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  His pulse throbbed in his neck, guts clenching, as his heart thudded dully.

  Risking a glance at Russell, he found his lover staring, eyes moist, lips downturned. This was it, wasn't it? Possibly their last moments together.

  “Shit,” Toby said, his throat thick with unshed tears. He wouldn't cry. Wouldn't fucking cry yet. Tilting his head, he rested his cheek against Russell's. Cold tears from the other's face wet his own.

  “I'm such a weak bastard,” Russell said, the fight gone out of him. “I thought...thought I was stronger than this.” He lifted his hands and dropped them wearily down onto his thighs. “Shit. I'm sorry. Sorry. I need to snap out of this. Need to—”

  “It's all right. Tears don't matter, okay? I can sort this. I got us into this mess, and I'll get us out. It was my fault from the start.”

  “No. You did the right thing. Saving that kid.”

  “Yeah.” Toby sighed and sat up straight, noting the building had grown in size since he'd last looked out the window. “Looks like we're here.”

  “Fuck.” Russell turned his head and stared out. “Bastard house in the middle of sodding nowhere. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

  Toby studied it. Massive place, all cream facade and fake Greek columns standing behind a high, black wrought iron fence. Four Victorian streetlights, two either side of a cream-coloured gravel drive, stood directly outside the house. Wide stone steps led from the end of the driveway up to the black double front doors.

  Mansion. Who said crime doesn't pay?

  Toby bit back a chuckle. The last thing he needed to be doing right now was drowning in a fit of hysterical laughter. He needed to keep his wits about him if Russell wasn't up to coping with whatever lay behind those doors.

  “Blimey,” Toby muttered, awed by the magnificence despite fear nipping at his arsehole.

  The van slowed as it neared the gates, and they swung open. Someone had seen them coming, then. The vehicle jostled over the uneven gravel, and the big bastard leaned forward to switch off the radio. Russell shot out his hands and gripped Toby's thigh, squeezing hard, his body shaking.

  Shit. Don't give up on me now, man. I'll get us out of this. We'll be all right.

  He chanced another glance at his lover, who stared back at him, his face etched with fear. God, if he had the luxury of crying he would. But he didn't.

  Neither of them did.

  They didn't speak. Just stared, saying everything they needed to with their eyes.

  Big Bastard did a U-turn and backed up to the house. He got out of the van. Slammed the door.

  Toby rested his forehead to Russell's. Closed his eyes and breathed in his scent. Glued everything about this moment into his memory so he'd never forget.

  The van doors opened too soon. Words he should have said crammed into Toby's mind, but he wasn't given a chance to say them.

  “Out,” the driver said. “Now.”

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  Frost prowled his vast living room, admiring the decor. God, he had a good eye for detail. Almost everything was white—leather sofas, coffee tables, drapes, lamps, the walls, the carpet. Anyone came in here with shoes on, he'd kick their arse to Kingdom Come. He didn't include himself in that, though. No, he donned a brand-new pair of pointy-toed shoes if he wore any in here at all. He eyed the art on the walls, the only splash of colour. Unframed canvasses, large and dominating, bore swirls and circles, random splodges, or blocks of clashing colours. Some unknown kid had painted them for him after Frost caught the little shit doodling on the basement floor with a shard of concrete he'd loosened from the wall.

  There was a kid he'd saved from a crap life. He'd been homeless, living down an alley in Bethnal Green, a sheet of cardboard as his mattress. Frost had him picked up and brought here so he could be primed for the next stage in his life. Now the kid lived as some rich man's arse, getting everything his pretty self desired. Whether the kid was happy, Frost didn't give a shit. He provided what the punters ordered, simple as that.

  Besides, he was doing society a favour, ridding the streets of potential criminal scumbags. Even those who weren't homeless, they had the possibility of becoming a bad element, didn't they? That he sold the youngsters to the highest bidder was by the by. In the end, everyone was happy. Apart from the parents. And maybe the kid if they didn't like their arse being stretched on a nightly basis.

