Page 69 of Follows with Intent

Some people, whatever that meant, wouldn’t be enough. Someone had Nico. Right then, at that moment. Jadon was sure of it. And whoever it was, he’d been planning things, trying to get Nico for days. He could see, in his mind’s eye, Dalary Lang’s bruised and battered face, the tamped-down horror in his eyes. Dark eyes. And dark hair. And a slender, almost waifish build. Not quite like Nico, who was more lean muscle. But the same dark, shaggy hair. Jadon remembered what it was like to be helpless. To be unable to move. To be unable to fight back. Unable to make them stop. He remembered when he lost control of his breathing, and he tried to gulp air, and the bag sealed its plastic around his mouth and nose again.

For a heartbeat, it was like something physical lodged in Jadon’s throat; he couldn’t breathe. Then he forced himself to calm. Whatever had happened, whatever was happening, he couldn’t do anything to help Nico if he didn’t keep his head.

In the meantime, all he could do was try. He placed a call to dispatch and requested a patrol car and a detective on duty. Then he stood there, his fingers growing numb from the cold, his face and clothes wet with the misty rain, listening to the drumbeat inside his head.

“Nico!” he shouted. He kept his distance from the disturbed ground where the attack had happened and began to move outward in a spiral. “Nico! If you can hear me, make some noise!”

A girl in a Wonder Woman costume stared at him and then hurried away. Jadon kept moving and calling out. As he did, he tried to be logical, tried to make sense out of what had happened. Someone had been following Nico. Someone had made attempts. That suggested a pattern, a fixation. Again, in his memory, the vision played of Dr. Meza rolling the wale of corduroy between his fingers. But Jadon could also admit to himself that it was a stretch. The assaults had been happening for weeks, and for all Jadon knew, Meza was a tenured professor at some institution on the coast. The same was true for the next person in Jadon’s lineup—Clark clearly had an interest in Nico, perhaps even an unhealthy one, and he certainly hadn’t been pleased that Nico had chosen to spend time with Jadon. But again, the assaults had been happening for weeks. Unless Clark was a grad student in the area, then he was out too.

Of course, there were other explanations. The attacker might have simply recognized the pattern of assaults on campus and realized it would make perfect cover for his own actions—kind of like a copycat. Even that felt weak to Jadon; the physical similarities between Nico and the previous victims were too great. If someone was simply taking advantage of the situation, then the odds of that similarity would have to be astronomical. Then Jadon remembered the strange security guard, the one who had been there when he and Nico had run into each other (literally). The guard who had appeared, as if by magic, when Meza and Jadon had started going at it. Had Jadon seen him other places? Maybe; he had a vague recollection of spotting a familiar face on campus. But then, Chouteau was a small college, so it didn’t seem unusual that he’d might run into the security guard by accident. Maybe the best thing would be to call the security office again and see if that guard was on duty tonight. Or if he could be located. A home address, maybe. If Jadon had thought of it earlier—

And that stopped him. Because the man in the security office had said, Do you still want me to call that detective? And Jadon, in a hurry, had dismissed the words. But Jadon hadn’t asked campus security to contact him about an assault. Jadon had asked some guys in patrol, ones he was friendly with.

Do you still want me to call that detective?

It was like pieces of the puzzle lining up. Vic saying, Reck, that kid is some grade-A pussy. Vic saying, Holy shit, this is the underwear model? But Jadon had been careful never to bring that up because he knew how sensitive Nico was about it. So, how could Vic have known—

Unless he’d learned it himself.

Vic, who was always walking a fine line of homophobia. Vic, with that harassment complaint hanging over his head. Vic, always insisting it was just a misunderstanding.

A young Black woman in a security guard uniform was approaching, flashlight in hand. “Sir?”

“Don’t let anyone touch that crime scene until the patrol officers get here,” he said, pointing at the disturbed section of grass. Then, still clutching the hoodie and phone, he sprinted toward where he’d parked his car.

18

Nico

The inside of the hood smelled like vinyl, and the hot air of Nico’s breath, and the fragrance of his hair product. His attacker had pulled it over Nico’s head shortly after he’d been tackled on the quad, and he’d worn it during the walk across campus, then the car ride (which he’d spent in the trunk), and then as he’d been forced into a building and down a flight of steps. His initial hope that someone would see him, would save him, had guttered and died—it was Halloween, so what was strange about a couple of guys with their BDSM gear on?

Strangely, his panic had leveled out—still panic, yes, but even with his heart going a mile a minute, even with him gulping to try to get enough air, he could force himself to think. He had to think. Or else he was pretty sure he was going to die. If you see his face, a small voice inside his head told him, he’s going to kill you. Nico had been around enough cops, seen enough cop shows, to know that.

