Pure Innocence Read online

  PURE

  INNOCENCE

  VICTORIA SUE

  Pure Innocence

  Copyright © 2015

  Published by Dark Hollows Press

  Smashwords Edition

  About the Book You Have Purchased

  All rights reserved. Without reserving the rights under copyright, reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. Such action is in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law.

  Unauthorized reproduction of distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Pure Innocence

  Copyright © 2015 Victoria Sue

  ISBN 10: 1942176791

  ISBN 13: 978-1-942176-79-4

  Author: Victoria Sue

  Editor: G. Brown

  Publication Date: June 2015

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2015 by Dark Hollows Press

  Cover design by 3 Rusted Spoons

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  To my beta reader Gareth, because you always insisted that this little sub remained innocent.

  Chapter One

  Oliver breathed. A breath so shallow and so insignificant, the urgency and determination with which his lungs insisted on it surprised him, because breathing had been so hard. It had become so impossible to expand his lungs fully; the futility finally stopped him from trying.

  He took another small hesitant breath, and stilled in shock, almost. He hated the dampness, the cold, and he tried to protect his lungs against that, but he’d caught a scent of something else—something clean, fresh, that came with a strong voice and gentle hands that didn’t hurt. Oliver desperately wished it was real.

  Pain.

  Just four letters. Such a small word for something that filled his mind and summed up his existence. It wasn’t just the horrific hot pokers that stabbed at his fingers and needled his heart. It was the black feeling that caged him, wrapped him up and would never let him go. He wanted to die, but it wasn’t just him—everyone wanted him to die. From the time he was little, his mom had screamed, “I wish you were never born.” He hadn’t been old enough to understand the words but he knew what she meant. Then came the nightmare that was school. He had no idea why he’d been picked on.

  Yes, yes I did. The bullies knew he was from the trailer park, and knew no one would complain. It wasn’t just his looks; he knew what the word “fag” meant before sixth grade. When his mom had said he was done with school at twelve, he’d been secretly relieved, until he’d found out what she’d expected him to do instead. That was the first time he’d started wishing he was dead instead of just listening to other people say it.

  He moaned, and tried to bite the sound back. If he made a noise the nightmare would come back, and when he just lay quietly, he could pretend the nightmare didn’t exist. He had screamed for so many days at first when no one had heard him, then he had tried to be as desperately still and quiet as he could. He tried not to drink the water but he’d made him. All he’d had to do was touch his fingers, and the pain would have made him do anything. His throat burned; he was so thirsty but he couldn’t swallow. Panic wove an insidious path through his arteries. Some machine beeped faster in time with his heart.

  “Hey, hush. You’re safe.”

  Oh. Oh. The voice, that voice. He was back, but it wasn’t real—he wasn’t real—this was all something Oliver’s imagination had sent to taunt him, make him believe the quiet words and the gentle touches were really for him, but he knew they couldn’t be. It was the drugs—it must be—conjuring something he could never have. Playing with him. Toying with him. He tried to move his head, but everything seemed so heavy, numb.

  Something had touched his cheek. He—it was soft, no not soft, that wasn’t the right word. Almost warm, almost…comforting. Oliver could vaguely hear other voices, felt movement around him, which was confusing, because it had just been him and the nightmare for so long, and he didn’t know where he was. He tried to work it out...who, or what…but he was so tired, so desperately tired…

  Something touched him again, and not in anger, not trying to hurt—it was a hand. Not just any hand, his hand—the one who came and talked to him, the voice, the source of comfort. Oliver leaned, ever so slightly. He didn’t have the strength to do more, and the hand held him still, warm, safe. He breathed in a little. Yes, the same clean smell.

  “You going to open your eyes today, gorgeous?”

  Gorgeous? Him? He couldn’t mean him. It was a mistake. Now he knew he had lost his mind. The guys that came this close to him never smelled good, and they were definitely never gentle.

  Oliver’s heart started beating faster, and he could hear some machine with its annoying beeping getting louder. He couldn’t open his eyes. If he opened them everything would become real, and he couldn’t cope with any more reality. Not yet, maybe not ever. Mind numbing terror met him whenever he opened his eyes.

  “I know you’re awake. It’s like being fastened to a lie detector.” The amused voice carried on. “Would you like some water?” Oliver opened cracked lips painfully to refuse, he didn’t trust the water, but felt something cold and wet touch them, and it robbed him of sound. It was ice, and cool trickles dropped onto his parched tongue. “Those lips look sore.”

  Oliver was confused with the voice, tried not to trust the soothing words. Then his heart slammed in his ribs as he felt the cold swipe of something brush his lips. Slow, confident, but infinitely gentle. It was almost...almost caring. Which was completely ridiculous. No one cared about Oliver. No one had cared about Oliver in a really long time, which was fine, because Oliver didn’t really care about Oliver any more.

  “Ice is good, but water would be better.”

  Oliver held his breath a little at the sound of the voice. He wanted to believe it was real, that it belonged to someone who cared.

