Chapter Text
Shane Hollander parked his car, looking around at the desolate, crumbling mill buildings surrounding him in the fading sunlight. He checked Maps, and then his email again–he was, apparently, in the right place. He tapped the phone number in the email and listened to the dial tone play through his car speakers.
A click, and then: “Hello?”
“Eric Bennett?” Shane asked, in his most professional tone.
“Yes.”
“Hey, ah, I’m at the address you gave me in your email, but it looks pretty–”
“Someone will come up to meet you in a moment.”
“Oh great, thanks! I’ll–”
Shane was cut off by beeping that told him Eric Bennett had hung up on him. He sighed. Just his luck that the first customer he’d be assigned as the newest sales rep would be kind of a dick. Shane collected the messenger bag in his passenger seat before sliding out of his car and carefully closing the door behind him. The BMW was new, too, and the most expensive thing Shane had ever bought for himself; it was a congratulatory gift to himself for this promotion, even if he couldn’t technically afford it yet.
He looked around again, realizing Eric had said someone would “come up.” Come up from where? The parking lot pavement was cracked and grayed, overrun with weeds and full saplings growing out of it in places. If these people were going to turn one of these buildings into a hot new nightclub, Shane hoped they had plenty of capital. Especially for their first order of liquor.
“Shane Hollander.”
The voice came from behind him and Shane started, spinning around to face a man that had somehow made it within five feet of him without making enough noise for Shane to notice.
“Uh, hi,” Shane chuckled awkwardly. Ignoring the embarrassing way his pulse had shot up at the surprise of hearing his name come out of nowhere, Shane reminded himself that he needed to stay in control of the situation if he was going to make this sale. He tried to smile, and stuck his hand out toward the guy who was staring at him intently. “Yeah, Shane Hollander, Capsule Brewing Company, nice to meet you.”
The man stood roughly the same height as Shane, with the same inky black hair, but his crisp blue eyes bore into Shane’s soft brown ones in a way that felt… dangerous. Shane’s friendly grin faltered, his hand hanging unacknowledged in the air between them. He was about to surrender and drop it back to his side, when the man’s face broke into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He strode forward and clasped Shane’s hand in his own, not shaking it, just squeezing it tightly for a moment. His skin felt cool and smooth in Shane’s warm grip. Inexplicably, Shane felt all of his nervousness and uncertainty about the man, his oddly perfect and straight white teeth, how he snuck up on him, everything, simply melt away. Shane forgot to let go of the stranger’s hand, and he made no move to release Shane, either.
“I’m Troy,” the man finally offered. “I’m one of the owners. It’s very nice to meet you, Shane.”
At that moment, the dull streetlights lining the decrepit lot blinked on overhead. The sun had finally sunk low enough behind the abandoned buildings to trigger their sensors, and in this new light Shane finally noticed the perfectly tailored black suit Troy wore, the fine gold chain around his neck, and the fat gold ring adorning the pinky of the hand Shane still held.
“It’s… nice to meet you… Troy,” Shane replied slowly. He looked back into Troy’s eyes and felt like he could stand there all night, holding Troy’s hand, thinking about nothing. There was a strange peace to the idea.
Troy smiled again and finally dropped Shane’s hand, which sent a surprising jolt through him. It was as if a thunderous clap had gone off inside his head, and a million thoughts and emotions came flooding back to him at once. It was overwhelming, dizzying even. He tried to collect himself, gripping tighter on the handle of his bag and smoothing the front of his sports coat with his freed hand, fighting to keep his face neutrally friendly.
“Uh, I–” he started, then stopped, not sure what he actually planned to say. Troy looked at him, and Shane thought he read bemusement in his features. “I’m uh…”
“Ready to meet Eric, I’m guessing,” Troy said with his unfaltering smile. “Follow me, he’s waiting for you.”
Troy offered his arm to Shane, and Shane stepped into it, allowing Troy to lightly lead him as they walked away from his car and the streetlights, and toward one of the old buildings. Shane had to step carefully to avoid tripping on chunks of concrete, bricks, cracks in the pavement–but Troy seemed to almost glide along. Shane guessed he was familiar with the terrain, and would have to be to not scuff the glistening leather of his shoes. Shane caught a glimpse of their red soles as they walked.
