Scared Page 8

  Russell's body reacted the same way as Toby's, except he didn't utter any sound but a strangled groan.

  Ah, someone who'd rather suffer in near silence than let me know he's in pain.

  “The pair of you gave me shitloads of fucking sleepless nights this past year, that's what you've done. I don't like that. A good night's rest is the order of my fucking day, you little wanker.” Frost flicked the chain at Russell—again, again, again—catching him on the shins of his drawn-up legs. Frost wanted to break the little shit, make him scream. Make him beg for him to stop.

  Russell clenched his fists around the chains holding him in place and gritted his teeth, sweat breaking out on his forehead and dribbling down his temples. “Arsehole. You're a fucking arsehole!” He opened his eyes, and they bulged, the veins in his neck standing out beneath the skin. He lowered his legs, wincing, probably bracing himself for another flick to his balls.

  Toby looked on, momentarily stunned, then started swinging sideward until one of his feet caught around one of Russell's lowered legs. In a sweet gesture, Toby drew Russell close, their legs entwined, and said, “I love you, man. Fucking love you.”

  The cargo stared at one another, and something about that look stirred deep emotion within Frost. He wasn't usually partial to sentiment, but he wanted someone to look at him like that, at the same time muttering words of hate so Frost could get off.

  Fuck. Why did he have to do that?

  Angry that Toby had found his Achilles heel, Frost roared and lunged forward, lashing at them with the chain, striking harder still when they refused to release their hold on one another, refused to stop looking into each other's eyes, refused to utter any sound other than pained groans. Tears streamed down their faces, and sobs tore from their throats, but they held on. They fucking held on!

  “You little cunts!” he screamed, slashing until his shoulder ached and burned.

  Spent and out of breath, he stepped backward, dropping the chain to its usual place on the floor. Frost panted, watched blood drip down their skin from the open welts he'd given them, saw bruises start to form on their beautiful bodies.

  What the shit was he going to do with them?

  Turning his back on them, he flicked off the light and climbed the stairs in the darkness, taking a moment at the top of the stairs to hike in a deep breath and calm himself. Never had he encountered something like that with such a fierce beating. People just didn't remain strong like that—not even the most hardened criminals.

  He opened the door and stepped into the corridor, intent on leaving the cargo hanging there all night. Frost strode down the hallway, unlocking the door to the kitchen and entering the room, now filled with his employees enjoying a Chinese takeaway. Some sat at the breakfast bar, and others leaned against the centre island.

  The stink of the food churned Frost's stomach.

  “Everything all right, boss?” Croft asked from the corner by the sink unit, a slight frown creasing his brow.

  “Yeah.” Frost avoided looking at his men and made for the other doorway to the foyer. “It will be once I've had a proper night's sleep. At last. Leave our new guests exactly where they are. I'll deal with them in the morning.”

  “Right, boss. Oh, and boss? Your promise... Can I go out now?”

  It took a moment for Frost to understand what Croft meant. Then he remembered he'd offered Croft a reward if he came back tonight. “Oh, yes. Back by the morning, though. You've earned your night on the town, but tomorrow night's a big night.”

  “Cheers!”

  In the foyer, Frost came to a halt, seeing the image of how he'd left Russell and Toby, legs still entwined. Finger and thumb playing with his lower lip, he dipped a toe in the waters of his deepest desire. Yes, he needed his sexual partners to hate what he did to them, but couldn't they love him at the same time? Couldn't they detest him pumping into their arse, touching them, kissing them, hate the sound of his goddamn voice, and love him too?

  It was possible. He'd done it himself.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, he turned and walked back to the kitchen doorway. Croft looked up from the plate he held, noodles on a fork poised midair, and raised his eyebrows in question.

  “Take the basement two down when you get back,” Frost said.

  Without waiting to see any surprise on Croft's face, Frost swivelled on his heel and veered left into the living room. He went straight to the globe-topped drink's cabinet and poured a large measure of brandy.