  He chuckled at the naivety of some parents. Thought they were safe because they had sons. Thought only girls went “missing". Little did they know, until their kid got taken, boys were more in demand.

  He continued pacing. Continued admiring the room.

  Should have been a fucking interior designer.

  He laughed and picked imaginary specks from his black suit, then wiggled the knot of his dark grey tie. His new white shirt had been dry-cleaned before he slipped it on after his recent shower, but it still held the stiffness in the collar. It dug into his skin. Pissed him the hell off.

  Glancing at his watch, he contemplated going upstairs to put a different shirt on but decided against it. It wouldn't be long before those two nosey wankers arrived and his shirt got bloodied.

  He looked forward to an hour or so of fun with them.

  Ben Croft had done well today, executing Frost's plan, working through the hitch of having to pick Toby up after Russell. The roadblock idea had been a good one, and Croft had sorted everything himself without bothering Frost with the details.

  A fine man, Croft. Ugly as fucking sin, but a fine man all the same.

  Funny how, at first, Croft had been destined to be a rent boy. Frost had taken a liking to the young man's feisty temperament six months ago and took him on as an employee instead. The bloke was homeless, had been for a few years, he said, and once he saw what life he could lead under Frost's wing, he'd given it his all.

  Loyal bastard, that one.

  A glimmer of light outside pulled Frost from his thoughts and pacing. He strode to one of the two large bay windows and stared out across the lawn. There it was again, a twinkle of illumination flashing between the tree trunks of the dark country road in the distance. Probably Croft and his cargo.

  Frost waited to see if the lights moved on, whether Croft would actually come back. This was the man's first solo outing. He had to earn Frost's trust since starting to work for him. Not all of his employees had taken to this life, and those who hadn't were no longer...a problem.

  Twin spots of brightness turned onto the track leading to his house. Definitely Croft, then. The young man had proved his loyalty. Frost admitted he'd been a little worried that Croft wouldn't come back, wouldn't do whatever needed to be done to return Russell and Toby.

  Frost released a held breath. Straightened his already straight jacket. Smoothed his tie. Rolled his shoulders and blew out another nerve-steadying breath. He always got an edgy excitement at times like this. Got to go back to his roots, didn't he, beating the fuck out of someone until they spewed everything they knew. Yeah, he'd started his career as a bullyboy and worked his way up. Stuck to his patch and minded his own business, refraining from stepping on other main men's toes. It didn't do to piss off a London crime boss, did it? Frost's intuitiveness had paid off, and here he was now, a respected crime boss himself, with a fucking big mansion, shitloads of money, and nice piece of arse to show for it.

  The lights grew bigger, and one of his black vans came into clearer view as the moon peeked from behind a cloud. He moved to a strip of wall between the windows and pressed a button on the keypad there. The gates swung inward, and the van eased onto Frost's property like a sleek monster, eyes bright, the radiator a mouth full of smiling teeth.

  He watched Croft perform a smooth U-turn, and his belly clenched with the anticipation of what was to come. A thought of Stephen came to mind, and Frost considered reneging on his promise of not sticking his cock up that young man's arse tonight. After Frost had a little chat and a beating session with Tob
y and Russell, he'd be hyped up, manic energy flicking through his body.

  Yeah, he'd renege all right.

  Pressing a button on the keypad again, he said into the speaker below, “They're here. Prepare them. Let me know when they're ready.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Jonathan was a good man too.

  Croft got out of the van and opened the rear doors. From the angle he stood, Frost couldn't see inside very well, only a triangular space in front of the doors. Croft gestured to the interior, and Frost got his first glimpse of Russell and Toby since last year.

  “You pair of fucking cunts,” he whispered. “Giving me the runaround.”

  They stood, heads bowed, Russell with his hands bound to the front, Toby's to the back. To his right, Frost heard the house front doors swing wide and watched with satisfaction as the young men's heads snapped up, Toby's face registering shock upon seeing Jonathan emerge.

