Art and fic. :D Yaye!!!!
I got another commission. He's so pretty. >:D
Art by Hungry-Spider
Name: Wren Caselyn
Age: 22
Sex: Male
Height: 5'4"
Appearance: Wren is petite and very androgynous. Often mistaken for a girl, but he doesn't tend to mind too much. His hair is often brightly coloured, but his preferred shade is fuchsia. He has large, pale blue eyes and a rather disarming smile. He knows exactly how to use it, too. ;)
Profession: Vegas stage performer. Reluctant prostitute.
Species: Wren is part of a rare and endangered species called Skin-Walkers. Skin-Walkers are essentially humans who can transform, mutate into, or take the shape of something else. There are some who can change into other animals, like bears or dogs; some who can transform into non-organic objects, like cars; and some - like Wren - who only have partial mutations. Wren's mutation means he can sprout dragonfly/fairy wings and use them to fly. He can also change the colour of his hair at will.
Skin-Walkers try to keep a low profile, as there are various government agencies out there looking for them. Weirdly, most of them seem to congregate in Las Vegas.
Currently Wren is being held prisoner by big-time Vegas casino-owners and used as a stage performer. Due to the mind-boggling "special effects" used in the show, people come from all over the world to watch and try to figure out how it's done. Wren's act is currently one of Vegas' highest grossing shows and for the right price he's also available for, uh... "private hire".
Title: Star Attraction
Author: son_of_darkness
Characters: Wren and Floyd © son_of_darkness
Summary: Wren's first escape attempt.
Warnings: Mentions of wounds and mild sexual violence
Rating: R
Word count: 2,895
Wren had made it as far as the toilet tank before strong arms around his torso were lifting him and dragging him almost effortlessly back into the room. Wren kicked and struggled and hissed but he couldn’t fight them off as they pulled him towards the bed and pressed him flat to his back, holding his limbs out-stretched against the mattress.
“Someone’s been a naughty boy,” Floyd chuckled, moving to sit astride Wren’s prone and damp hips. The man’s weight was almost crushing, bearing down on his slight frame. Wren tried to pull his arms free, but Moran and Vincent gripped them harder and Wren winced as he felt fingernails dig painfully into the tendons around his wrist.
Wren threw himself behind the garbage cans and crouched down low, clamping his own hands tightly over his mouth to stifle his heavy breathing. His teal stockings were ripped and torn and there were scratches and cuts all over his thighs from where he’d landed in the pile of broken glass beneath the window. His boots were heavy and they slowed him down, but stopping to take them off would only cost him further valuable seconds, and those were seconds he didn’t have.
Two men ran past him, shouting angrily to one another and Wren closed his eyes and curled up tightly until the sound of their voices has faded. He didn’t know where he was going or who he was hoping to run into, but he just knew he had to keep going. He wasn’t safe here.
He waited in silence for a few more agonising moments, before removing his hands from his mouth and opening his eyes. He turned as quietly as he could and peered round the side of the bins. The alley seemed deserted - no voices, no footsteps, no shifting light or shadow. If he was going to move, now would probably be a good time. With a deep breath, he stood and stepped tentatively out from his hiding place. His best bet seemed to be to get away from The Strip - maybe find a small downtown motel. He could crash there for the night then hitch a ride back up to California in the morning.
He looked left and right to check the coast was clear before changing his hair from its current fushia to a dull, non-descript brown. A cold shiver ran down his spine at the change, but he didn’t have time to dwell. He moved quietly through the backstreets, keeping off the busy main road until he was clear of The Strip completely.
He didn’t stop, though. The hotels in Old Vegas were far less fancy than on The Strip, but they weren’t what he needed. He wanted something out of the way - something solitary and discreet. Something cheap, or - if he played his cards right - free.
It seemed like hours he was walking, but eventually the lights and the buzzing commotion faded and he was no longer in the backstreets, but in the desert. Looking back over his shoulder he could see a dome of golden light encasing the bustling heart of Las Vegas. Looking straight ahead he could see a single flashing red light in the distance. He moved wearily towards it.
