smile hostage refuge [chapter four]
Title: Smile Hostage Refuge
Pairing: Max/Craig, side dish of Max/Ronnie
Rating: R - beware of the noncon.
POV: First & third
Disclaimer: Fake. Title belongs to The Used.
Prelude | One | Two | Three
The only thing Max can remember of the previous night is the teasing, most drawn-out blow job he’s ever been given. It’s disgusting now, but while it was happening, Max had been writhing, sweating, breathing hard and opening his mouth, crying out and wanting a dick pressed against the back of his throat.
Shit, shit, shit.
Max hates himself. Max also hates heroin.
He needs a cigarette more than anything right now. Actually, he figures he would give up smoking if he could go home to his mom, and to Craig and Robert and Bryan. He also figures he’ll be a lot nicer to fans in the future if he ever regains his freedom.
The door to his room suddenly opens, and he hears a sharp intake of breath before footsteps slowly come nearer and nearer. They sound hesitant. Max flinches, anticipating some sort of cruel physical contact.
“What the fuck?” It’s Mathers, but something in his voice sounds off. Without warning, the tape across Max’s mouth is ripped off without care, and his blindfold is pushed off his eyes with an air of disgust. The sudden light is the opposite of welcome, and for a couple of seconds Max blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision.
“What the fuck?” This time, Max knows this question demands an answer. He remains speechless, however, feeling his heart rate accelerate on account of he’s still seeing black even though the blindfold is gone.
Mathers rambles on, unaware. “What are you doing on the guest bed? Where... where are your fucking pants? Jesus Christ, you’re Max Green.”
::
“Dude, you won’t believe what shit heads Epitaph is being. I called them yesterday, right? And told them what happened with Max? Yeah. First they grill me because we cancelled Warped with, like, no notice. God forbid we’re missing our fucking bassist. And then they phoned me just ten minutes ago and said they had picked out a -”
My phone beeps. “Hold on, Rob, I have another call coming in.”
Without waiting for a reply, I switch lines only to hear an unfamiliar voice addressing me.
“Craig Mabbitt?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Who am I speaking to?”
“Oh, hey. My name is Iain Forester. The guys at Epitaph said you’d be expecting to hear from me. Is there a time that’s convenient for me to come over?”
“What?” I snap rudely. I fucking hate fans like this.
“I guess I could just meet you somewhere and we can go from there, just bring my stuff with me or whatever.”
“What are you on about? I’m hanging up in 3, 2...”
“Iain Forester,” the guy repeats as though I’m a bit slow. “I’m filling in bass for the Vans Warped Tour. We’ve missed the first date, but -”
At first I don’t know how to react, but then again, anger always works out well for me. “And Epitaph picked you out, huh? It was their idea?”
“Yeah. Joey said -”
“Let’s fuck Joey for a second, okay? Escape the Fate isn’t doing Warped this year because of personal reasons. We don’t want or need a replacement bassist. We don’t do that. And I don’t know how much of the situation they told you, but no one can take Max’s place. I apologize that Epitaph wasted your time, but don’t phone again. Good bye.”
I jab the button to get me back to Robert.
“Someone just called about doing fill-in bass for Warped.”
“I was trying to tell you,” Robert says lowly. “I’m not down.”
“No, I told the guy the deal was off,” I mutter wearily. In an attempt to calm down, I switch topics. “They’re gonna talk to Max’s step dad today.”
“Who, that Officer Stenson? Are they flying him in?”
I shake my head, even though I know he can’t see me. “I think it’s just over the phone.”
“Shady. When’s that happening?”
“Early? I’ll tell you as soon as I hear anything. I think they’re sending some specialists back to Max’s place, too, just to see if they missed anything. I don’t think they have any working leads.”
“I wish we could just fucking try his cell, you know? It was never found. If there’s any chance...”
“Stenson said it’d be a bad idea, though. He doesn’t want the freak to move or ditch the country or whatever. You’d think it would be easier to catch him if he were on the move, though, don’t you think? Like, with passports or credit cards... I don’t know, someone could spot him.”
“I know.”
“What’s Bryan up to?”
