Page 12 of Iced Out

His chin trembling, Tae smiled and held him tightly. “Me, too.”

CHAPTER 5

He came back to consciousness in pieces, the cold arriving first—the bite of it at his fingertips, the ache of it deep in his jaw—then sound, a low, distant ringing, and then the hard surface beneath his feet. Last of all, the pain, which had been waiting patiently for him to wake up.

His eyes gradually opened as a thin sliver of light seeped between his eyelids, piercing straight to the back of his skull. The realization of his nakedness arrived slowly, like cold—a reality his body had long since accepted before his mind could even register it. The air moved freely over him, and he sensed a coldness of exposure around his groin. Usually, he wouldn’t pay much attention to it. Now, it seemed the most exposed and fragile part of him.

He shivered intensely, waves overtaking him, gripping and relaxing his muscles in a strange, uncontrollable rhythm. His stomach churned at the back of his throat, lurching involuntarily, as if attempting to rid itself of the cold completely.

What’s happening? Where am I?

His memories arrived in fragments and faded before he could piece them together. Instead of recollections, sensations filled the void: a deep burn in his shoulders, tense joints indicating he had been there for a while. His wrists, stretched above him, transitioned from pain to a sharp, pinpoint sting—possibly from rope, cable, or wire; he was unsure. His weight shifted forward onto the balls of his feet, and the concrete floor pressed back with its indifferent hardness—gritty and unyielding, working itself into the soft skin between his toes.

Dan. The name first appeared as a fleeting thought, then as a measured intention, yet his body resisted speaking it. His throat tightened, and his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. With effort, he parted his lips—producing a faint, sticky sound—and attempted to force the name out. What emerged was almost unrecognizable. “Dan—” The sound faded into a cough that shook his shoulders and strained his wrists. He paused, then tried again. “Dan…” The intended cry escaped as a faint whisper, already worn out, swallowed by the surrounding silence.

Brad opened his eyes wider and immediately regretted it. The light settled on the exact center of his skull and stayed there, a fixed point of white pressure that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He turned his head—a small thing, almost nothing—and felt the pain shift entirely, a sudden, nauseating change that wrenched a sound from somewhere below his chest. He went still. Waited for it to recede.

The cold had become a kind of physics, a law that governed him. It numbed the surface and burned beneath, creating a paradox of sensations he hadn’t known possible.

The world swam, a smear of shadow and substance, before it resolved into a low, oppressive ceiling of rough-hewn stone. A rust-streaked 55-gallon drum stood sentinel beside a dark, grated opening in the wall—a ventilation shaft, perhaps. From the drum’s base, a faint cherry glow pulsed, and a thin, acrid smoke twisted upward, carrying the scent of scorched metal and old ash. To its right sat a heavy wooden table, its surface a grim display: pliers with dark, grooved jaws; a coiled length of braided wire; a propane torch lying on its side; pruning shears bearing a dark, disturbing stain along the blades.

Brad’s gaze flinched from it, skittering across the room until it snagged on something worse.

Mounted against the far wall was a large, skeletal bedspring, its coils rusted and straining under the weight of the man bound to it. Dan was splayed out naked against the metal grid, his limbs pulled taut like a specimen. Thin wire bit deep into the swollen flesh of his wrists and ankles, the skin around each ligature purpled and split. A metal bar was forced between his teeth, secured by a cracked leather strap that dug into the corners of his mouth. His head lolled to one side at a sharp, unnatural angle, his face pale and slack beneath a film of sweat, and turned toward the ceiling. His eyes were half-closed and glazed.

“Dan—” The name died in Brad’s throat. His eyes moved where he did not want them to move, tracking down the length of his friend’s body to his cock where the skin had been separated from the flesh in a neat, deliberate margin, like the peeled-back cover of something that was never meant to be opened. What lay beneath was dark and intricate and wrong—a wet latticework of tissue that glistened faintly in the pale light. The blood had found the bedspring’s lowest rail and followed it down in a slow, methodical procession, dropping from coil to coil, accumulating into the pool below—wide and still, its perimeter already dried to a dark rind against the concrete.

Brad’s rapid heartbeat spiraled out of control as another level of panic took over. “Dan!” The cry burst out, coarse and ragged, shredding his throat. “Jesus Christ! Dan—wake up! Fucking wake up!”

Dan didn’t respond, his glazed eyes staring at nothing. Foamy drool trickled out around the bar gag and oozed onto his bare chest.

He’s dead! Oh fuck—he’s dead!

Brad thrashed at his restraints in a frenzy, the thin wire gouging deeper into his wrists until blood ran down his arms. He abruptly stopped fighting and looked down. His soft belly prevented him from seeing his own dick. If they’d cut him, too, he would feel it—he would fucking feel it!

He lifted his lower half enough to glimpse his cock—it was all still there.

But something was different. Someone had drawn on his member with a black marker.

Dotted lines around the root—and straight down the topline of his shaft.

No-no-NOO!! Brad began thrashing wildly again. Oh my god-oh my god-OH MY GAWD!!

“Dan!!” Brad screamed, choking on his own panic. “Wake up—”

Dan’s head twitched. His eyelids fluttered. A gurgle in his throat.

“Dan…?” An irrational relief spilled through Brad, and he almost cried and pissed himself at the same time. Dan was in no condition to save them. Still, the relief remained; Brad didn’t want to be here alone… wherever here was.

It’s hell… You’re in hell.

The Egyptian sat at the minibar in the mansion’s lounge. Tension spread through his thick, muscled shoulders as he held one of the agents’ phones, watching the recording of them scoping out Tae at the park. He listened to the racist, predatory remarks about his son—the laughing and joking about what they wanted to do to him.

The cowboy sat on the stool beside him, holding the other phone, watching other videos of brutality and sexual abuse inflicted on other detainees. The men were threatening, but always laughing, making sport of the frightened, innocent lives at their mercy—as if it were somehow a fucking game.

They want to play games? We’ll play games.

Right about now, he didn’t think they were laughing or having a good time. Especially not the fucker who’d had his dick flayed. Maybe it was even worse for his buddy, who was surely awake by now, witnessing his own imminent fate.