  “Stephen,” he said quietly. “I need Stephen.”

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  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  Stephen had had a busy hour or two today. Ones where his nerves were stretched taut and his fear had escalated to him being beyond scared. It was so much more than that. What he'd done could end his life if he was found out. There weren't enough words to describe the apprehension inside him. It had eased somewhat now, as he sat on the window seat in his room, staring at the chest of drawers beside his bed. The chest of drawers that hid something he shouldn't have.

  Yes, Frost would kill him if he knew.

  Earlier, Stephen had stayed in his room for a long time until boredom claimed him. Although reticent to leave his sanctuary, Stephen had inched out of his room anyway, wanting to do something to keep his mind occupied. He'd been thinking too much about his mum, his brother, and depression had begun to creep into the edges of his mind. It had made his body heavy, too, as though the burden of his situation was a weighty thing that sat on his shoulders.

  On the landing, he looked at the bedroom doors either side of his—all closed with no one behind them. Everyone had gone off to do Frost's bidding. Frost had gone out too—Stephen had watched him from the window, zooming down the drive in a black Porsche, gravel spraying from beneath the tyres.

  Curious as to who had been left behind to watch him, he crept to the top of the wide staircase, stopping short upon hearing voices in the foyer. Lowering to his haunches, he sidled backward a bit and hoped the shadows kept him hidden.

  Two men stood leaning against the waist-high oak sideboard on the wall opposite the stairs, which, Stephen guessed, was used only to show off the expensive crystal ornaments on top. A swan. A bowl containing potpourri. An empty vase.

  “Don't envy Jonathan and Kevin today,” one said, his brown hair greying at the temples. He was stocky, clean-shaven, and looked like anyone's kindly dad. Not menacing at all.

  “Me neither, but I'm glad it isn't us. Fucking freezing out there.” The other man, red hair shaved to a couple of millimetres, rubbed the large bald spot on his crown.

  “Reckon they'll get one in time?” Stocky asked, picking at a hangnail.

  “Dunno, but they'd better. Frost'll have their guts for fucking garters if they don't.”

  They both chuckled. Stephen detected a bit of fear there. Redhead started pacing, his thick-soled boots squeaking on the polished tile. Stocky pushed off the sideboard and moved to the front door, peering out the peephole.

  “I'm bored fucking shitless,” Redhead said. “Reckon that kid up there's asleep?”

  “I would be if Frost kept me up all night like he does with his favourites.” Stocky laughed.

  “I'll go and check. If he is, we can fuck off into the living room. Play cards.”

  Redhead walked toward the stairs, and Stephen got up as quietly as he could. His heart pounded violently, and he scurried into his room, leaving the door ajar. Scrabbling onto the bed, he lay in the foetal position and concentrated on making his breaths heavy, as though he was, indeed, asleep.

  Eyes closed, he listened to Redhead's boots clonking up the stairs. Stephen's heartbeat went haywire, and he willed himself to calm down.

  Breathe slowly. Easy does it. Just...breathe.

  His door creaked, and it took everything in him to stop his eyelids flickering. His pulse thundered in his ears, and a ripple of shudders went up his spine. It seemed a long time passed before Redhead's footsteps
clomped away.

  After waiting a while longer, Stephen opened his eyes and looked at the doorway. For all he knew, Redhead still stood behind that door, tricking him into thinking he'd gone away. Although scared, Stephen got off the bed and padded to the door. If Redhead was on the other side, he'd just say he was going to the bathroom.

  Redhead wasn't there.

  On the landing, Stephen stopped to listen for a moment then moved forward to the newel post closest to him. Opposite the bedroom doors was another landing. Matching doors stood closed, and Stephen wondered what was behind them. This house was huge, so it made sense there were other rooms here. Walking across, he opened the first four doors, finding more bedrooms. At the fifth door, he paused to listen. Redhead's and Stocky's voices filtered up to him, raucous and coarse as they ribbed one another in the living room.