“He’s still crashing with me. Mike’s been over a few times. You wanna drop by for a bit?”
“Thanks man, but Leila’s crying. I’m watching her while Gab’s out on the town with the girls.”
“She sounds really torn up about this whole thing.”
“C’mon,” I say, not exactly comfortable being stuck in the middle. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I disconnect, toss the house phone to the other side of the couch, and lean over to scoop up my baby who’d been, until now, patiently shuffling dolls around on the carpet by my feet. I sit her on my knee and start to jiggle it.
“What’s the matter with daddy’s girl?” I coo, sticking out my lower lip. “You’re not hurt, are you now? You just got tired of daddy’s divided attention, tricksty thing.”
The doorbell rings. I slow my knee to a halt and give Leila a little mock gasp.
“Who could that be?” I ask, forcing myself to sound playful. “Mommy’s home early. I bet she brought you something...”
Standing, I hold my daughter against my hip with one hand and use the other to unlock the front door and pull it open. Instead of Gabriel, I’m greeted by the rounded face of Greg Stenson. Over his shoulder, I can see his patrol car parked in our driveway like an ominous white guard dog.
Leila makes a huffy little sound, and I know it won’t be long before she goes off again.
“I was going to call you,” he begins. “But I wanted to show you something. Can I come in?”
I nod, moving aside so that he can enter. He bends to slip his boots off, and I lead him into the living room where I retake my place on the sofa. He sits on the chair across from me, eyeing Leila just as I eye the standard issue gun hanging from his belt.
“I’m kind of babysitting right now,” I explain and shrug in a way that I hope conveys she stays. Of course I can always just put her in her pen, but I don’t want to.
“That’s fine. I need you to take another really good look at this picture for me, okay?” Stenson asks, revealing a manila envelope from inside his jacket and handing me the same photograph of Chase Mathers I’d already been shown.
This time, Leila peers at it, too. Her adorable features crinkle in scrutiny, even though she can’t understand what’s going on. I try to focus, but nothing dawns on me.
“I don’t know him,” I say at last. By the firm look Stenson is sending me, I feel like I should.
“His mother said he’d been to one of your shows over a year ago.”
I’m blown away. Really? “... There’s no way in hell I can memorize every face at a concert,” I tell him, my tone rich with disbelief. “I only really meet and hang out with a handful of people at every show.”
“No, no, I understand. It was just a feeling I had.”
The room is suddenly filled with too much tension - I shift Leila a little higher on my thigh, and clear my throat inconspicuously. “What happened with Max’s step dad?”
With the way the older man exhales a huge gust of air and runs a hand over his thinning hair, I can tell he’s troubled. Shit. I don’t think I can handle anymore bad news.
“I can’t really get into it with you since it’s a family case, but I do have a department in Ohio following up. Things are going to get messy pretty fast,” he adds, sounding a tad breathless.
Instantly, all worst case scenarios take up refuge in my mind. Step dad beating on Max’s mom. Step dad beating on Max. Step dad controlling Max. Starvation? Emotional abuse? Isolation? Fuuuuck.
It occurs to me just how little I actually know about Max’s relationship with his father figure.
“One last thing, and then I’ll let you get on with your evening. My team found traces of heroin with transfer patterns on Green’s couch. The patterns suggest that the traces were rubbed off of something - a pant leg, sleeve, could be anything.”
I know what Stenson wants before he even finishes his sentence. “Max quit,” I say simply, daring him to second guess me.
“Craig. There’s not going to be a penalty for telling me the truth. If Max is using drugs, I need to know.”
“He’s clean,” I stress, barely containing myself.
The officer smiles kindly at me and heaves himself to his feet. “I believe you. It makes sense, since there were no baggies or left-over substance uncovered anywhere else in the house. The heroin therefore belongs to our suspect.”
He takes Mathers’ picture from my hand and tucks it back into his jacket, and proceeds out the room to put his boots back on. I follow quickly, shushing Leila and waiting for Stenson to elaborate. Thankfully he does.
“The trace we found is currently in the lab. If we can break it down enough and figure out the particular brand, finding the dealer should be simple. From then on, it’s easy sailing.”
