Chapter 29 #2
“Smart boy.” He eases back, keeping the gun pressed to my head. “On your feet.”
I struggle upright, hampered by my bound limbs and trembling muscles. Travis grows impatient, grabbing my elbow to haul me the rest of the way, the gun never leaving my temple.
“Walk,” he orders, shuffling me forward.
The warehouse stretches around us, cavernous and dimly lit.
As my eyes adjust, I pick out the shapes of stacked pallets and abandoned machinery.
The air smells of dust and motor oil, with an underlying sting of bleach that itches at the back of my throat.
Our footsteps echo on the concrete, his steady, mine stumbling with the limited slack he gave me between my feet.
“Where’s Saint?” I ask, my voice small in the vast space.
“Alive.” Travis drags me forward. “For now.”
We pass through what must have been the main storage area, heading toward a section closed off with makeshift walls. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, their sickly glow tinting my skin a ghostly green-white.
“Almost there.” Anticipation brightens his plain features. “I think you’ll appreciate the effort I’ve put into this.”
My stomach churns at the pride evident beneath the words. Whatever waits beyond those partitions has cost him time and resources, and the thought offers no comfort. Travis reaches past me to push open a door set into the partition wall, and with a flick of a switch, light floods the space beyond.
I stop breathing.
The room before me isn’t a cell or torture chamber.
It’s my apartment.
Not my actual apartment, but a meticulous recreation of my streaming space set on a wooden stage.
The desk sits in the exact position as mine at home, angled to catch the light.
The same model of chair. My preferred ring light stands ready, its circular reflection catching in the camera lens positioned in the same place mine would be.
“What do you think?” Travis nudges me forward, excitement spilling into his words. “I matched everything. The wall color was tricky. I had to mix three different paints to get that exact shade of gray.”
My legs threaten to buckle as I take in the details. The posters on the wall. The small plant I always keep in frame. Even the ridiculous rainbow mug Saint gave me years ago, placed at the corner of the desk where I position it during streams.
“How—” I choke on the question, unable to complete it.
“I’m your biggest fan.” Travis beams with pride, the gun dropping from my temple as he gestures around the space. “I studied every stream. Mapped everything out. Took measurements from the camera angles.”
The floor tilts beneath me. This level of obsession goes beyond stalking. Beyond even the cameras he planted in my apartment. This is a stage set for whatever nightmare he has planned for me.
I spot a folded pile of fabric on the desk, and my stomach drops as I recognize the black lace trim and deep blue satin that reflects the overhead light. The same lingerie I wore in my third stream, where Travis first became fixated with me.
“Change,” Travis orders, circling around to face me. The gun returns, shoving under my chin this time, forcing my head up to meet his eyes. “We’re going live soon.”
“Live?” The word scrapes out of my throat.
Travis tips his chin toward the camera setup. “You have fans waiting. Important ones.”
Bile rises in my throat as understanding dawns. This isn’t just about his obsession. It’s an audition for the traffickers.
“Please don’t do this,” I whisper, shame and fear twisting together in me. “Whatever they’re offering you—”
“Turn around,” he interrupts with impatience. “I’m cutting your hands free. Try anything, and your friend loses something he needs.”
I turn, and cold metal grazes my bound wrists. The zip tie gives way with a snap, and blood rushes back into my hands with pins-and-needles intensity. The pain almost distracts from the horror of my situation.
Almost.
“The ankle ties stay for now,” Travis says, retrieving the lingerie from the desk. He holds it out, the delicate fabric obscene in his thick fingers. “Put this on. Everything else comes off.”
I rub my raw wrists, buying seconds while my mind races through options that don’t exist. The camera’s lens stares at me, black and unblinking. Ready to broadcast my degradation to whoever’s paying to watch.
He steps closer, forcing the lingerie into my hands. “Don’t make me ask twice, Elliot. The camera goes live in five minutes. With or without your cooperation.”
I clutch the lingerie in a white-knuckled grip, the delicate fabric balling up in my sweating palms. “I want proof Saint is alive first.”
Travis checks his watch again, irritation creasing the corners of his eyes. “We don’t have time for this.”
“No lingerie until I see him.” I channel every ounce of Saint’s stubbornness, praying it shields me like it always shielded him. “How do I know he’s even here?”
A muscle twitches in Travis’s jaw, his fingers tightening around the gun, and for a moment, I think he might shoot me and be done with it.
“Fine,” he snaps, grabbing my upper arm. “Then you change, or I put a bullet in his kneecap. Understand?”
The vise grip on my arm propels me forward, my bound ankles tangling beneath me. The stage creaks and shifts under our weight. At least it isn’t too high above the cement floor.
Travis half-drags me across the streaming replica, past the cameras positioned to capture every angle of the staged room. We reach a door at the back of the partitioned space.
“Don’t try anything stupid,” he warns, pushing the door open.
