Page 43 of The Associate
“Yes, Sir. I am sorry, Sir.” The words fell from his lips, a breathless, broken echo.
The corner of Gael’s mouth creased. A subtle, fleeting tightening, a small crack in the marble composure. His dark eyes, fixed on Samuel’s, seemed to gleam in the dim light.
The sight of it sent a violent, shocking thrill straight down Samuel’s spine.
“Good boy.” Gael said again.
The thrill that followed was stronger, so potent it pooled low in Samuel’s gut, a liquid heat that made his knees threaten to buckle. He almost closed his eyes. A soft, desperate soundalmost broke free from his chest. He locked his jaw against it. He didn’t voice it. ButGod, he wanted to.
Ping.
The doors slid open onto the vast, mostly empty lobby. The hand vanished from his neck. Samuel felt weightless, unmoored.
Gael still didn’t move. He remained squarely in Samuel’s space, his posture relaxed, as if they hadn’t just shared something that had fractured Samuel’s understanding of himself. He gave a single, slight nod.
“Good night, Mr. Ruiz.”
Samuel managed a nod in return, a stiff, jerky motion. His voice, when it found its way out, was a quiet, thin thread of sound. “Good night.”
He stepped around Gael’s imposing form and walked out into the cool air of the lobby. He moved on legs that didn’t quite feel like his own, the ghost of a grip on his neck and the echo of a low voice in his ear the only real things in the world.
Chapter 11
Samuel
15 years before
The air in the bunkroom was thick with the smell of unwashed boys, damp wood, and a cheap, pine-scented disinfectant. The single, bare bulb in the center of the cabin had been extinguished at lights-out, plunging the space into a darkness broken only by thin slivers of moonlight cutting through the grimy, high windows.
Samuel lay rigid on the thin, lumpy mattress of his top bunk, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep. A deep, humming tremor lived in his bones that even exhaustion couldn’t override. His hands, resting on his chest, wouldn’t stay still. They trembled with a fine, constant shake.
Slowly, he brought his left palm up into a sliver of moonlight. A stark, raised welt was bisecting his palm, an angry red line against his skin. It was from a ruler. Three sharp cracks for fidgeting during the evening scripture reading. The skin was hot and tight, throbbing with a dull pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, the pressure behind them building.
Please. God, or anyone. Please just make it stop. Make them come get me. Make this not be real.
No answer came, just the hollow sound of his own heart beating too fast.
His eyes snapped open. The prayer felt foolish now, a child’s fantasy. Salvation wasn’t coming.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, the frame of the bunk groaning softly under his weight. He froze, listening. No one stirred. His eyes scanned the shadowy forms in the other beds. Dark lumps under rough wool blankets. Some were asleep. Some were, like him, probably just pretending, trapped in their own private hells. The thought was no comfort.
He knew the rules. He knew the price of breaking them. Being caught out of bed after lights-out meant a report. A report meant correction. Which, in turn, meant more pain, more humiliation, more of that hollow, sick feeling in his gut.
The smart thing, the safe thing, was to lie back down.
But the restlessness was a physical itch under his skin. He needed to get out. He needed air.
Moving slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the bunk and lowered them to the cold wooden floor. The boards creaked under his bare feet. He snatched his scratchy, knitted jumper from the foot of the bed and pulled it over his head. He found his sneakers, laced them with fumbling fingers, and crept toward the heavy wooden door.
He paused; his ear pressed to the rough grain. Nothing. No footsteps, no low voices of night-watch counselors on patrol. He cracked the door open just wide enough to peer out with one eye.
The grounds were empty. Bathed in cold, blue moonlight, the compound looked different; almost peaceful in its abandonment.
He stood for a moment on the wooden porch of the cabin, the night air chilling the sweat on his face. Then, a sudden, wild impulse took him. He launched himself off the steps, his sneakers hitting the dry, packed dirt with a soft thud, and he ran.
He didn’t think. He just ran.
He cut behind the utility shed, his feet finding the narrow path that led into the sparse woods at the edge of the camp’s land. Branches snagged at his jumper, twigs snapped under his feet, but he didn’t slow. He ran until his lungs screamed and the trees thinned, until he burst out into a small, moon-washed clearing at the edge of a dark, still lake.
