Conemaugh

4.

Back in his own room in the clubhouse hotel, Quinn laid down on the bed and pressed his face against the cool coverlet, breathing in the new laundered scent. The train-ride from Philadelphia had been long with too many people crammed together, even in the plush first-class cars. He was physically drained from being in a constant state of anxiety, so much so that the stupor he that came over him was more akin to faintness than sleep. The rasp if the door opening and shutting quietly hardly registered as Quinn's mind was sluggish with exhaustion.

By the time he realized he wasn't alone and moved to ward off the intrusion, it was too late.

The weight of someone larger and heavier slid over Quinn's prone form and pinned him to the bed. His arms were wrenched behind him and wrists pinned to his lower back in a vice-like grip.

"So sweet of you to be all ready for me." Clark's breath was foul with whiskey against Quinn's face. "No noise or I will have to smother you again." He pushed the younger man's face purposely into the bedclothes.

Quinn went limp, all the fight taken out of him.

"Good boy," Clark growled in his ear.