Pairing: Max/Craig, side dish of Max/Ronnie
Rating: R - beware of the noncon.
POV: First & third
Disclaimer: Fake. Title belongs to The Used.
Prelude | One | Two | Three
The only thing Max can remember of the previous night is the teasing, most drawn-out blow job he’s ever been given. It’s disgusting now, but while it was happening, Max had been writhing, sweating, breathing hard and opening his mouth, crying out and wanting a dick pressed against the back of his throat.
Shit, shit, shit.
Max hates himself. Max also hates heroin.
He needs a cigarette more than anything right now. Actually, he figures he would give up smoking if he could go home to his mom, and to Craig and Robert and Bryan. He also figures he’ll be a lot nicer to fans in the future if he ever regains his freedom.
The door to his room suddenly opens, and he hears a sharp intake of breath before footsteps slowly come nearer and nearer. They sound hesitant. Max flinches, anticipating some sort of cruel physical contact.
“What the fuck?” It’s Mathers, but something in his voice sounds off. Without warning, the tape across Max’s mouth is ripped off without care, and his blindfold is pushed off his eyes with an air of disgust. The sudden light is the opposite of welcome, and for a couple of seconds Max blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision.
“What the fuck?” This time, Max knows this question demands an answer. He remains speechless, however, feeling his heart rate accelerate on account of he’s still seeing black even though the blindfold is gone.
Mathers rambles on, unaware. “What are you doing on the guest bed? Where... where are your fucking pants? Jesus Christ, you’re Max Green.”
::
“Dude, you won’t believe what shit heads Epitaph is being. I called them yesterday, right? And told them what happened with Max? Yeah. First they grill me because we cancelled Warped with, like, no notice. God forbid we’re missing our fucking bassist. And then they phoned me just ten minutes ago and said they had picked out a -”
My phone beeps. “Hold on, Rob, I have another call coming in.”
Without waiting for a reply, I switch lines only to hear an unfamiliar voice addressing me.
“Craig Mabbitt?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Who am I speaking to?”
“Oh, hey. My name is Iain Forester. The guys at Epitaph said you’d be expecting to hear from me. Is there a time that’s convenient for me to come over?”
“What?” I snap rudely. I fucking hate fans like this.
“I guess I could just meet you somewhere and we can go from there, just bring my stuff with me or whatever.”
“What are you on about? I’m hanging up in 3, 2...”
“Iain Forester,” the guy repeats as though I’m a bit slow. “I’m filling in bass for the Vans Warped Tour. We’ve missed the first date, but -”
At first I don’t know how to react, but then again, anger always works out well for me. “And Epitaph picked you out, huh? It was their idea?”
“Yeah. Joey said -”
“Let’s fuck Joey for a second, okay? Escape the Fate isn’t doing Warped this year because of personal reasons. We don’t want or need a replacement bassist. We don’t do that. And I don’t know how much of the situation they told you, but no one can take Max’s place. I apologize that Epitaph wasted your time, but don’t phone again. Good bye.”
I jab the button to get me back to Robert.
“Someone just called about doing fill-in bass for Warped.”
“I was trying to tell you,” Robert says lowly. “I’m not down.”
“No, I told the guy the deal was off,” I mutter wearily. In an attempt to calm down, I switch topics. “They’re gonna talk to Max’s step dad today.”
“Who, that Officer Stenson? Are they flying him in?”
I shake my head, even though I know he can’t see me. “I think it’s just over the phone.”
“Shady. When’s that happening?”
“Early? I’ll tell you as soon as I hear anything. I think they’re sending some specialists back to Max’s place, too, just to see if they missed anything. I don’t think they have any working leads.”
“I wish we could just fucking try his cell, you know? It was never found. If there’s any chance...”
“Stenson said it’d be a bad idea, though. He doesn’t want the freak to move or ditch the country or whatever. You’d think it would be easier to catch him if he were on the move, though, don’t you think? Like, with passports or credit cards... I don’t know, someone could spot him.”
“I know.”
“What’s Bryan up to?”
