Max, the Sequel: Max, the Series, #2

ONE

THE SETUP

Crane blinked slowly as he lifted his head. He was groggy and still half dreaming, and for a few confusing seconds, he thought he was on a school bus. But he wasn’t on a bus . . . he was sitting on a chair in a small stuffy room. Sunshine poked through rips in the paper covering the window, and narrow shafts of light streaked the gloom—his breath made the motes of dust whirl and dance in and out of the bright beams. To the left were metal shelves, bare except for a few cracked terracotta pots; to the right, a long workbench was covered in a jumble of metal objects. Crane squinted, his head pounding, and saw a hammer, pliers . . . a few screwdrivers.

A . . . toolshed?

Why was he in a toolshed? And why did it feel like his brain wanted to leak out of his ears? What the hell had happened?

He went to rub his head and made another discovery: he was tied to the chair with a thick leather belt around his midsection, pinning his arms to his sides.

What the fuck? he whispered, his mouth pasty and foul. Hello?

Doc?

Max, what the fuck is going on? Crane said, trying to look over his shoulder. He could make out a few curls of Max’s dark hair—they were seated back-to-back on metal chairs, the young man no doubt tied like he was. Max?

Yeah, I’m here.

Are you all right? Crane asked, straining against the belt, trying to free himself. He looked over his shoulder again when Max hadn’t said anything. You okay?

I’m all right, came the quiet reply.

Relieved, Crane glanced over at the tools, wondering for a moment if he could reach something with his foot, but who was he kidding? There was no way he’d get his leg up that high. Closing his eyes, Crane licked his lips, trying not to panic. Were they about to be tortured? Executed?

The air in the shed was hot and heavy with humidity. It was like sitting in a sauna; every stifling breath felt saturated with moisture. Panting, Crane tried to shift the leather belt around his middle, but he couldn’t get it to budge even the tiniest bit. He could grab it with his hands, but that didn’t give him the leverage to move it.

Goddammit . . . Changing tack, he planted his feet to either side of the chair legs, leaned forward as far as he could, grabbed the seat, and tried to stand. However, the chair wouldn’t budge. He grunted as he attempted a second time, but it felt like the chair was bolted to the floor. It was a permanent fixture, a torture chair in a creepy little toolshed. He let out two rapid, shallow breaths as sweat poured down his forehead, dripping from the end of his nose, and cleared his throat, preparing to shout.

As if reading his mind, Max spoke up. I don’t think you should yell. Who knows who’ll come running?

Right . . . right. Crane bowed his head, thinking, but all that kept coming to mind was the torture scene in Reservoir Dogs set to Stuck in the Middle with You.

No clowns to the left, no jokers to the right, but a sociopath at my back . . . Crane gave a little giggle, tears springing to his eyes, and finally, the panic broke through.

First, he groaned and frantically began rocking and shaking, scratching at the leather belt, then he kicked out his legs and twisted his arms as far as they would go, his heart going like a John Bonham solo until his shirt was completely soaked through with sweat. When he realized there was absolutely nothing he could do to escape his predicament, he sagged in the chair, his eyes closed.

After he’d caught his breath, he felt oddly calm.

All right . . . he said with a sigh. Now what?

TWO

THE VERY BEGINNING

FOUR WEEKS EARLIER

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 7 TH

Crane deposited the cloth grocery bag on the narrow kitchen island and put the milk in the fridge along with the beer. After a thought, he added the bread. He wondered if it would keep better in there than on the counter. At the very least, the ants wouldn’t get to it.

A bottle of white wine was chilling in the fridge door, and Crane smiled. It was obviously a peace offering . . . Max never felt bad about anything, but he was getting better at apologizing.

Max? he called out, kicking off his flip-flops. He put his straw fedora next to Max’s and walked towards the balcony. He was probably outside sunbathing. Hello?

In here, Max called from the bedroom.

Frowning, Crane pushed the door open and stopped in his tracks, his magnanimity extinguished completely by the scene he was greeted with.

On the bed was a young woman, a teenager really, sprawled out naked on her back, her legs splayed wide. Clad only in a bright-purple T-shirt, Max had one hand stuffed inside the girl’s vagina, the other wrapped around his erection. The girl looked passed out . . . or dead.

Hi, baby, Max said brightly. Did you pick up some beer . . . and . . . uh, some cleaning products?

"What the hell are you doing?" Crane said in a low voice.

Max blinked at him, the smile freezing on his face. He glanced over at the girl. Uh— He pulled his hand halfway out of her and raised his brows. I’m cooking a chicken, he said, turning his gaze back on Crane. "What does it look like I’m doing."

The girl let out a low giggle and turned her head, proving herself alive, if not wholly conscious. Crane watched her perky little breasts move with her breathing.

Did you drug her? Crane asked in a tight voice.

