The Flesh Cartel #12: Paradise Island

The Flesh Cartel #12: Paradise Island

Mat and Douglas’s time as Nikolai’s wards is finally drawing to a close. Though torn apart by Nikolai’s machinations, their fates are still inextricably entwined: they’ve been sold to the same cruel master, and are united in their desire to go home. But “home” means two different things to the brothers: for Mat, their little bungalow in Nevada, and for Douglas, a swift return to Nikolai and Roger, the only people he believes still love him.

But first they must survive their new master. Smythe Hall is a twisted island paradise where Americans affect British accents and slaveboys dress up as slave girls, all at the whims of the rich and megalomaniacal Allen Smythe-Kennedy.

Meanwhile, FBI Special Agent Nate Johnson can’t let the case of the missing brothers lie. He knows it’s a waste of resources to chase ghosts down a cold trail, but after admiring Mathias “Stonewall” Carmichael ringside and at countless afterparties where he was too shy to say hello, he’s determined to solve the mystery and bring Mat and his little brother home.

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Reader discretion advised. This title contains the following sensitive themes:

dubious consent, explicit violence, non-consent

The guards hadn’t been kidding when they’d said it was a long drive from Nikolai’s to Allen’s. In fact, they weren’t kidding around about anything. They were professionals, and Mat knew better than to let the fact that they were all women—or that they’d exchanged the cruel arm binder for a pair of handcuffs—fool him.

Dougie had settled comfortably on the couch—unbound, and basically outside the guards’ attention—with his nose buried in a book one of the women had offered him. He seemed happy, looking occasionally out the tinted windows or offering the guards a smile (genuine ones, Mat was pretty sure). He even mentioned at one point that he was up for giving backrubs if they got tired, or cooking if they got hungry. Or more, even—all of which the guards politely declined. And no wonder; Mat would’ve bet his freedom that Allen had sent them under strict orders not to leave sticky fingerprints all over his new goods. Orders he obviously didn’t think men were capable of obeying.

Dougie never looked at Mat once, not the whole fucking time. Which was just as well, he supposed, because he was having an awfully hard time looking at Dougie without his blood pressure spiking. How could the kid seem so at home here? So comfortable and placid about wearing whorish women’s lingerie and makeup, being sold off as chattel? And to a fucking monster, no less.

Sadly, the guards watched Mat much more closely than they watched Dougie. They clearly knew he was dangerous. And they were clearly professionals, just like the men who’d originally brought him and Dougie to Nikolai’s from Madame’s. At least the women were hands off—no touching, no hurting. But they kept him cuffed to the RV the entire time. When he’d grown weary of staring out the window—which shocked him; after so long cooped up indoors, he’d never thought it’d be possible to grow weary of the sight of the outside world again—and asked if he could lie down, one guard moved him while the other two stood back, outside of grabbing range, their Tasers trained on him, until he’d been cuffed down to the new piece of furniture.

And then they left him again. But they never gave him any chances to leave them. No way to escape. No way to crash the RV. They kept him away from pointy things and fire and even heavy loose objects. They gagged him before every stop for gas. They ate and pissed in shifts in the otherwise ever-moving vehicle. They didn’t sleep. Sometimes he heard Dougie talking to them, but they never came close enough to Mat to talk to him. But then, Dougie was domesticated, and by the way they’d treated Roger, they were obviously comfortable around domesticated slaves.

They finally drew to a stop sometime well into the night. Not a gas station this time. Mat hadn’t allowed himself to sleep, but he realized—with more than a little guilt and anger—that at some point he’d stopped being so focused on getting away. He perked up now, though. Things were happening. This might be his chance.

He peered out the windows and saw . . . was that water? It was dark out, the kind of dark you never got in cities, and the tinted windows weren’t helping, but regular rows of lights were definitely reflecting off something. Now that he was paying attention, he realized he could smell the ocean. Those lights must be dock lights.

Oh God. Were they taking them out to sea? They’d never get home. There’d be no escaping, not with water on all sides. He realized he’d started to hyperventilate a little. His chest heaved. His nostrils flared. Ice cold fear hit him right in the guts, and he didn’t know how to get back up from it, not this time . . .



Or, check your local library.

General Details

Word Count: 23,300

Page Count: 88

Cover By: Imaliea

Ebook Details

ISBN: 978-1-62649-073-4

Release Date: 11/30/2013

Price: $2.99