The bright neon sign was exactly what he’d been hoping to see. The motel complex looked run-down and neglected and as Wren pushed open the door of the reception, the smell of bleach hit him like a brick wall. He could see stains on the wall that they’d tried to hide and peeling paint in every corner. The ceiling looked as if it might cave in at any minute and Wren had to step over the puddle of vomit in the middle of the floor as he made his way to the desk.
He stood and waited to be noticed. The man behind the desk was sitting with his back to him, staring at a small black and white TV. Wren bit his lip, tasting lip gloss, and cleared his throat. The man didn’t respond, so Wren raised himself onto his tiptoes and rang the bell on the front of the desk. It was several moments before the man responded, but finally he turned in his revolving chair.
“What can I help you with?” he asked, his voice little more than a drone as he looking everywhere he possibly could before turning his eyes on Wren. When their eyes met the man seemed to give a small start, but Wren paid it no mind. He knew he looked a state and he was used to double-takes from strangers. His hair was brown now, but he was still in full make-up, covered in small gashes and cuts, and he was wearing nothing but a ripped, bright blue tank top on his top half.
“I’d like a room?” Wren asked, giving the man what he hoped was his usual dazzling, disarming smile. He was good at those. His voice was slightly shaky, but still the soft, light tone he had become so used to using.
The man looked at him for a little while and narrowed his eyes slightly. “For how long?” he asked, looking down at something underneath the desk. Wren assumed it was the keys.
“Just one night,” he replied, still smiling. His legs were sore and he wanted a bath. He needed to make sure none of the cuts on his thighs got infected. Not that he entirely trusted the plumbing in a place like this, but still…
The man looked up at him again, then down beneath the desk, then back up before nodding and handing over a key. “Number thirty four,” he said, his voice now monotone. “Third building on the left. Second floor.”
Wren took the key with another warm smile and he wasn’t sure if it was his hand shaking or the receptionist’s, but it didn’t matter. He had a room. He didn’t actually have any money, but the man hadn’t asked him for any and he had other things he could offer if it came down to it. Hopefully, though, he’d be able to just slip silently away in the morning before anybody else was awake.
“Thanks, cutie,” he said brightly, before turning and making his way out the door and across the parking lot. The place was quiet but Wren was sure there were all sorts of elicit activities going on behind closed doors and he was glad of that. It meant he was just another face in an anonymous, seedy crowd. The flashing ‘Motel’ sign buzzed loudly as he walked underneath it and it stained the side of the building bright red every time it flickered into life. Wren trudged wearily up the creaky metal staircase, his boots heavy and loud on each step, and across the concrete landing to his room.
It was exactly as he’d expected - old, marked, peeling wallpaper; yellow nicotine stains on the ceiling; patches of carpet worn almost entirely through and a lone double bed pushed awkwardly against the left wall. The scent of bleach and chemicals was lingering here, too, though not as strongly as before. Wren could see where they’d tried, unsuccessfully, to remove some of the stains. He sighed; it wasn’t the glamorous hotel suits he was used to, but, he reasoned… at least he wasn’t a prisoner here.
He walked over to the bed and sat down to take off his boots. His feet ached and he kicked them off gladly, wincing only slightly at the loud thud they made when they hit the floor. He felt lighter instantly - freer. If he hadn’t been inside and trying to keep a low profile, he’d have spread his wings taken a moment to enjoy being able to fly freely once again. But that could wait. He didn’t want to draw attention, after all.
Standing, he looked down at his thighs and bit his lip. They would need to be cleaned. Thankfully the room was en-suite - he didn’t think he could risk washing himself in a public bathroom. He’d had too many painful experiences with Bad Men in public washrooms to try his luck again. That was one thing his boss - ex-boss, he told himself - had done right for him; provided a safe place for him to shower and change.