  Stephen turned the handle and found himself staring down a long corridor. No doors, just the walls of the bedrooms either side. He stepped over the threshold, closed the door, and walked the length of the narrow hallway until he reached the door at the end.

  What if it's locked?

  Blowing out through pursed lips, he turned the handle.

  Another corridor running across like a T-junction stood on the other side. Another row of ten doors.

  God, this place is massive.

  Starting at the farthest door on the left, Stephen peeked inside. A bedroom. More bedrooms followed, and he almost didn't bother checking the last door on the right. Something prodded him to finish his investigation, though, and he turned the handle, expecting to see a bed, wardrobe, and chest of drawers. General bedroom furniture.

  He found an office.

  The room, long and thin, stretched so far back Stephen couldn't make out what the pictures were on the walls down there. He glanced about, spotting several desks with computers, printers, and scanners. It looked like a control room of some sort, a place he really shouldn't be, but that something that had urged him to come here prodded him again.

  Computers. Information. Knowledge. Power.

  He strode toward the computer nearest to him and booted it up. Thanked his lucky stars he knew his way around a computer—in more ways than one. Putting Redhead and Stocky out of his mind and praying God was on his side, he breezed past the password obstacle and accessed the desktop. There were no file icons, just ones for Internet Explorer, Adobe Reader, and some firewall application.

  Stephen laughed at the latter. He'd have thought Frost would have chosen a better one, what with the important information these computers must hold. And they would, Stephen was sure of that.

  Tapping the keys and working the mouse, he found what he sought. A file consisting of names and addresses, payment details, everything the police would need to track down every person who had ever bought a kid from Frost. Ensuring the printer was hooked up to the computer, Stephen inserted a stack of paper to print the first hundred pages, front and back. There were thousands of them, and it would take a long time for them all to print using just that computer.

  He questioned his sanity. How he would get all that paper to his room without being caught? How he would keep the papers hidden? Get them out of the house to the police?

  I've got to do it.

  He switched on every computer and accessed the same file on each one—Frost clearly liked to keep copies of everything. When each printer hummed out all the information, Stephen browsed the room in search of a phone. He'd already noticed there weren't any landline phones anywhere in the house—everyone seemed to have mobiles—but there were phone jacks. Surely there was a phone in this place somewhere that he could plug into the damn wall.

  His search proved fruitless, so he busied himself putting the paper stacks from each printout session in order then instructing the printers to spit out the next lot. An hour had passed since he'd started, and the resulting paper pile was vast.

  And it would be too heavy to carry in one go.

  Clearing the history of what he'd done on each computer, Stephen, paranoid and getting the jitters, wiped the keyboards and mice with a tissue snatched from one of the boxes on a desk. He wouldn't put it past Frost, if Stephen had missed something while covering his tracks, to fingerprint the bloody equipment.

  That man is crazy. They all are.

  With every printer and computer now sitting silent, he stood beside the paper stack and blew out an unsteady breath.

  How the hell am I going to get away with this?

  He glanced around the room, spotting a metal frame on wheels. It held cardboard boxes and looked as though it was used to take heavy things from one part of the house to another. If there was such a person as Lady Luck, she was with Stephen right then.

  He rushed over to the frame and hefted the boxes off. They contained more paper, so the labels said. Opening one box, he removed the paper, piling it on the floor. Placing the box back on the frame's base, he filled it with the printed information.

  Now to get it back to my room.

  With a deep breath, Stephen gripped the black rubber handles and wheeled his precious cargo to the door. Pushing it fast down the corridor, he winced as one wheel let out a piercing shriek. Heart thudding too hard, his breath held, he stopped walking and stood still. Waited for sounds that told him someone was coming to investigate.

  He stood this way for some time before moving toward the door that led to the landing opposite his room. Opening the door a crack, he peered out. Redhead's and Stocky's loud laughter snaked up the stairs. Quietly, Stephen opened the door wider, took hold of the handles again, and pushed the frame out onto the landing.