Yeah, he thought, these people have money.
Shane’s head cleared more and more with each step he took, every inhale of the evening air, clean and light in a way that didn’t match his current surroundings. But this old mill town was surrounded by mountains and forests, and nature was slowly encroaching on the abandoned remnants, taking back what eager industrialists had attempted to tame two hundred years ago. On the other side of the ruins, Shane could hear the whisper of the river that once made anything seem possible here.
But now, it seemed like it was an odd area for any display of wealth, and as they stepped between two crumbling brick structures, rounding a corner and heading for a gap in the ground that revealed a concrete staircase as they got closer, Shane ran through possibilities in his mind. Some form of the mob or a gang seemed to be the most likely, as Shane knew from his experience in the liquor industry so far that those people were often at the very center of forays into nightlife. The opportunities for money laundering were simply endless, and a club springing open, burning bright, and then shutting down without warning or explanation after less than a year of business was something no one ever questioned. It was basically the norm.
Troy paused at the top of the stairs, gesturing for Shane to continue down. At the bottom of the stairs, a single yellow lightbulb hung over a steel door, its chipping blue paint barely visible beneath multicolored layers of graffiti. Moths and mosquitos fluttered around the bulb, and Shane could hear the light taps of the insects flinging their tiny bodies against its warmth. Clutching his bag loaded with brochures and sample bottles in one hand, he used his other to glide down the metal railing as he took the steps carefully. He could feel Troy just behind him, simultaneously reassuring and unnerving him.
“When are you guys planning to open?” Shane asked, suddenly aware of their lack of casual small talk.
“Oh, any day now,” Troy replied.
They stopped in front of the door, Shane gazing at the spiderwebs above them. “Seems like you really have your work cut out for you here, no?”
Troy smiled again, using the knuckle of one finger to tap three times on the door, instead of responding to the question. Shane shifted his weight, clearing his throat awkwardly before the door snapped open just enough for Troy to catch the handle and pull it open wider. Inside Shane saw pitch blackness, and no indication of who had opened the door. Troy gestured again for Shane to walk in ahead of him, and Shane did.
Mafia or not, Shane knew his boss Harris knew where he was and was expecting a report back by the end of the night. Mafia or not, these guys clearly had the funding to become his biggest customer if Shane played his cards right. All he had to do was figure out how to be what they needed, and then do that. And for the time being, it seemed like what was expected of him was to be the none-the-wiser salesman, simply looking to secure his spot as their beer and liquor distributor. Shane figured he could do that. Mafia or not–his Beamer wasn’t going to pay for itself.
Troy walked in behind him, and when the steel door shut, the darkness of wherever they stood solidified around them. Before Shane could feel uncomfortable about it, a sliver of warm light cracked open in front of him, and he could see Troy holding a second door open for him. They were in a small atrium space only slightly larger than a coffin, but Shane walked through the new door and was greeted by a surprisingly welcoming and finished basement club.
Dim yellow light came from overhead, oozing out of crevices of a painted-black drop ceiling. The bar area was immediately to his right, a long, dark wood countertop with the classic shiny resin finish that would protect it from countless drink spills. Tall black leather-cushioned bar stools with metal backs stood in a neat row in front of the bartop, all positioned at an angle outward, welcoming a patron looking to take a seat. To the left was a massive dance floor, black-and-white checkered tile. It should have felt gaudy or too old-fashioned, but Shane didn’t question it; somehow, it just worked. There was a stage at the back of the space, only a couple of feet above the dance floor, and at stage left, another steel door.
“Wow,” Shane said, genuinely impressed. “I sure wasn’t expecting all this!”
“We don’t mind too much if the outside is a little… rough,” Troy explained. “We’re catering to a very specific clientele here, and we’re not looking for organic foot traffic.”
“Sure,” Shane nodded, still looking around the space, “I guess you wouldn’t get that here no matter how attractive you made the parking lot.”
“No,” Troy smiled. “Please,” he gestured to the bar, “have a seat. I’ll get Eric. Can we get you a drink?”
“Oh, actually,” Shane chuckled, as if just remembering in that moment why he was there in the first place, “I’d love to offer you one.”
Shane swung his bag up onto the bar, pulling out the sample bottles he’d brought along, lining them up on the sleek wood.
