes too big, like he was still half-dreaming. For a second he thought the man in the glass smiled back at him without permission.
Voices drifted in from the living room.
"Yeah," Charles was saying, "my husband and I moved in about a week ago. From Mexico. I'm still looking for work-Lawrence is in college."
Andrew turned on the shower and let the water scald him, trying to wash the drugs out of his blood, the fear out of his bones. Another dream crept in: the water turning black, hands pushing him under, Charles's voice counting backward.
When he came out dressed, the living room was full.
"Well, there he is," Charles said, beer in hand.
One of the men-Micha-stood and walked over, smiling too wide. "Well, aren't you a handsome big fellow."
Andrew smiled faintly, nodded. The room tilted.
"Craig told us about your little arrangement," Micha said. "Said you were a big boy, but not how cute."
"What else did Craig tell you?" Andrew asked, very calmly.
"Well, he said you like to play sometimes-"
Charles moved fast. "Hey, Micha. Mind giving us a minute?"
"Sure," Micha said, still smiling, and went to sit by Patrick.
Charles gripped Andrew's arm and dragged him into the bedroom, closing the door behind them. He turned with a smile that went straight through Andrew and touched something old and terrified inside him.
"Maybe you didn't understand me," Charles said. "Maybe it's the drugs. Or maybe you forgot who's in charge."
He grabbed Andrew's hand.
There was a wet snap.
Andrew screamed into Charles's palm.
"It's not broken," Charles said mildly. "Just dislocated." He twisted it back. Andrew sobbed, the pain white and blinding.
Charles leaned in, his face flat, empty. "If you think that hurt, you don't know what pain is."
Andrew shook his head. "Please. Aiden-I mean, Charles. Please."
Charles smiled again. "You're going to go out there and do what I say. Tonight, I teach you the family trade."
And for the first time, Andrew understood the worst part wasn't the pain or the chains or even the dreams.
It was the certainty that this was only the beginning.