He walked to the bathroom and gingerly peeled the purple hot pants away from his hips and down over his thighs, stepping out of them and kicking them through the open door and back towards the bed. His stockings followed, then his top and finally his frilly yellow Tweetie Pie panties. The injuries probably looked worse than they were, he told himself, standing naked before the mirror. The cuts on his thighs covered back to front, from his knees up to just below his hips, and there was a large graze on his left knee from where he’d landed on it. Now that he had a mirror he could see the dark purple bruise blossoming under his right eye and the nasty gash on his shoulder from where his last punter had caught him with his knife.
He hadn’t brought anything with him - he hadn’t had time - so washing his make-up off now meant he would have to go without until he was back in Cali and safe. He supposed that was just a sacrifice he would have to make.
With another sigh, he stepped into the shower and turned it on.
The water was too cold at first and then too hot and the soap looked as if it had already been used, but Wren couldn’t afford to be picky. He rubbed the bar in his hands until it turned white again, then set about washing himself all over.
He guessed he must have been in there for about an hour. When he finally turned the shower off and stepped out onto the linoleum tiles the tips of his fingers had started to wrinkle. He pulled the towel from the rail and wrapped himself up in it before venturing back into the bedroom. The small alarm clock on the bedside table flashed 01:26 at him and Wren stared at it mindlessly as he rubbed the towel over his damp body. If he wanted to sneak out early, he would probably need to set the alarm for five o’clock. That gave him three and a half hours sleep. That was enough to be getting on with. Depending on who he managed to hitch a ride with, he could probably grab a few extra hours on the road, too.
He moved towards the bed to set the alarm, but a shadow moving past his window made him freeze. The bright red motel sign flashed again and there it was - the dark, bulky silhouette of two men. For a moment Wren couldn’t breathe, then he suddenly crouched down low beside the bed, feeling his heart hammer in his chest. They’d found him. Of course they’d found him. He’d been a fool to think any motel in Vegas would be safe from them, no matter how small or seedy.
He could hear their voices now and he recognised them.
He looked frantically towards the bathroom. He could try the bathroom window - that opened out onto the opposite landing and that would buy him enough time to…
A key slid into the lock and Wren didn’t have time to think of anything else. He leapt to his feet and ran to the bathroom, the towel falling, discarded, to the floor just as the door swung violently open and crashed into the wall.
“Get him!” called Floyd and Wren had made it as far as the toilet tank before strong arms around his torso were lifting him and dragging him almost effortlessly back into the room. Wren kicked and struggled and hissed but he couldn’t fight them off as they pulled him towards the bed and pressed him flat to his back, holding his limbs out-stretched against the mattress.
“Someone’s been a naughty boy,” Floyd chuckled, moving to sit astride Wren’s prone and damp hips. The man’s weight was almost crushing, bearing down on his slight frame. Wren tried to pull his arms free, but Moran and Vincent gripped them harder and Wren winced as he felt fingernails dig painfully into the tendons around his wrist.
“What did you think you were gonna do?” Floyd went on, reaching down and cupping Wren’s cheek almost affectionately in his palm. “Head out to California and make your own way? Start your own show? Your own business?”
“NO!” Wren snapped back, suddenly aware that he’d never shouted at these men before. He’d been so close to freedom. “I don’t wanna be your fucking freak show. I just want a normal life back home, away from this. Away from you.”
Floyd laughed and Wren could feel his insides clench so tightly he feared they might burst. He struggled again, but it was no more effective this time.
“You think something like you could ever have a normal life?” the man asked, a nasty grin fixed across his nasty face. “You think you could make it a week without someone trying to hurt you or fuck you or hunt you down? You think you could ever make something more of yourself than we have?”
“I DON’T CARE!” Wren shouted, feeling his eyes water with anger and frustration. He didn’t want this life - he’d never wanted this life. Floyd’s fingers suddenly dug sharply into Wren’s jaw, squashing his cheeks and pressing them painfully into his molars.
“Don’t get fuckin’ fresh now, kid,” he barked, the amusement instantly gone from his face. “You didn’t get away, did ya? That still makes you our property.”
Wren stopped struggling then and just stared silently up at him, feeling his chest slowly caving in on itself. There was a horrible lingering silence, then Floyd let go of Wren’s face completely. Wren stretched his jaw to try and work the soreness from his cheeks.