“These are the latest from our new distillery, our Capsule gin and vodka–”
“Kyle!” Troy called out, cutting him off. Shane looked up at him, saw him looking past Shane behind the bar, and followed his eyes. Shane watched a thin, tall, but timid-looking man emerge quickly from a narrow black door in the corner. His eyes darted between Shane and Troy as he wrung a white bar rag in his slight hands. A too-big white t-shirt hung off of his slightly hunched shoulders, and a heavy-looking steel choker sat snug around his neck. Shane spotted the ring dangling off the neckpiece, in the hollow between the man’s collar bones, and had to fight to keep his brows from rising into his hairline.
“Kyle,” Troy said again, “get Shane whatever he’d like to drink while I go get Eric.”
Kyle nodded, forcing a small smile before Troy turned and walked off toward the door near the stage. Shane flashed him a grin. It wasn’t clear yet whether this Kyle was the bar manager or not, but winning over the staff was often a good way to seal the deal. If he was the manager, great, and if he wasn’t, Shane could flatter him by assuming that he was.
“Hey Kyle, Shane Hollander from Capsule Brewing.”
Shane stuck his hand out, and it looked like Kyle flinched. He was two-for-two tonight for the worst possible responses to him just trying to shake hands.
Kyle looked at his hand, then up at Shane’s eyes, then back at his hand before slowly reaching out to shake it quickly before pulling his hand back, as if expecting it to be bitten. Kyle’s hand was small, clammy, and calloused. His eyes were darting around, looking Shane over and then glancing to the door Troy had gone through. He absentmindedly wiped at nothing on the bar with the rag he held.
“What can I get you?” he asked, his voice steady in a way that didn’t match his nervous demeanor.
As a general rule, Shane didn’t imbibe on the job unless the individual who was going to sign off on the sale insisted that he drink with them. He didn’t think that was Kyle.
“I’m good for now,” he said lightly. “Could I interest you in a taste of one of these?” He nodded to the bottles he had on the bar.
Kyle blinked, locking eyes with him. Something about him–his blue eyes that looked as dull as Troy’s had been bright, the gray-purple circles beneath them that indicated a tortured sleeplessness, his hollow cheeks–froze Shane in place. A silent beat passed, and Shane felt a shiver roll down his neck, across his back, down to his spine. Kyle leaned over the bar, his face inches from Shane’s. His hand kept moving, just pulling the bar rag back and forth over nothing, forgotten. Kyle wasn’t even blinking. He opened his mouth, carefully, slowly. Shane felt himself leaning in closer, worried somehow, eager to hear what Kyle had to say. His lips moved, but Shane heard nothing.
“What?” Shane whispered, brows furrowed. He broke their staring match to watch Kyle’s lips as he mouthed some words again, but Shane couldn’t make them out. Lip-reading was never a skill he’d possessed or tried to exercise. He could tell Kyle was giving him some silent message, but he had no idea what it was.
“I can’t–” he started, but stopped when Kyle suddenly snapped back away from him, turning to pull glasses off of the shelf behind him at the same time that Shane heard his name being called from across the dance floor.
He turned, and striding across the checkered floor toward him was a tall, smiling man with slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair. Troy trailed just a few steps behind this man, who was dressed similarly, in a black suit that had clearly been cut just for him. This time, the man stuck his hand out to Shane first.
“Eric Bennett. Nice to meet you, Shane.”
Shane warily took Eric’s hand, but as soon as their skin touched any trepidation Shane had felt from his bizarre moment with Kyle evaporated instantly. Shane smiled, and Eric wrapped his other hand around his, giving him the friendliest greeting of the night.
“It’s great to meet you, Eric,” Shane said, a little dreamily. Eric’s dark eyes shone brightly in the dim light, and for some reason Shane wanted to keep his undivided attention for as long as he could. He was handsome, but it was more than that. Eric pulled two chairs out from the bar, taking one and gesturing for Shane to sit in the other. The seats were so close their knees brushed against each other, but Eric made no move to create space between them, so neither did Shane.
“So what’ve you got for us, Shane?” Eric picked up the bottles on the bar one by one, turning them over in his cool, gentle hands. “I understand Capsule is pretty new to the distillery game.”
