The Flesh Cartel #9: Trials and Errors

just about how uncomfortable it was, or how it constantly left him feeling on the edge of choking, or how it made it hard to breathe every time he looked at Dougie broken and begging and he teared up too. No, it was how fucking close to shattering Dougie was, and how much Mat needed to be able to talk to him, talk him down, tell him everything he should’ve said that awful, awful night with Mr. Baseball Bat.
    Fix things. He had to fucking fix things.
    Somehow.
    God, they’d work it out, they always had. Mat refused to believe that this was less fixable than the deaths of their parents or Dougie being taken into foster care. He just needed to be able to talk. To comfort Dougie in a way that touches couldn’t.
    He looked over his shoulder again. Dougie was still behind him, eyes wet and shining in the dim light that streaked out from under the door at the top of the stairs. Would that door be unlocked too? Were they that lucky? God, were they lucky at all, or was this some kind of fucking trick? Would there be attack dogs at the top of the stairs, waiting to tear them apart for their betrayal?
    No. We’re too expensive for that.
    Still, he didn’t trust it. Couldn’t.
    Maybe Nikolai would be waiting at the top of the stairs. Or the guards. Only one way to find out though, and at this point, they didn’t have much more to lose and a whole hell of a lot to gain.
    How much more could Nikolai punish them? Could that ever outweigh their chance at freedom? Mat cast one more look at Dougie over his shoulder, still fucking crying (although at least he was doing it quietly)—just at the thought of leaving this place?—and decided it was worth the risk. Because it was either risk it, or leave Dougie to lose himself entirely. Tonight, Dougie had refused to rape him. Would he do the same again tomorrow?
    Mat crept up the stairs, shifted both sticks into one hand, and put out his other hand to signal for Dougie to wait below while Mat put his ear to the door. No sounds of stirring at all.
    Okay. Here goes. Lady Luck, don’t fail me now.
    Mat took the knob in hand.
    Turned it.
    Raised his weapons.
    The door swung open, revealing . . . nothing at all of note. An empty cupboard, and outside of that, an empty hall. He gestured to Dougie to climb the stairs, stared out at the hall again. Right or left? Mat barely remembered the house’s layout, and turned to Dougie for help. He needed to get this fucking gag off. He pointed at the straps. Made a scissoring motion with his hand.
    “The kitchen?” Dougie whispered back. “Left.”
    So Mat turned left, but froze when Dougie’s hand caught his wrist. When Mat turned to see what was the matter, Dougie shook his head until fresh tears fell. “We can’t,” he whispered. “I forgot. Jeremy.”
    Jeremy must be the cook. The one who made Mat all those surprisingly not-bland meals of lean protein and complex carbs.
    What, the fucking guy cooks in the middle of the night? He was really starting to wish Dougie could muster up the energy for some full fucking sentences. It wasn’t fair to be angry at him, he knew that, but he needed more information and couldn’t ask for it, and Dougie wasn’t fucking volunteering it.
    But then, suddenly, he did. “His bedroom’s off the kitchen. I . . . I’ve spent some nights there. He never shuts his door.”
    Mat didn’t want to know why. He just reached out with one hand to cup Dougie’s cheek and hoped that would serve as comfort. The way Dougie closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, like some needy cat but sexual, somehow, made him want to pull his hand away again. But he resisted the urge. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t mean it. He just . . . needs you.
    And you need him, too. You can’t live without him. Not his fault he’s too fucked up to express that properly anymore.
    Okay, so Mat would be stuck with the gag a little longer. Maybe there was a shed or something in the garden. Not that he wanted to put rusty gardening equipment anywhere near his face. Oh well, no point in worrying about tetanus when they hadn’t even made it out of the house yet.
    Shit. Which way was out? How to ask? He tucked one stick beneath his arm and made a walking man with two fingers, mimicking going down steps with them.
    “Stairs?” Dougie asked, and then his eyes lit up. “You want to go back downstairs?”
    No! Mat shook his head vehemently. Damn, well, it was hardly Dougie’s fault for not thinking of the stairs that led