No, Max replied. He drew his hand completely out, leaving the girl’s anatomy a gaping pink cavern for a brief instant before she groaned and turned on her side. Max crossed his heart, his wet finger darkening the purple of his shirt. Promise.

Then what’s wrong with her? The room smelled of sex—he could taste the young woman’s scent in the back of his throat. Pussy, Doc. Cunt. Crane swallowed, wiping his lips with the back of his wrist.

Oh, hey, I think she fell asleep, Max answered.

"Before or after you started . . . uh, doing . . . that?"

Bit of both? Max grinned, his eyes narrowing. Hey, you want to throw a quick fuck into her before she goes? It’s okay; she won’t mind. I know I’ve got a bit of a head start, but—

No. Crane was appalled. He took a small step back and straightened his spine. "What I want is her out of here."

"Awww, Doc, Max said, his shoulders slumping. But . . . I thought maybe we could share her, you know?"

No.

You’re such a stick in the mud. Max crossed his arms and jutted out his bottom lip like a cranky toddler.

"We had an agreement: you don’t bring anyone home," Crane said, jabbing a finger in the direction of the young woman.

She was rather pretty, even in her dishevelled state—olive-skinned with thick, wavy black hair, high cheekbones, and full lips—almost model pretty, but good god, she seemed young.

What is she, a hooker? He realized just as he said it that he had no idea whether prostitution was legal in Mexico, and La Quinta Avenida, the main tourist drag a block over, was crawling with cops. Please tell me she’s not a hooker.

"Doc, she’s not a hooker. Gosh, what do you take me for? Why would I bother with a—"

Max! Crane said, his tone sharp with impatience. I don’t care. Just get her out.

Fine. Max threw himself back hard on the bed and turned his head away, his transformation into a sulky child complete. But you can carry her out yourself.

"What do you mean, carry? I thought you said she was going. Wake her up!"

"I said before she goes and—Max sat up and pinched one of the girl’s nipples hard with no response—and it looks like she’s gone." He clucked his tongue, shaking his head.

Wake her up.

"Doc, I can’t. She’s totally drugged out. I’d be amazed if she woke up before, like . . . six."

I thought you didn’t drug her.

"I said I didn’t drug her. She did all this to herself."

Jesus fucking Christ, Max, Crane said softly. This time, he kept the anger out of his voice, opting for weary disappointment. For some reason, that always worked better with Max. Just . . . get her dressed and get her the hell out of here.

Max turned to face him, his dark eyes flinty, and Crane stared back, holding his ground. Finally, Max sighed and leaned over the side of the bed to rifle through the discarded clothing on the floor, looking for items belonging to the young woman. When he began dressing her, he did it with little care, jerking her around like a lifeless doll with her head flopping forward and back as he manhandled her bra into place. With a grin, he looked over at Crane and squeezed the sleeping woman’s breasts through the lacy black material. Nice, huh? He bit his bottom lip mischievously. "Are you sure you don’t wanna—"

"Max."

Muttering to himself, Max began working the woman’s panties up her legs.

Crane stood there watching for another minute, then turned and walked to the kitchen, snagging a glass, the corkscrew, and the bottle of wine from the fridge, and headed out to the balcony. He set the glass on the small plastic table and got to work opening the bottle. Below, the beach was teeming with tourists. A large man in a fedora at least two sizes too small stopped and glanced up at Crane, holding his gaze for a few seconds before disappearing into the throng of beachgoers, and Crane sighed, missing their previous location. That beach had been far less crowded—but he did have to admit this condo was a step up from the last place. They were on the top floor of the building and the only ones with a large partially covered balcony. Unless they were standing right at the railing like he was, the balcony was private, and that suited Crane just fine—he was on the lam, after all, which was why it pissed him off to no end that Max continuously drew attention to them. He clenched his jaw and shook his head.

The cork came out easily with a soft pop, and Crane sighed and sat down, sipping at the cold Chilean Chardonnay.

Yeah. Right. That’s why you’re angry. Keep lying to yourself. Crane let out a slow breath and concentrated on the single white cloud in the otherwise pristine blue sky as the tired old ceiling fan above creaked and groaned through its revolutions, lending little in the way of a breeze.

He was on his second glass when he heard the condo door open and Max leave only to return a few minutes later, speaking in Spanish with someone. Frowning, he listened hard and caught the word taxi. Max must have gone down to the stand at the corner to get a cabbie to help him take the young woman downstairs. Besides the words taxi and chica, Crane couldn’t understand what they were saying. Max made learning a new language look so easy—Crane could only get around Playa del Carmen because of the sizeable English-speaking tourist trade, but Max was nearly fluent, which meant Crane had to rely on him for almost everything, which was . . . well, irksome, if not downright frightening.