Now, tied to a chair, he tried to think. First, he took inventory of himself. He was wet, his shoulder throbbing from the fall he’d taken, and covered in mud and grass. The cold made him shiver, and his toes had gone numb. A ball gag filled his mouth, and his jaw ached from being forced open for so long. He’d lost Jadon’s hoodie and, more importantly, his phone. He had no weapons, no tools, nothing. He thought of what Emery would do. Emery would probably have a multitool up his ass. The thought made a giggle rise in Nico’s chest. He sensed the hysteria behind the laughter and clamped down on it; if he started laughing, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop.

Next, he tried to make sense of where he was. A basement, yes. The air was cool. He’d lost his slides when he’d been tackled, and underfoot, he felt tile. When he moved, the acoustics of the room suggested that it was big and empty. A basement, he thought again. In a home, he guessed. When they’d come inside, the basement stairs had been directly in front of them. That was good. If he could get to the stairs, it would be a straight shot to get out of the house.

He tested the ropes. The ones around his wrist had already chafed the skin raw, and every movement burned. Another rope ran from his wrists to his ankles, passing under the chair to keep Nico from standing. Nico pulled as hard as he could, but all he managed to do was draw the rope tight. It was too strong for him to break, and all he succeeded in doing was making his wrists burn.

The edge of his panic sharpened again. He remembered another time, another place—being cold, in the dark, alone. His breaths came more quickly. It was the hood; he couldn’t get enough air. He felt like his head was on fire, like—

A quiet laugh made him jolt upright. Adrenaline rushed through him, like pins and needles on every inch of exposed skin. He tried to determine where the sound had come from, but all he could tell was that it had not been close. Then one of the treads creaked, and footsteps came down the stairs. They crossed the room, and then a familiar sound: the rustle of clothing as someone lowered himself to the floor.

Hands touched Nico’s bare feet, and he flinched. The laugh came again. Nico kicked, or tried to. He couldn’t move his feet, since they were tied to the legs of the chair, but he tried anyway. The man kept laughing. He curled his fingers under Nico’s feet, stroking his bare soles, rubbing his thumbs over Nico’s toes. Everything felt slow, almost affectionate. He’s taking his time; the thought rose in Nico like a bubble of panic. He’s taking his time because he doesn’t have to hurry.

Hands wrapped Nico’s ankles again, squeezing—too fat, practically cankles and don’t be ridiculous, his ankles are fine; it’s his calves that are the problem and the look on Jadon’s face when Nico had told him—and then stroking upward, the fingertips now, teasing the hairs on Nico’s legs. When the hands settled on his knees, the man applied light pressure, a nonverbal cue for Nico to spread them. Instead, Nico drew his knees together. The man made an annoyed noise and let go of Nico’s knees. Then he punched Nico in the solar plexus.

The blow drove the air from Nico’s lungs. He sagged in the chair, the pain compounded by his body’s automatic panic can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe. He was only distantly aware of the man easing his legs apart, of the hands continuing their journey up his thighs. Slowly, as his body relaxed, Nico was able to suck in a breath. A tear ran to the tip of his nose and hung there. More stung his eyes, and he tried to blink them away.

If the man noticed, or if he cared, he gave no sign of it. His hands paused at the tiny red running shorts. He slid the bottle of lotion out of the pockets, and he laughed again. The sound of plastic hitting tile suggested he’d tossed the bottle to the floor. His hands continued up, and then he pressed against Nico’s dick with his thumb—soft at first, and then harder, until Nico tried to shift away. He laughed again.

He stroked Nico’s belly, tracing the definition there. Then up again to tease Nico’s nipples. He leaned in and sniffed Nico’s pits. In the chill of the basement, his body heat radiated against Nico. A long finger followed the line of his collarbone. And then a hand wrapped around his neck, thumb pressing against Nico’s throat, hard enough that Nico fought the urge to gag, and then harder still. With the rubber ball still in his mouth, it was already hard to convince himself he was getting enough air. Now, for a moment, Nico couldn’t get any. He fought again, trying to kick, wrenching his body in an effort to get away. The man laughed longer this time, a rolling chuckle.

The hood was ripped away—and, with it, some of Nico’s hair. He blinked, partly to adjust to the light, and partly from the fresh tears. He tried to breathe through his nose, but the tears had made him snotty, and it was harder than ever. He felt dizzy. The basement tilted. Nico tried to focus on the man.

Vic. His name was Vic. He had wanted—Nico wasn’t sure. Something about coffee. They’d been in the coffee shop.

Vic stared back at him. The veneer of flirtation and good humor that Nico remembered from their first meeting was gone; now, his eyes were hungry. He was smiling, and it widened as he took Nico in. He still hadn’t said anything yet. Say something, Nico wanted to shout. He bit into the gag, and the dull pain in his jaw spread into his teeth. Say something!

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