  “Remember him, do you?” Frost smiled. “I wouldn't forget him either if he gave me a beating.”

  Jonathan took hold of Toby's arm, and Croft took Russell's. His men propelled the cargo up the steps and into the house. Frost turned to face the living room door, the one that led out to the foyer, and tuned in to the sounds out there. The cargo appeared to be doing as they'd undoubtedly been told—keeping bloody quiet. Feet squeaked on the tiled floor, their footsteps receding as they were marched into the kitchen. Frost turned again, his back to the windows, and listened for the door beside the breakfast bar to open then close. Once it had, he turned yet again to his right and faced the wall populated with that little shit's art. Behind them were ten rooms off a long white corridor, and at the end was the basement door. A place where all manner of scenes were acted out in the play that was his life. The play he orchestrated. The one he'd written all those years ago when he'd first started out.

  Attaining one's dreams was the best feeling.

  Frost paced some more, waiting for the call to tell him the men had been prepared for his visit. It came a few minutes later via a crackle from the wall speaker.

  “In position, boss.”

  Without responding to Jonathan, Frost left the living room and walked through the foyer to the kitchen. At the breakfast bar, he gripped the door handle and closed his eyes, inhaling a steadying breath. Excitement careened through him, hardening his cock, and he stood there a moment, fondling himself through his trousers.

  Footsteps coming from behind the door snapped him out of his trance, and Frost threw the door wide. Jonathan and Croft walked toward him, saying nothing as they came through the doorway and went into the kitchen. Frost nodded and stepped into the brightly lit, white-walled corridor, closing and locking the door behind him. He remained still, staring down at the basement door, and listened for sounds coming from any of the ten rooms. Five doors either side of him held boys waiting to be chosen tomorrow night by prospective buyers. They'd all had their arses tested by Frost, and he found each of them to be worthy of being sold on. A few had needed fattening up—but not too much. His buyers liked them looking young and slim.

  The customer was always right.

  Frost closed his eyes and breathed deeply upon hearing someone shout out for his mother.

  She's no good to you now, boy.

  Opening his eyes, Frost smiled and strolled down the corridor, pleased at the sound his shoes with the three hundred pound price tag made. He'd dreamed of owning such shoes as a boy after seeing another, older gangland boss wearing them, the pointed toes appealing to his nasty side.

  The tips were good for kicking.

  He rolled his shoulders, and the damn collar of his shirt squeaked, chafing his skin. At the end of the hallway, he stood in front of the mahogany door. He could smell those bastards and their fear from here.

  His cock stirred again.

  Key in the lock, Frost turned it and opened the door. A set of concrete steps, with matching walls either side, led down to a square landing. He locked the door and took the steps slowly, turning right on the landing and walking down the remaining stairs and into the dark basement.

  One of the cargo whimpered.

  He smiled again.

  Frost reached to the wall on his left and flicked a switch. A bright circle of light shone directly on Russell and Toby, and he knew they couldn't see him in the surrounding darkness. The pair of them hung from chains secured to the metal ceiling rafter, their arms stretched upward, naked bodies probably already screaming for respite.

  He admired Russell's fucking equipment. Although the man was undoubtedly scared, his cock hadn't shrivelled. Yet. It hung, long and flaccid, over nicely rounded bollocks that Frost wouldn't say no to fondling. Drawing his gaze up Russell's body, Frost took note of the defined muscles in his abdomen—all that hard work digging graves, he suspected. And his face, so pretty when it wasn't scrunched up from the blinding light.

  Reluctantly, he shifted his gaze to Toby, who, it appeared, had already become accustomed to the sudden illumination. Black tribal tattoos adorned his arms—interesting—and his body was surprisingly bulkier than his lover's.

  Shifting fruit and vegetables and filing papers was a workout in itself, it seemed.

  Toby's cock, shorter and wider than Russell's, had Frost's hardening once more. He liked stout ones. They stretched his arse until he cried out in pleasure-pain. He contemplated sampling Toby's.