The taxi driver started sounding agitated, and Max’s voice took on that soft, cajoling note it did when he was trying to convince someone to do something for him. Finally, the man agreed, and after a long silence, Crane heard a heavy tread and the door to the condo close.

He shut his eyes and took another deep breath.

Hey, came the quiet voice from the patio door. Doc?

Crane opened his eyes but didn’t look at Max. Instead, he leaned forward to pour himself some more Chardonnay. How old was she?

Old enough. I promise.

Snorting, Crane shook his head. You also promised not to bring anyone home.

Yeah, I know. I just thought—

"No. I don’t want to come home to a scene like that again. Do I make myself clear?" He turned to Max.

Max had thrown on a pair of yellow board shorts and ditched the purple T-shirt—Crane stared at the Ouroboros on Max’s chest. Meaning infinity or wholeness, it also represented cyclicality—of something constantly recreating itself. A perfect symbol for his diabolically capricious companion. He looked up and met Max’s eyes, holding his gaze, unblinking.

Eventually, Max bowed his head. Yes, Doc. I’m sorry.

No, you aren’t . . . Crane let out a humourless chuckle. But I know something that might help you remember for next time. He let a slow smile crease his cheeks.

Max’s head jerked up, his eyes wide. Oh no.

"Oh, yes. Go and get them."

It looked like Max would defy him for a moment, but then he turned on his heel and went back into the condo.

Crane sighed, his shoulders sagging, and sat back in his chair, fortifying himself with more wine. He knew it was a dangerous game he was playing. Max was only docile because it suited him—the day would come when Crane went too far, and he would pay the price. It was something that kept him up at night when he’d had too much to drink . . . or too little—the thought that one day Max would tire of him, and then what? Would Max simply abandon him? Send him back to jail? Or . . . worse? They’d never spoken of Mr. Bertrand after the night of his rescue, but Crane often wondered: had Max killed him with his own hands, or had he hired someone else to do it?

Does it really matter, Doc?

Here, Max said, stepping out onto the balcony.

He held out a pair of black leather bondage cuffs and a matching collar, a small padlock, a chain, and a short stainless-steel hook with a large ball on one end and a fixed ring on the other.

Crane hadn’t even known something like the last item existed before Max, nor that he would get so much enjoyment from using it on him. The blood was already coursing to his cock in anticipation. Punishing Max was the only way he ever felt remotely in control of his life . . . a heady, delusional fiction.

Though his pulse was racing, Crane calmly took the hook and restraints from Max and set them on the table next to his wine. He stood, adjusting himself as he got to his feet, and stared down at Max. His irises were so dark in the shade of the balcony that they were almost black—frustratingly unreadable.

Curling his lip, Crane bent and grabbed Max’s shorts, yanking them down roughly to his ankles. He could still smell the woman on Max, which threw more fuel on his anger. Standing, he leaned closer, his lips brushing the rim of Max’s ear.

"When you bring anyone home, it puts us in danger," he said quietly through clenched teeth, one hand around the back of Max’s neck.

I know, Doc.

Crane pulled Max back by the hair and frowned down at him. He looked like he’d shaved that morning, but the dark stubble was already visible on his tanned cheeks. Perspiration began beading on Max’s upper lip. Was he sweating in anticipation or dread? Would Crane ever really know?

He picked up the hook from the table and held the ball in front of Max’s face. It was about two and a half inches wide. Open

Max took a shaky breath, his nostrils quivering, and opened his mouth as wide as he could. Crane put the ball into it, rubbing it on Max’s tongue. When he was satisfied it was wet all over, he grabbed Max’s shoulder to turn him around. All right. On your knees. Crane’s cock was a hot bar pulsing against his skin, trapped between the waistband of his shorts and his belly.

I won’t do it again, Max said quickly, his expression tense as if genuinely apprehensive. I really am sorry. Honest.

Bullshit.

Max’s cock hung limp, still shrouded in its wrinkled foreskin, but that meant nothing for someone who seemed to have preternatural control over his body’s reactions. For all Crane knew, Max was as turned on as he was.

Too little, too late, Crane said. Kneel.

A deep wrinkle appeared between Max’s dark brows as he faltered, but he finally turned and sank to his knees on the concrete, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the ground. The angel on Max’s back held a longsword between its hands, the pommel in the shape of a snake’s head, and the blade’s tip reaching the centre of his sacrum as if pointing to the pink pucker that clenched as Max shifted. He put his hands behind him, his fists white-knuckled.

Crane went down on one knee and spat on Max’s hole before he pushed the ball hard against it, forcing it open.

Max let out a pained gasp.

Crane grinned as the steel ball got sucked into Max’s ass.

Whimpering, Max shuddered and panted a few times, his thighs trembling. God, that hurts.

Crane’s grin got wider. Good.

He gave his own cock a stroke through his shorts before