Scott Sherman: Third You Die

“No, Lucas, it’s me,” I said, pitching my voice half an octave higher than usual. “It’s your brother. Colin.”

Lucas’s eyes sprang open. “Colin? But you’re-”

“I’m hurt, Lucas,” I whined. “That bad man”-I pointed my chin toward Kristen-“he took us. He tied us up and hurt us. You have to free us, Lucas. I’m not strong enough.

“I need my big brother to save me.”

Watching Lucas Hulk-out was a sight. It was obvious how big and built he was, but it was still amazing to see him flex his naked body from the waist up until his muscles stood out like illustrations on an anatomy chart. Unlike me, he didn’t attempt to jump and use his weight to break the bar. He just tensed and pulled, like he was using a cable machine at the gym. It took some effort, but in less than a minute Lucas had snapped it in half.

For a moment, I expected steam or some toxic chemical to come surging from the severed pipe. But… nothing.

Now free except for the leather restraints around his wrists, Lucas ran and helped me down, too. He looped his bound wrists around my back and pulled me into him. “Colin,” he sobbed, “you’re safe now. You’re safe.”

Despite the drugs he’d been given, and the persistent chemically induced (and very impressive) erection he still sported, there was nothing sexual in the air as Lucas embraced me. Just joy and relief and an innocent affection. A brother’s love.

I was afraid that by using the trauma of the loss of his brother to break through Lucas’s drug-induced lethargy, I’d somehow break Lucas, too. He was consumed by remorse and guilt and I’d played on those weaknesses to manipulate him into breaking us free.

Maybe I’d been wrong, though. Soon enough, Lucas would come to his senses and understand none of this was real. But I sensed he’d be left, somewhere deep inside, with the memory that, even if it happened in a kind of dream, he’d been able to do the thing he’d spent the last year wishing he could have: He’d saved his brother after all.

I hugged Lucas back, trying to squeeze into him enough love and gratitude to carry him through the days ahead. They weren’t going to be easy. But he wouldn’t be alone.

I heard a noise from the floor. Moaning. My arms still around Lucas, I looked down and saw Kristen trying to bring himself to all fours. He was a shaky mess. The struggle to rise was complicated by his hand repeatedly slipping out from under him in the pool of blood he’d made.

“Don’t bother getting up,” I told him. “We’ll show ourselves out.”

I casually kicked out my leg, catching him in the head. He crashed to the floor again, his skull hitting the concrete with a satisfying thunk.

Well, satisfying for me. I’m sure Kristen felt otherwise.

Lucas didn’t even seem to notice. He kept hugging me and sobbing with happiness.

Soon, I’d have to rummage through Kristen’s pockets for the keys to our wrist restraints. Then, we’d have to get dressed and call the police.

It was going to be a long night.

For now, though, I was content to let Lucas enjoy his fantasy for a while more. No one we love is ever really lost, but it’s rare we get the chance to embrace them again. Lucas deserved this. He needed it.

Just because it wasn’t real didn’t mean it didn’t matter. Sometimes, a dream is enough to save a life.

As we got dressed, I told the still-groggy but generally awakened Lucas what had happened. He helped me tie up Kristen-not hard to do given the amount of bondage equipment stored around the studio. Lucas seemed to absorb about half of what I told him, which seemed fine for now. At least he understood I wasn’t Colin but Kevin, and if he bore a grudge, he didn’t show it.

On our way out to find a phone (Kristen must have dumped or hidden our mobiles somewhere), we heard the heavy tread of footsteps as someone ran into the studio.

“Kristen!” a nasally voice yelled. “Sorry I had to bail on you after we brought the boys over. I had to make the drop to the East Side guys. That is not a crew you want to piss off.

“Did our sleeping beauties wake yet? We ready to start shooting?”

I’d wondered how Kristen could have gotten us over here by himself. Turns out he had a production assistant. Who?

Into the light came Pierce Deepley, clad from head to toe in black leather. In one hand, he carried the matching zipper mask that would complete his ensemble. The other held a grande Starbucks cup, from which the sweet smell of syrup wafted enticingly.

A S amp;M master with a Caramel Macchiato. Not hot.

I knew I didn’t like that creep.

It took a moment before he realized his intended victims were flanking him.

“Uh, hi,” he said, looking nervously from one of us to the other. “I was just, um, walking by and I heard-”

“Please,” I interjected. “Shut up. Change of plans. Kristen decided you should be on the receiving end for this shoot.”

“What?” Pierce panicked. “Me? But… I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“You know too much,” I said in my best 1940s-tough-guy detective voice. “Kristen’s decided you’re worth more dead than alive. Lucas, hold him.”

The big lug stepped behind Pierce and pinned his arms back.

“No,” Pierce said, “he can’t just… kill me. He can’t!”

“Of course not,” I reassured him. “Well, not until we flay you first. That’ll come after the whipping and tooth extractions, of course.”

Just because I wasn’t into S amp;M like Pierce didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy verbally torturing the bad guy for a while. Seemed like the least he deserved.

“What do you think, Lucas? That branding iron hot enough yet?”

If you ever wondered if you could tell through black leather pants if someone’s peed himself, I can tell you the answer is yes. The yellow puddle spread to the floor, and I had to step back from getting my shoes wet.

“Okay, that is just gross,” I observed. “Lucas, could you, I don’t know, knock him out or something?”

He could. We trussed him up to match his partner in crime and headed out.

Two weeks later.

Thirteen days since I’d spoken to Tony for more than five minutes at a time. Thirteen days since I’d seen him.

It was over between us.

Snuffed out.

Let me explain.

He was the one I called when Lucas and I found a phone. We weren’t at the SwordFight studios. It would come out later that Mason wasn’t aware of Kristen’s side business. Although he was guilty of knowingly employing the underage Brent, and of helping him create the false documents that made it look legit.

The paper trail wasn’t hard to find.

Kristen was guilty of much more.

Turns out the first body that had been found in the river was another victim of the demented director’s “art.” Videotapes discovered in Kristen’s apartment and secret studio promised there were more out there, waiting to be found.

As for Brent? Kristen had killed him, too. The whole thing had been filmed. Not that I ever intended to watch. Tony told me it had nothing to do with Brent’s being underage-I was wrong about that. Twisted as Kristen was, he really did have feelings for Lucas. Mind you, those feelings were perverted and had more to do with possessiveness than “love,” but they were strong.

When he figured out that Lucas had been seeing Brent on the side, and that Lucas might be leaving him for his co-star, Kristen had to stop it. Once he made that decision, it only made sense to do it on film. After all, why not make some bank while defending your turf?

That’s why Brent was all drugged-up. Knowing there was a chance Brent could be traced back to him (his usual victims were picked up in bars or clubs by a third party), Kristen tortured Brent in a way that didn’t leave marks so that the drowning story would be more believable. In fact, that’s how he eventually killed Brent, by holding his head in a bucket of water he’d filled at the river, so that the fluid in his lungs would match that from the Hudson.