Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
“You look low-key grossed out.”
Kyle nearly forgot Drake was sitting on the chaise next to him, his denim jacket traded for a sleeveless white shirt, loose, the logo of some obscure indie band on the front. Somehow, the bright white band shirt makes his faded pink hair look even pinker. “Not really.”
“You wish that was us instead?”
Kyle frowns at him. “Huh?”
“Wanna lick wine off my nipple and make out with me by a pile of golden chalices like those two are? Side note, who needs so many freakin’ chalices? Where do we think we are? Medieval Europe?” Kyle looks away. Drake throws an arm over the back of the chaise, leans in. “Something about bringing blood home to my family gets me horny. Don’t know what it is. I think I get off on taking care of others. That a sexual identity?” He gazes at the side of Kyle’s face. “Taking care of loved ones?”
“You call these your loved ones?” asks Kyle with a note of mockery. “I bet you can’t even tell me one of their names.”
Drake lifts a finger and opens his mouth to answer, frowns, then drops his hand. “Fuck, you’re right. Maybe my fetish is taking care of total strangers, then. Is that a thing?”
“Yeah, it’s called totally bat shit. All of this. All of this is … is totally bat shit.” Kyle scoots away from Drake, leans forward with a sigh, rests his arms on his knees. “The second the sun’s down, I’m outta here.”
“So soon?”
The women are still making out. “Sooner the better.”
“Bat shit’s relative. I imagine bat shit is rather normal to … well, bats.” Drake scoots over, bringing himself next to Kyle again. “Maybe you’re too used to the big system, to convention, to what you think’s normal. Why can’t this be normal? Why are we all so submissive to this bat shit idea of—see what I did there?—working our asses off for dollars and cents, being owned by our jobs and our bosses, confining ourselves—rules, rules, rules. Such a waste of the precious time we’ve got with this life, y’know?”
“Brilliant. Moving words. You should start a podcast.”
Drake chuckles, elbows a smirking Kyle in the ribs. “You got a lip on you. That’s hot. I could listen to you shit-talk and sass me all night long while I’m rubbing one out. It’d do it for me. What’s your accent, by the way? I can’t quite place it. Texas, maybe?”
Kyle doesn’t bother to show his surprise at Drake’s correct first guess. He just rises from the chaise lounge and walks away.
After passing a couple of other heaps of junk, he comes to an abrupt stop at the sight of a cage. It’s in the center of a space lined with mine carts overflowing with dark stones. The cage is not generous with its space, roughly eight feet tall. Within, the young bodybuilder Kyle encountered in the desert stands at attention, only now he’s been given the dignity of the world’s tiniest golden thong, making his tightly-wrapped privates look as shiny as a Christmas ornament. Seated in front of the cage is Salazo, who watches his pet with unblinking eyes while the young man poses and flexes, as if for an audience. Despite the confident posing, his face reflects fear and sadness, terrified at all times that a wrong movement or poor performance could bear deadly consequences. “Yes,” sings Salazo in his phony, snakelike accent, “beautiful, my gorgeous boy, you’re a marvel. Do it again, but slower, more delicious, bigger, like a mountain rising from magma.” Despite being puzzled by the instruction, the young man proceeds, trying to please Salazo however he can. Kyle feels his racing heart, the uncertainty in his brain, the red hot fumes of humiliation wafting up his neck and cheeks. “One more pose just like that … yes, oh, how delicious you are, like a statue, how so, so very delicious …”
It’s then that the young man sees Kyle.
At once, Kyle feels the sting of guilt, feeling responsible for the young man’s botched attempt at an escape. That painful sting is worsened by the young man blaming Kyle, feeling betrayed by someone he mistook for a human, a deep and powerful distrust radiating from him in waves of anger. He believes he will never be free again. This is his life now. A toy for Salazo’s amusement. His good looks, now turned into a weapon against him. The years of work spent perfecting his body, now turned into a perverse joke for the pleasure of a sick, lustful immortal.
It’s then that Kyle realizes he can’t just leave. He can’t walk out of this cave, strut back into his life, put all of this behind him like a dream. He will never forget this guy’s face, nor the sting of betrayal in his eyes—and he will never forgive himself if he doesn’t do something about his plight.