  Could he? Dare he? Oliver parted dry lips again and closed them over a straw. He sipped slowly, a tiny mouthful. The taste was different, better, fresh.

  “Much better.”

  He was glad he didn’t seem to need an answer, but the hand had been taken away to get the water. The water was wonderful, but he wanted, needed, the touch more. The hand moved back and the beeping slowed. Just a gentle tick. He heard a soft click and then a thumb gently smoothed something cooling over his dry lips.

  “There. You tell me if anything else hurts.”

  Oliver didn’t have the strength to reply, and wasn’t sure he could get his voice to work anyhow. He could feel his mind slipping away again, but he didn’t care. He moved his face a fraction, and settled deeper into the touch. Warmth seeped into him, and he heard a soft chuckle. He could have smiled almost as the warmth from the sound wrapped him up.

  Whatever this was, whoever he was, if he could just hold on to the thought that someone cared for a little while longer before it was taken away...

  ****

  Damon stood and walked to the window. Oliver was asleep, so he could go. If the last few days were anything to go by, he would stay asleep for a few hours. So why am I still here? This was a good question,
one he’d been asking himself for the last day or so.

  He’d wavered between deciding he had to get back to his life, and the small insistent voice that told him he was running out on Oliver when the boy had no one else. He didn’t like indecision. It rankled. Oliver was going to be fine. There were many excellent agencies, professionals that would see to him. Damon straightened up and looked at his watch. He would go see Dr. DeSouza, make sure everything was in place so the boy was taken care of, then he would get back to his own life, and stop trying to interfere in other peoples’. Damon turned from the window, and stared at the boy’s pale face. He knew Oliver had brown eyes—he’d seen them each time the doctor had shone a light into them; but he just wished he could see them full of life before he went.

  A nurse came in with a chart, meaning Oliver wouldn’t be on his own, so Damon slipped out to find the doctor.

  He found him in his office. “Mr. Kerrick.” Dr. DeSouza gestured for him to take a seat.

  Damon shook hands with Dr. DeSouza and sat down. His eyes swung to the lit screen displaying Oliver’s x-rays. “The hospital administrators have agreed at the request of the FBI to share Mr. Neil’s medical records with you.” The Doctor gave a wry smile. “To be honest, I’m glad they allowed it.” The doctor’s lips twisted in a small smile “You seem to have made quite an impression on my nurses, and I don’t like them upset at all.” Dr. DeSouza shuddered. “That would never do.”

  Damon smiled back. Courtesy and confidence; that was all it took to manage most people, it wasn’t exactly difficult, besides which he had earned the friends he had in high places and it wasn’t as if the boy had anyone else concerned with him. They’d searched for any next-of-kin, and the cops had found nothing but a dead mom who had OD’d a few years back. A few foster homes and shelter placements, even a job in a burger joint, then, nothing until he’d got a job pole dancing in the club in Orlando. Damon’s face hardened. It was unlikely Oliver had survived just by dancing, and he didn’t like that his searches into Oliver’s background still had quite a few holes. When Damon accepted a job he saw it through, completely. Yes, they had caught the bastard who had kidnapped Oliver, but still, it seemed almost…unfinished. “When is it likely you will start to wean him off the sedatives?”

  The doctor sighed. “He’s not on sedatives. We haven’t given him anything for the last few days. He was given something initially after the first panic attack when he came round from the drugs he’d been given while he was being held captive. We needed blood tests to determine there was no damage before we wanted to risk any further sedation. We were also concerned with his respiratory system.” Damon saw the doctor pause and glance out of the window. “I understand you have accepted responsibility for payment of his hospital bill?”

  Damon blinked at the change of subject. The doctor fixed him with an appraising look, and continued. “Oliver wouldn’t have lasted much longer. Most people don’t realize that suffocation is the usual cause of death for people tied in that position. You should also know that every doctor concerned with Oliver’s care has freely given their time. The remainder of the cost I’m afraid I have no control over.”

  Damon was surprised—this was unexpected—and opened his mouth to thank him, but the doctor had already carried on. “Oliver appearing sedated can be caused by two things. Firstly, and the obvious one, his body is healing. Secondly, and this isn’t my area of expertise, excessive sleeping is often a sign of depression. I wouldn’t like to speculate at the effect Oliver’s captivity has had on him psychologically. Obviously this will have to be addressed by the right people.

  “The IV fluids will continue for some days. We don’t know exactly the drug cocktail he was given in captivity, or possible long term effects. We are cautiously optimistic of liver, bowel, and lung function. His back and torso will be permanently scarred but will cause no other problems. The lash marks on his chest were badly infected when he came to us, but are healing now. His hands and shoulders, however—”

  The doctor paused and turned to the x-rays. Damon didn’t have much medical knowledge except the basics, but he had fought for over a week to be included in Oliver’s care plan, and he wasn’t going to stop the doctor now when he seemed to be on a roll.