“New, but you’d never know it,” Shane said with a grin, sliding effortlessly into his sales pitch. “The same passion, dedication, and research our founders put into making our beers the top-selling brand nationally has gone into developing our gin, vodka, and–” Shane pulled out a bottle he’d purposely kept in his bag until this moment, with a flourish– “bourbon, special-aged in oak barrels sourced from the finest wineries in North America.”
Eric smirked, taking the bourbon bottle from him, removing the cap and gently waving it under his nose. He glanced at Shane. “White wine?”
“Yes sir,” Shane smirked back. “This is from our very first run, and we’ll only be producing small batches to keep the quality standards high.”
Wordlessly, Kyle put two rocks glasses down on the bar beside them. Shane didn’t even look at the bartender, his attention completely consumed by Eric pouring small shots of the brown liquor into each glass. His hands moved so delicately, but looked (and had felt) so strong. The same gold ring Troy wore adorned Eric’s right pinky as well. He slid the second glass of bourbon closer to Shane and picked up his own, tilting it toward him expectantly.
Shane clinked his glass against Eric’s, both of them still smiling at each other as they sipped. Shane had tasted this bourbon more times than he could count, but in this moment, it felt warmer and smoother than anything he had ever drank before as it slid down his throat. Distantly, he felt assured that he would make this sale, no one would be able to resist a drink this good; but at the forefront of his mind was the way Eric’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank, and the pleasant, earthy way that Eric smelled. Shane rested one of his knees solidly against Eric’s.
“Wow,” Eric chuckled, already pouring another shot of the bourbon into both their glasses, “that is nice, Shane.”
It took Shane a second to remember Eric meant the booze, not their knees touching. He nodded, and tapped his glass against Eric’s again when the man offered it for another cheers. They downed the liquid in unison and slammed the rocks glasses down on the bar, laughing.
“And,” Shane said as Eric poured them another, his belly blooming with warmth, “if you guys can agree to an exclusivity contract with Capsule, we can provide you the same courtesy. This specific formula can be yours, with a guarantee that no other bar, restaurant, or liquor store in a five hundred-mile radius would be able to carry it.”
“Hmm,” Eric shot back what was in his glass, then sighed. “You only bring one bottle of this?”
Shane grinned, pulling two more small bottles out of his bag as he drained what he had in his glass. Eric uncapped both bottles and poured their entire contents into each of their glasses, filling them to the top. Shane blinked. He would need an Uber if he drank all of that, and over his dead body would he be leaving the Beamer in this lot overnight. He could feel how close he was to making this deal though, and how well he was winning Eric over. If Eric needed him to be his drinking buddy, then, well…
Eric seemed to sense Shane’s hesitation. He lifted his glass to him again, eyebrows raised, asking whether or not Shane had the balls to see this through. Shane decided he could call Harris to come get him if he really couldn’t drive after this, and probably convince Harris to leave his car in the lot and drive back in Shane’s instead. Shane clinked glasses with Eric once more, smiling as he took a small sip but Eric downed almost half of his glass.
“So you like it, then?” Shane chuckled.
“I do,” Eric nodded. “But your deal… it’s not quite as good as I think it could be.”
Shane went to take another sip from his glass, but in turning away from Eric, felt his head swimming. Wow, lightweight, Shane thought. He looked back to Eric, who was staring at him intently.
“Oh yeah?” Shane asked. He felt himself leaning a bit, and grabbed the back of his chair. He was grateful the bar seats had backs, instead of the typical stools he often saw.
“Yeah, I think you can offer us complete exclusivity for this product,” Eric replied softly, tilting his head, which caused Shane to feel like he was tipping out of his seat. Shane compensated by pushing himself back against the bar, but with more force than he intended to use. His still-full glass of bourbon jerked in his hand, spilling the liquid onto the bar.
“Oh, no…” Shane was surprised to hear his words coming out slow and sloppy. Confused, he finally looked back at Kyle behind the bar, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, watching him with what appeared to be grave sadness.
A cool hand clapped Shane on the shoulder. He turned, languidly, and found Eric standing over him, smiling the way anyone would at a friend who accidentally got too drunk too quickly at the bar. Shane opened his mouth to object, to insist that he was no lush, that he was a liquor salesman who could definitely hold more than three shots of bourbon, but he couldn’t make any words come out.