  Not just yet.

  Frost had no intention of killing the men. This morning he'd wanted to, but now he thought better of it. Both men were brawny enough to handle themselves in a fight, and Frost was always in need of men to pick up the boys. A bit of a beating and the threat of them being killed if they didn't work for him might do the trick.

  “All right, cunts?” he asked.

  The pair of them started, and one of them—Frost couldn't tell which—gasped.

  “I realise you might not want to answer me. That's all right. It won't be long before you start talking.”

  Frost bent at the waist and reached to the floor to his left. His fingers came into contact with a coil of weighty chain. It was always there, like a comforting friend. He lifted it and wrapped one end around his hand. Once he had a firm grip, he turned his hand into a fist and stepped toward the hanging men. His footsteps echoed, the chain clinked, and it seemed every muscle in their bodies tensed, right down to their toes. The fear he inspired always gave him a hard-on, and tonight was no exception. His cock throbbed, strained against his trousers, and he rubbed the bulge with his free hand.

  “My name is Frost. Pleased to finally make your acquaintance again.”

  He imagined Russell thinking "Again?"

  Russell frowned.

  “Oh, yes. Russell, you may recall the last time we met I wore a red baseball cap.”

  Realisation played out on Russell's face.

  “I asked you to dig and keep your mouth shut. You only obeyed one of my commands, hence this...situation. Unfortunate, but there you go. So many people tend to ignore me and have lived to regret it.” He paused, finishing with, “Or died.”

  Russell tugged at the chains. Useless to, really. He wasn't going anywhere.

  “And you, Toby. You've been here before, haven't you? Last time we accommodated you by placing you on a chair. You were treated to a glass of lemonade. Isn't that right?”

  “Fuck you!” Toby spat, breaths snorting out of his nose.

  Oh, a feisty fucker.

  “I was just admiring your cock. If you're offering...” Frost smirked.

  “What the fuck do you want?” Toby yelled, his voice going hoarse, the cords in his neck standing out.

  “Don't, Toby.” Russell looked sideways at his lover. “It isn't fucking worth it.”

  “You're right, Russell,” Frost said, taking another couple of steps forward and trailing the loose part of the chain through the fingers of his free hand. “It isn't. Fucking. Worth it. Because...in the end, I always get what I want.”

  Toby stared at Frost, more by judgme
nt than knowing where he stood, Frost knew. “What do you want, eh? Come on, ask us what we know. Ask us whether we told anyone else but the police what you lot did. Ask us if we've shit ourselves ever since we left the police station that night, wondering when the fuck you'd turn up. Ask us whether we want to live or die, even though you know you're going to kill us. Go on! Ask us!” His last words came out on a scream, and it was clear he was running on adrenaline that would soon wear him out.

  Russell, however, was playing it right, preserving his energy by remaining quiet and calm.

  Still, however they acted, they'd still get the beating of their lives.

  “I'll address the things you've said, because you've touched on everything I wanted to ask. Funny, that.” Frost's cock pulsed. “I know what you know, and that's enough to get me put away if I ever land up in court and you testify that I'm the one Russell saw putting your body in that grave that night. I would guess you didn't tell anyone other than the police. Smart move if that's the case. I'd say that yes, you've been shitting yourself. Your faces look fucking gaunt since I last saw you. Fright tends to do that to a man.” He laughed, trailing the chain through his fingers again. “And I would say you want to live.”

  He flashed the chain out, the end catching Toby's cock.

  Toby drew his knees up and screamed, the muscles in his arms bunching as though they'd burst through his skin. His eyes reduced to slits, and his mouth formed a skewed hole, his teeth bared and flashing in the light.

  Frost waited for him to lower his legs and quieten.

  “That hurt, did it?” he asked casually.

  “You fucking bastard!” Russell shouted, his face a contortion of red anger. “What the fuck has he ever done to you to deserve that?”

  “What has he ever,” Frost flicked the chain at Russell's bollocks, “done?”