  “His hands.” Damon prompted. Those poor hands. He’d been so pleased to see Oliver unconscious when he’d untied him from the cross, since that meant he wasn’t suffering. Huge fat fingers, all broken, the smaller ones looked nearly black. Damon couldn’t imagine the pain he had gone through. Long, bloody welts ripped through the skin on his chest and his back. He’d clearly been whipped multiple times, and Damon had held him gently while the Feds ran around, checking the place was safe for the paramedics to run in and see to Joe and Oliver. Then they’d taken him and he’d felt almost...bereft. Odd, that Damon had that emotion at all, and stranger that he should feel it for someone he barely knew, and he wasn’t in a hurry to have that acknowledged, not by himself and not by anyone else. Damon had managed to cultivate a reputation as a hard ass; he was used to inflicting pain, not taking it away. But not that type of pain, never that. Damon shook his head slightly and concentrated on what the doctor was saying, and how pleased he was at Oliver’s better prognosis in his left hand. They had thought they might have to amputate some of Oliver’s fingers, but not now.

  Damon just managed to keep breathing evenly while the doctor explained how the dressings to Oliver’s hand were being kept on for a few days because the injuries to his nail beds were infected, as were the injuries to his chest. The injuries to his left hand were further complicated by some of the fingernails being missing. The doctor paused and Damon wanted to shout. Missing? He hadn’t lost them for fuck’s sake—they had been taken. Damon felt mildly sick at the thought of the monster that had held Oliver extracting them.

  The doctor pushed a flyer across the desk at him and Damon smiled in acknowledgement. It was for Gage’s House, the GLBT safe house supported by all the members at Pure, the BDSM club he belonged to, but the doctor didn’t know that.

  “There will be a bed for him there eventually, but my immediate concern is short term. He may have to be moved to Miami, there’s a nursing home there run by a charity I know that can provide interim care. He’s not going to regain full use of his hands for some time.” The doctor’s mouth flattened. “If at all.”

  Damon’s heart sped up. “Miami? What sort of interim care are we talking about?”

  The doctor sighed. “Basics. He won’t be in any shape to take care of personal needs. He won’t be able to feed himself even if he was able to prepare food in the first place. He’s going to need extensive therapy over a long period.” The doctor pinned Damon with a hard gaze. “Bluntly, he won’t be able to wipe his own ass.”

  Damon nodded. He’d seen the state of those hands. The words were out of his mouth before he talked himself out of asking. “If he has somewhere to live, and he’s not left on his own, can all the therapy be put in place?”

  The doctor gazed at Damon carefully, seemed to be assessing him. “Do you have somewhere in mind?”

  Damon took a satisfied breath. “He comes home with me. I can be there with him all the time. If ever I need to be somewhere else, I can afford to have someone else there. Tell me what I can expect.” Damon looked openly at the doctor. He had nothing to hide. He was as shocked as fuck at his impulsiveness, but as soon as he’d made the decision, he knew it was right.

  The doctor nodded once. Whatever he had seen in Damon’s expression must have satisfied him.

  Damon listened carefully to the long list of problems Oliver might experience. It seemed to cover everything from constipation to debilitating panic attacks. The doctor didn’t pull any punches. “It would probably do more harm if you started this and couldn’t see it through.”

  Damon nodded. He would. He never took on a job he couldn’t complete, but if he was honest it was more than that. Somehow Oliver became his responsibility when he’d run into that warehouse and untied
him. The boy wasn’t going to Miami, he was coming home with him. Part of him acknowledged that he felt some sort of guilt that he hadn’t been able to catch the monster that had kidnapped, tortured, and murdered three young men. If it hadn’t been for Adam, Joe’s sub, who managed to escape the warehouse where Kevin had held him and Oliver, Damon might not have found them in time. Not for Oliver, certainly. The nurses had already explained that Oliver’s blood oxygen levels had been dangerously low when the paramedics got to him.

  Dr. DeSouza opened his mouth to continue when there was a knock at the door and one of the nurses put her head around. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Sir, but Oliver is becoming quite distressed.” Without even acknowledging the doctor, Damon whirled around, and his long strides took him back to Oliver’s room. The nurse ran after him. “We know he’s calmer with you there. We’re worried he may hurt himself.”

  Damon could hear the noise before he entered the room. A pitiful cry from a sore throat. Two nurses were trying to hold Oliver still, obviously worried he would hurt his hands. He was thrashing and moaning.

  “Boy.” Damon’s voice echoed in the room, lower than the nurse’s entreaties for him to hold still. “Boy.” Damon cupped his face again. “Oliver. Be still.” Damon frowned at the sound of Oliver’s sharp breaths, but miraculously he calmed visibly with Damon’s touch. Both nurses smiled, relieved. One checked he hadn’t damaged his IV site and the other pressed a few buttons on the monitor next to his bed. Damon glanced at the annoying noise, and the nurse who had summoned him flicked a switch to silence it.

  Damon breathed a sigh. Peace. Oliver had settled into Damon’s hand once more.