Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
It felt strange to hear his name on this weirdo’s lips, but there was no time to dwell on such things, so he complied until Jag reached the wall of metal and rubber and… slid into a crevice that surely wasn’t meant to be a passage.
Ezra lit his own flashlight and cast its glow on the vehicles making up the walls on either side of the path. Dirt and rot consumed each and every one, and he nervously glanced at his clothes. “Hey, is there no other way? Someplace less tight?”
Jag blew hair out of his handsome face. He appeared deceptively normal under the odd mish-mash of metal, plastic, and torn fabric, so maybe the two of them were more similar than it seemed at first glance. What if Jag also ended up here in a crisis and never left? Was this fuckery in his future? Would Ezra live out his days as some junkyard hobo?
“Why? You're not that big,” Jag asked, barely sticking out from behind the junk.
Ezra’s blood ran hotter. “What do you mean why? I’m gonna tear my clothes. This is—a Burberry coat,” he said, pulling on the lapel of his best outerwear. He’d worn it to Paul’s to look more professional, and this was what he’d gotten!
Jag offered him an empty glance. “What does it do?”
“What?”
“What does a Burberry coat do?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, of course this loony didn’t know what it meant to get somewhere in life through blood, sweat, and tears. Or rather, cum and sweat.
Ezra counted to ten. “I just don’t want to rip it, okay?”
Jag hummed. “Is it an heirloom? I can keep it safe for you,” he said and extended his dirty hand through the passage.
“So, is there no—” He jumped when a vehicle started behind him, because he was still out in the open, and if Paul arrived now and saw him... could Frank even protect him? Would he have risked confrontation with a murderer?
“Fine,” he said, but when he removed the coat, his gaze fell on the cashmere sweater, and the plaid pants, so he ended up turning the coat inside out and wearing it that way. “I’m coming. Are you sure this is safe?” Ezra asked, looking up at the pile of at least five separate cars, which might collapse on them any second.
“Yes, there are no traps here,” Jag said, leaving Ezra even more bewildered.
What fucking traps? What was this place?
But there was no time to lose, so he followed Jag into this metal maze, snagging his coat on a rusty pipe sticking out of a car right off the bat.
Nothing to do about that now. Ezra tried not to think what state his new boots might be in by the end of this obstacle course and focused on the future. He was neck-deep in shit, and if he failed to play his cards right, he might just drown. It was difficult to think straight when his brain fogged up with anxiety, but as Jag moved ahead through a labyrinth of narrow passages made out of everything from bottles to old boats, he came to the inevitable conclusion that information might be the key to survival.
He’d come here thinking he had Frank under his heel, but the man whom Ezra had known for the past year had clearly been a facade to a stranger who might still feel affection for Ezra, but who was an enigma.
And Ezra hated being ignorant about what made men tick. “You seem to know your way around here, Jag,” he said, making sure to be personal, despite the stranger freaking him out.
Jag looked back at him with a serious expression and pointed out a sharp piece of glass so Ezra would look out for it. “Of course. This is my territory. Nothing happens here without me knowing.”
“How big is this place?”
“Several acres, but it’s not as dense everywhere. You will be safe where I take you, don’t worry. Do you know Frank from outside?”
Ezra bit the inside of his cheek. He was the one asking questions, but Jag didn’t know that, and if this was to work, then his impromptu protector needed to get something in return. But what was Ezra to tell him? Even if this guy was gay and knew about Frank’s sexuality, most people didn’t want others to know that they paid for sex. He needed to lie. “Yes. I’m a... massage therapist.”
Jag stalled, but then kept walking, glancing back again and again as if to get a better look at Ezra. “I know massaging, but how do you do it as therapy? My mate sometimes likes retail therapy, but I don’t think those two are similar.”
Ezra knew everything there was to know about retail therapy, but Jag himself didn’t make any sense. He sounded like someone disconnected from the world. “Were you… born here?” he asked, suddenly terrified this was some kind of unlawful imprisonment situation, involving people being born in basements and let out to live in this modern wasteland.