  The wheel shrieked again.

  Stephen swore his heart had leaped into his throat.

  The men's laughter stopped.

  “What was that?” Stocky.

  “Fuck knows. Reckon the kid's awake?” Redhead.

  “Go and check.”

  Holy fuck!

  Panicked beyond measure, Stephen had no choice but to wheel the frame to his room, teeth clenched, nerves on edge in case that damn wheel cried out again. It didn't, but the little black tyres made a thwap-thwap-thwap sound on the wooden flooring.

  Oh, God, let me make it. Please, just let me make it to my room.

  Footsteps smacked on the foyer floor. Donked on the stairs.

  In his doorway, Stephen wrestled to get the wheels over the wooden strip of the threshold. It seemed they wouldn't budge, were caught on something. The footsteps came closer. Any second now, he'd be seen through the banister spindles.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  The wheels stopped being stubborn and glided over the strip. Stephen had enough time to park the frame behind the door, leave the door ajar, and clamber onto his bed. He didn't have time to steady his breathing—the footsteps were on the landing.

  Holding his breath, eyes closed, Stephen waited for one of the men to burst in and discover the evidence. The door creaked a little—he guessed it had been opened a bit—and softly knocked against the metal frame.

  Oh, God. I'm caught. I'm—

  The footsteps began again, changing beat as the man went back downstairs. Stephen released the air from his lungs, tears stinging his eyes, and quietly got off the bed. At his door, he listened, straining to hear any conversation from Redhead and Stocky. Soft murmurs reached him, then a burst of laughter.

  Relief spread through him, making his limbs shaky and his pulse bang in his throat.

  “Come on. Get this done. It'll be all right. Just get on and do it,” he whispered.

  The only place available to hide the papers, apart from the wardrobe, was the chest of drawers. The bottom one held nothing, so he filled it with the information he hoped would put these men down for a damn long time.

  If it wasn't discovered.

  He took some clothes—ones he hadn't worn yet—out of the wardrobe and folded them, placing the items on top of the paper. That would have to do for now.

  With the job of getting the frame back into that office yet
to do, Stephen made short work of it, carrying it across the landing and down the corridor so the wheel didn't get a chance to squeak. Once in the office, he replaced the paper into the now-empty box and left everything as he'd found it. With a wipe of the frame's handles, he scoured the room, making sure he hadn't left any clue that he'd ever been there.

  Outside the office, he wiped the door handle, sped down the corridor, and made it back into his room without incident. He took a moment to compose himself, freaked the hell out that he'd had the balls to do what he'd done. He didn't contemplate what to do next—or what would happen if those papers were discovered.

  Deal with one step at a time.

  Once the adrenaline rush dispersed and he felt reasonably normal, he left his room and went downstairs. At the living room doorway, he nodded to Stocky and Redhead, who sat on a sofa, cards spread out on a coffee table before them.

  “Just getting something to eat. Do you want anything?” he asked.

  The men looked at one another.

  “Yeah, why not,” Stocky said. “Sandwich would go down nicely.”

  “Yeah, and a cuppa,” Redhead added.

  Relieved to have something mundane to do to take his mind off the recent events, Stephen nodded again and went into the kitchen. He prepared the food and drinks, absolutely starving himself, which he supposed was the after effect of his adrenaline rush. His stomach growled as he carried the men's food and drink into them on a tray and set it on the coffee table.

  “Sounds like you need some food yourself,” Redhead said, reaching for a ham salad sandwich. “Go on out there and eat.” He took a bite, stuffing the food to the side of his mouth, cheek bulging.

  Stephen gave a tight smile and returned to the kitchen, devoured two sandwiches, and gulped down tea. It tasted like the cuppas his mum made, and he bit back a sudden sob. Clamping his teeth onto a knuckle, he paced the room in an attempt to give his mind something else to think about.

  The door beside the breakfast bar snagged his attention, and he tried the handle again.