The stench of copper, ammonia, and fear hits me first, concentrated in the small, tiled space. A bathroom, bare except for a filthy toilet and sink with rust stains tracking down its sides. The fluorescent light above flickers, casting the scene in strobing horror-movie flashes.
Saint sits bound to the toilet, arms wrenched behind his back, ankles secured to the base with industrial-grade cable ties.
Blood mats the left side of his head, a dark crust forming around his ear and trailing down his neck into his shirt collar.
His face bears the mottled purple-yellow marks of repeated impacts, one eye swollen shut, his bottom lip split and puffy.
His one good eye widens at the sight of me, panic flashing across his battered face. He fights his restraints, the toilet rocking with his movements. The duct tape across his mouth doesn’t fully mute the desperate noises he tries to force out.
“Satisfied?” Travis yanks me backward before I can move toward Saint. “He’s alive.”
Saint thrashes harder, the toilet creaking under his efforts. His muffled noises grow more frantic.
“Saint, I’m going to get you out of here,” I promise, the words tumbling out before Travis can drag me away. “Stay strong.”
Saint shakes his head.
“Time’s up.” Travis yanks me back through the door. “He’s fine, as promised. Now you hold up your end.”
The door slams shut on Saint’s renewed struggles, cutting off his muffled shouts. Travis shoves me back toward the replica of my streaming space, the gun digging into my side with each step.
“Change,” he repeats, thrusting the lingerie back at me. “I’ve got equipment to set up.”
He backs away, keeping the gun trained on me while he begins adjusting the cameras with his free hand. Each movement is practiced, as if he’s done this before, positioned these exact cameras to capture this exact scene.
The thought sends a wave of nausea through me.
“Who’s watching this stream?” I ask, fingers clutching the blue satin without unfolding it. “Your trafficking friends?”
“They need to see your quality,” Travis replies without looking up from the camera he’s adjusting. “How well you perform under pressure. It’s an audition for private buyers only.”
The casual confirmation freezes my blood. “And if I refuse?”
Now, Travis does look up, his expression almost sad. “Then your friend dies while you watch. Then you perform anyway.” He shrugs, unbothered at the idea of taking a life. “Your choice of which version they see.”
I glance around, desperate for anything I might use as a weapon. The desk holds nothing but the computer setup. The chair might work as a barrier, but with my ankles bound and Travis holding a gun, my chances of overpowering him hover near zero.
“No one’s coming for you, Elliot,” Travis says, reading the calculation in my face. “That rich Alpha who tried to take you from me is probably dead. The other one, too. You have three minutes.”
Travis connects cables between cameras and a laptop. “If you’re not changed by then, I’ll start removing pieces of your friend.”
With trembling fingers, I unfold the lingerie. The blue satin shimmers under the lights. I hadn’t been able to afford anything better than this when I first started. Buying it had meant eating beans and rice for three weeks, but it had been the first step toward independence.
Now, the thought of wearing it for these viewers turns my skin to ice, a violation so deep I may never feel clean again.
“Where should I change?” I ask, stalling for precious seconds.
“Right there.” Travis gestures at the center of the room, within the frame of the main camera. “They’ll want to see everything.”
The creeping horror that filled me when we first entered this room crystallizes. Travis isn’t just planning to assault me, he’s going to livestream it, forcing me to perform as “Elliot” one last time before selling me to whoever’s watching.
“I can’t remove my pants with the ankle ties on.” I gesture down at my still-bound feet.
Travis frowns, then approaches, gun never wavering. He crouches, a knife appearing in his free hand. The blade slices through the plastic with a snap.
“Don’t get any ideas,” he warns, backing away. “Two minutes.”
Blood rushes back into my feet, pins-and-needles crawling up my calves. I roll my ankles, feeling strength return to muscles tensed too long in one position.
“Can I use the bathroom first?” I ask, mind racing toward the only plan that might work. “Please.”
“After,” Travis refuses flatly. “Change now.”
I fumble with the hem of my sweatshirt, lifting it an inch before stopping. “I can’t do this with you staring.”
“You’re a cam boy,” Travis sneers. “This is what you do.”
“Not like this,” I whisper, my throat tightening as tears threaten. “Please.”
Something in my expression must reach whatever humanity remains in him, because he sighs and turns to check a setting on the laptop. I use the moment to search the room again, and the desk lamp draws my attention.
“One minute,” Travis announces, turning back to me. “Last chance before your friend suffers.”
He approaches the main camera, setting it with meticulous care. With his back to me, he peers through the viewfinder and fine-tunes the angle.
“I’ll do it.” As I lift my sweatshirt, my wrist grazes the tripod head. Concealed by the loose fabric, I nudge the quick-release lever open a fraction, just enough to cause the feed to tremble each time the floor vibrates. “I’ll perform.”
Travis bares his teeth in something that passes for a grin, though nothing about it is kind. His finger hovers over the main camera’s power button, waiting until I tug on the lingerie he bought.
“Beautiful. You’re going to be a star, Elliot,” he says, pressing the button. “One last performance before our new life begins.”
The red recording light blooms to life.