“He’s still crashing with me. Mike’s been over a few times. You wanna drop by for a bit?”
“Thanks man, but Leila’s crying. I’m watching her while Gab’s out on the town with the girls.”
“She sounds really torn up about this whole thing.”
“C’mon,” I say, not exactly comfortable being stuck in the middle. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I disconnect, toss the house phone to the other side of the couch, and lean over to scoop up my baby who’d been, until now, patiently shuffling dolls around on the carpet by my feet. I sit her on my knee and start to jiggle it.
“What’s the matter with daddy’s girl?” I coo, sticking out my lower lip. “You’re not hurt, are you now? You just got tired of daddy’s divided attention, tricksty thing.”
The doorbell rings. I slow my knee to a halt and give Leila a little mock gasp.
“Who could that be?” I ask, forcing myself to sound playful. “Mommy’s home early. I bet she brought you something...”
Standing, I hold my daughter against my hip with one hand and use the other to unlock the front door and pull it open. Instead of Gabriel, I’m greeted by the rounded face of Greg Stenson. Over his shoulder, I can see his patrol car parked in our driveway like an ominous white guard dog.
Leila makes a huffy little sound, and I know it won’t be long before she goes off again.
“I was going to call you,” he begins. “But I wanted to show you something. Can I come in?”
I nod, moving aside so that he can enter. He bends to slip his boots off, and I lead him into the living room where I retake my place on the sofa. He sits on the chair across from me, eyeing Leila just as I eye the standard issue gun hanging from his belt.
“I’m kind of babysitting right now,” I explain and shrug in a way that I hope conveys she stays. Of course I can always just put her in her pen, but I don’t want to.
“That’s fine. I need you to take another really good look at this picture for me, okay?” Stenson asks, revealing a manila envelope from inside his jacket and handing me the same photograph of Chase Mathers I’d already been shown.
This time, Leila peers at it, too. Her adorable features crinkle in scrutiny, even though she can’t understand what’s going on. I try to focus, but nothing dawns on me.
“I don’t know him,” I say at last. By the firm look Stenson is sending me, I feel like I should.
“His mother said he’d been to one of your shows over a year ago.”
I’m blown away. Really? “... There’s no way in hell I can memorize every face at a concert,” I tell him, my tone rich with disbelief. “I only really meet and hang out with a handful of people at every show.”
“No, no, I understand. It was just a feeling I had.”
The room is suddenly filled with too much tension - I shift Leila a little higher on my thigh, and clear my throat inconspicuously. “What happened with Max’s step dad?”
With the way the older man exhales a huge gust of air and runs a hand over his thinning hair, I can tell he’s troubled. Shit. I don’t think I can handle anymore bad news.
“I can’t really get into it with you since it’s a family case, but I do have a department in Ohio following up. Things are going to get messy pretty fast,” he adds, sounding a tad breathless.
Instantly, all worst case scenarios take up refuge in my mind. Step dad beating on Max’s mom. Step dad beating on Max. Step dad controlling Max. Starvation? Emotional abuse? Isolation? Fuuuuck.
It occurs to me just how little I actually know about Max’s relationship with his father figure.
“One last thing, and then I’ll let you get on with your evening. My team found traces of heroin with transfer patterns on Green’s couch. The patterns suggest that the traces were rubbed off of something - a pant leg, sleeve, could be anything.”
I know what Stenson wants before he even finishes his sentence. “Max quit,” I say simply, daring him to second guess me.
“Craig. There’s not going to be a penalty for telling me the truth. If Max is using drugs, I need to know.”
“He’s clean,” I stress, barely containing myself.
The officer smiles kindly at me and heaves himself to his feet. “I believe you. It makes sense, since there were no baggies or left-over substance uncovered anywhere else in the house. The heroin therefore belongs to our suspect.”
He takes Mathers’ picture from my hand and tucks it back into his jacket, and proceeds out the room to put his boots back on. I follow quickly, shushing Leila and waiting for Stenson to elaborate. Thankfully he does.
“The trace we found is currently in the lab. If we can break it down enough and figure out the particular brand, finding the dealer should be simple. From then on, it’s easy sailing.”