“Let’s get you lying down,” Eric said gently. “You can’t drive like this. You need to sleep this off.”
Shane felt someone else slip their strong hands around his other arm–Troy, probably. With Eric, the men lifted Shane off of his seat as easily as if he were a ragdoll, and not a 5-foot-10, over 200-pound meat sack of dead weight. Shane wanted to ask where they possibly had for him to lay down in a club, but his head just flopped onto Troy’s shoulder. His feet dragged across the dance floor as they carried him toward the stage door, and Shane winced internally at the thought of his shoes getting scuffed. He could see and feel everything that was happening, but couldn’t move or speak on his own accord.
I’m not drunk though, he thought. Panic sparked in his chest, but before it could catch and turn into wildfire, Troy placed his hand over Shane’s, and the small flame was extinguished. Shane’s fear was replaced wholesale with calm curiosity.
Through the stage door–which Shane knew was steel, but Eric flung it open easily as though it were cardboard–was a hallway bathed in red light. Several more doors lined the cinderblock walls, down for what looked like a hundred feet, but Eric and Troy carried Shane into the very first door on their left. This room had blue ambient light coming from the edges of the ceiling. It was small, maybe 10 square feet from what Shane could tell. It was cold and damp, not helped by the unsealed concrete floor over which someone had draped a thin area rug.
With barely a grunt, Troy and Eric deposited Shane onto a twin mattress on the floor. Shane gazed dumbly up at them, and they stared down at him hungrily.
“That didn’t take long,” Troy said smugly.
“No,” Eric agreed. “I thought it would be harder. He’s got some muscle on him.”
“Kyle might’ve used more than usual.”
Eric shrugged. “Or our Shane here skipped lunch. Doesn’t matter, get his things off. I’ll go let the others know.”
Troy nodded, and Eric left the room. Shane heard the distinct click of a lock once the door closed behind him. The panic was beginning to creep back into him.
“Hey,” Troy said quietly, kneeling beside him. Shane couldn’t even move his eyes to look at him, but Troy grabbed his chin gently and turned Shane’s face toward him. Calm started to settle over Shane once more. Troy smiled at him, but it was not a kind look. Still, with his hand on Shane’s face, Shane was unconcerned.
“You just do as you’re told, Mr. Hollander, and you’ll find that it’s much easier for you to exist down here than it is up there.”
Troy took his hand back and began removing Shane’s clothes with a surety that told Shane this was something he did regularly–taking clothes off of someone who couldn’t move or help in any way. First his shoes went, Troy tossing them over his shoulder. Then his belt was unbuckled, and Troy pulled it off in one strong tug. He inspected the buckle and the stamp inside the leather, laughing a bit.
“Michael Kors? You get all your clothes at TJ Maxx?”
Shane felt his face flush. He did get his work wardrobe from discount stores, so he could spend his money on things like his new car. He got his pants and suit jackets tailored though, because as long as the clothes were clean and fit like they were expensive, most customers assumed they were. Especially if you climbed out of an expensive car.
Troy pulled off his pants, but left his socks and boxers. Then he rolled Shane onto his stomach, straddling the back of his thighs. Shane could feel the silkiness of Troy’s pants against his bare legs, and the coolness of his hands through his shirt as Troy pushed his sport coat off his shoulders. Troy held his arms up one at a time to pull the jacket completely off of him, and dropped it on the floor next to the mattress.
Shane could feel his heart hammering in his chest, and thought his body was coming off the mattress slightly with the rhythm of its beating. He didn’t know what he was feeling. Confusion, terror, but also… arousal? And a smothering feeling that everything was going to be just fine, despite the fact that he had just been drugged, carried to a locked room, and was being stripped by a stranger. Shane couldn’t move at all, not even to blink, and his eyes were burning, but somehow, he could not be as worried as he probably needed to be.
Troy slid his hands under the hem of Shane’s collared dress shirt, and then under the tank top he wore beneath it. His cool, smooth palms glided over the skin of Shane’s back, and Shane heard him sigh. Shane’s mind went blank. All he wanted now was to keep being touched like this, to have these soft, calming hands on him at all times. Troy leaned down, pressing himself closer to Shane, and he could feel Troy growing hard against his ass. Shane was exposed and helpless and he didn’t want to do a single thing about it except whatever Troy wanted him to do. He felt his own erection starting.
