The Flesh Cartel #3: Choices

thing Dougie had endured and done on that stage had been worth it for that.
Dougie held onto that thought tighter than he’d held onto anything in his life, because otherwise the guilt and self-hatred from what he’d just done to Mat would consume him like a fire. Destroy him.
He’d always said he’d do anything for Mat. Die. Sell his soul.
Now he really had.
Men surrounded Mat’s hanging form, blocking him from view as Madame snatched up Dougie’s leash and led him offstage.
She handed him off to someone in a headset, saying, “Have it prepared for shipment. The buyer has specified how it is to be treated from here on out; instructions are filed. You know what to do.”
“Of course, Madame,” said the man who took Dougie’s leash. And then Madame was walking away from him. She was walking away from him and Mat wasn’t here and there was no way she could possibly mean to—
“Madame!” Dougie called. It was easier than finishing that awful thought. “Where’s my brother? You promised! Didn’t I do what you asked? Wasn’t I good enough? Madame! My brother!”
He hooked four fingers around the front of his collar in preparation for the inevitable choking tug he was about to receive. Madame didn’t answer him, didn’t even acknowledge him. Neither did the man who dragged him away from her.
From Mat.
And from everyone else, too. The guard conferred briefly with a stagehand over a glowing tablet screen, too quietly for Dougie to hear, then led him down a hallway he’d never seen before. To what looked like another cell block, and really, how big was this place? They paused before a door that turned out to be a supply cupboard, from which the guard pulled a ball gag that he shoved into Dougie’s mouth—nothing he couldn’t breathe through, but it would make his jaw sore, and if he wasn’t careful it’d trip his gag reflex—and buckled and locked it on. No more talking.
A cell next, much like the one he’d been living in the past however long. Just as small. Just as cold. But this one had two doors, an inner and an outer like an airlock. And a toilet in the far corner. The padding lining the walls and floor and ceiling was thicker, and when the heavy inner door clanged shut, he realized it had no window.
At least the guard had taken off the leash and collar before shoving him inside.
Not much consolation, though. The room was pitch-black. Not even a sliver of light leaking in around the edges. Silent, too, the rasping of his breath through his nose the only thing he could hear.
No sign of Mat anywhere.
No sign of anything.
But he had been bought, hadn’t he? They both had. Together —he was certain of it. Surely they weren’t going to leave him here in the cold silent dark forever? Surely his new owner would come to get him soon, and Mat would be there too, and no matter what else happened, at least they’d have each other . . . right?
He held on to that thought as tightly as he could as he felt his way to a corner and packed himself into it, huddled down small to conserve warmth. The quiet was as oppressive as the dark, the gag in his mouth a miserable, constant reminder of his stolen senses. He tried to stay alert, to listen for Mat, for guards, for anything—whatever was going to happen, he wanted to be ready. But nerves exhausted him as surely as pain, and eventually, he couldn’t help it—he slept.
For a very long time, too, he was pretty sure. Hard to judge the passage of time in the constant darkness, but he woke up feeling more rested than he had since before this whole nightmare had begun. And feeling surprisingly sane for all that he was locked in a dark silent icebox of a closet. His jaw was killing him, and the second he thought about that, he realized how thirsty he was— so thirsty, thirstier than he’d ever been—which led to him realizing how badly he had to piss. Thankfully there was a toilet in here somewhere, and his hands were free. He just had to find it . . .
Ah, there. His hand bumped chilly porcelain, and he crawled forward another inch or two on the padded floor, feeling out the contours of the toilet in the dark. He leaned over the bowl and sniffed cautiously. Nothing—not shit, not bleach, just water. He didn’t even hesitate to thrust his cupped hands in it and bring them to his mouth.
The ball gag had holes in it for breathing, like a Wiffle ball, and the cold water trickling inside was the sweetest he’d ever tasted, so good he didn’t care where it’d