“See?” Troy whispered, his mouth closer to Shane’s ear than he’d realized it was. “We’ll take care of you.”
Yes, Shane wanted to say aloud, Yes, I believe you. I want you to. He did his best to think it, loudly, sure that Troy could hear him that way. Troy did chuckle, so Shane took that as confirmation that he could. His erection was straining painfully against the mattress and his eyes felt like they were on fire, but he didn’t mind.
Shane felt Troy’s nose graze over his ear. His heart was beating hard again, but not with fear. His eyes were starting to water as his body finally caught up to the fact that he couldn’t blink, turning his vision blurry. But all Shane cared about was feeling Troy hard against his ass, feeling Troy’s cooling touch on his back, feeling Troy nuzzle against his neck behind his ear and take a long, deep inhale of Shane–
The door to the room flew open and Troy jumped, sitting up straight on top of Shane. Shane wanted to groan at the loss of contact, wanted whoever it was to leave so that Troy would keep heading in the direction he’d been going. Still face-down on the mattress, all Shane could see through his watery gaze was a pair of legs from below the knee clad in dark, neatly hemmed pants and a heeled black shoe. He guessed it was Eric, back again for some reason, and Shane willed him away.
But the voice that floated down from above him was not Eric’s.
“Barrett,” a smooth, deep Russian accent crooned, “you know first taste is not for you.”
Shane felt Troy huff and stand up, breaking their contact altogether. Shane wanted to kick his feet like a spoiled child at the loss of his touch.
“I didn’t do anything,” Troy said, exasperated, bending to scoop up Shane’s clothing from the floor.
“But you almost,” the voice said easily. Shane could hear the man smiling around the words.
“But I didn’t,” Troy snapped. “Why are you here anyway, Rozanov?”
“Wanted to see the new boy,” the man said. “Heard he was pretty.”
Troy sighed. “Well, there he is. I think he got a shit ton of Eric’s venom so he’ll probably be stuck like that until sundown tomorrow.”
Suddenly, the words venom and stuck clicked in Shane’s mind, and a cold, creeping sense of horror began to come over him. He heard his own breath catch in his throat and then start to come only in shallow gasps. He was poisoned. He was kidnapped. He was probably going to die.
Troy sucked his teeth. “See, now he’s going to freak out. I could’ve kept him calm for at least a few more hours if you hadn’t–”
“In your dreams, Barrett,” Rozanov snickered. “Two minutes, tops.”
“Fuck you,” Troy spat.
“Also, only in dreams,” Rozanov replied coolly.
Shane wanted to scream. These fucking assholes were having a pissing match in front of him when one of them had almost–
“Take the clothes and go,” Rozanov said, stepping further into the room. “Eric is waiting.”
Troy mumbled something and breezed out of the room, and the new man closed the door behind him. Shane was breathing hard, certainly panicking now, wishing more than anything he could at least blink to clear his vision and see who he was dealing with. He wanted Troy gone, he felt disgusted by him and what he’d done, how he’d touched Shane and how Shane had really liked it, but he didn’t want to find out what else this other man might be capable of. Shane didn’t understand what the play was here, but he knew people didn’t drug people to do nice things with them.
The man, Rozanov, crouched down beside him, tilting his head to look at Shane’s face. Shane could only make out pale skin glowing blue in the light, dark clothing, and lighter hair than Troy’s through his blurred gaze. This meant there were at least three of them, four including Kyle–
Shane saw Kyle’s face in his mind then. The strange way he’d looked at him when Shane realized something was wrong at the bar. The collar–it was a collar, wasn’t it?--around Kyle’s neck. The words that Kyle had tried to tell Shane without making a sound. Shane saw his lips moving again. He didn’t understand what Kyle had been trying to say, because at the time, it made no sense, the words were too out of context.
In front of him now, Shane saw Rozanov’s face crack into a smile, made all the more sinister by how it was twisted through the prisms of Shane’s trapped tears, how the blue lighting cut deep shadows where the man’s eyes should have been. A scream Shane knew he couldn’t free rose up in his throat.
“He said ‘get out’,” Rozanov offered through a laugh. “He was telling you to get out.”