“If it wouldn’t ruin your act - and thus our profits - completely, I’d even cut those pretty little wings off you. That’s how much I don’t trust you right now. You see what you’ve done?”
He moved back and pushed himself to his feet and Wren could only watch as the man paced up and down in the dimly-lit room.
“You see, I have a dilemma now,” he said after a while, holding a finger to his mouth as if in thought. “Obviously we’re gonna take you back. You’re a nice little money-maker. Our star attraction. You know people come from all over the world to see your act?”
Wren swallowed heavily and nodded, his vision blurring and clouding as he listened to Floyd speak.
“Do you know how much money you made us last quarter?”
Silence.
“Over half a million dollars, kid. Almost six hundred thousand bucks. And that’s not even counting the other work you do for us. That’s a nice little earner on its own.”
Floyd paced again, the finger still held to his lips. Wren blinked and felt a hot, fat tear roll down over his temple and into his hair. He wished they would let go of him. He wished they would at least let him get dressed.
“But,” Floyd went on. “And this is where I find myself with a problem… you’ve got an attitude.”
He stopped and turned to face Wren directly.
“You’re all sweetness and light with people out in public, aren’t ya? Smiling and batting those pretty, long lashes of yours. You’ve got everybody fooled, don’t ya? But we’ve had complaints from unsatisfied customers about your lack of… professionalism, shall we say? And that don’t make me happy. ‘Cause I gotta deal with that, you know?”
There was another pause and then Floyd started pacing again.
“And then...” he chuckled. “Then you go and pull a stunt like this. And that really pisses me off, because Mr. Luciano is one of our highest paying customers. You treat a man like that with respect, kiddo. You don’t stab him in the leg and jump out his hotel room window. Which, by the way, is on the third floor. Not very clever.”
Wren exhaled shakily. “He tried to kil-“
“I don’t need your excuses,” Floyd interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “My point is, Wren - you don’t fix this attitude of yours, and I’m gonna have to give you some incentive.”
Wren’s eyes widened as Floyd pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked it open, the flashing neon light from outside glinting like blood against the blade. He struggled again as the elder man moved back onto the bed and kneeled between his cut and bruised thighs. The two other’s tightened their hold and Wren couldn’t speak as he felt Floyd reach down between his legs and take hold of his balls in a cruelly tight fist.
“Now,” Floyd said, pressing the blade of the knife lightly against Wren’s skin. “You don’t actually need these for anything, so it wouldn’t be much of a bother for me to cut them off.”
More tears fall from the corners of Wren’s eyes and he shook his head, trying not to move too much for fear of accidentally pushing himself against the blade. “Please…” he whispered, staring straight up at the ceiling, his heart hammering hard against his ribs and his pulse pounding heavily in his ears.
“You gonna be a good little freak for us?” Floyd asked, his voice deceptively gentle. “You gonna behave and smile all pretty for the punters?”
Wren nodded and let out a shaky, terrified breath through his nose. For a moment nothing happened, then suddenly the blade was gone from him and Floyd was standing again, smiling and slipping the knife into his pocket. “Ok, fellas. Let the kid get dressed. We’re taking him back.”
Wren sat up when he was released and rose unsteadily to his feet to collect his clothes. He pulled on his hot pants, top and boots, not bothering with his stockings, and allowed himself to be pulled from the building by Floyd as the others followed on behind.
Art by Hungry-Spider
Name: Wren Caselyn
Age: 22
Sex: Male
Height: 5'4"
Appearance: Wren is petite and very androgynous. Often mistaken for a girl, but he doesn't tend to mind too much. His hair is often brightly coloured, but his preferred shade is fuchsia. He has large, pale blue eyes and a rather disarming smile. He knows exactly how to use it, too. ;)
Profession: Vegas stage performer. Reluctant prostitute.
Species: Wren is part of a rare and endangered species called Skin-Walkers. Skin-Walkers are essentially humans who can transform, mutate into, or take the shape of something else. There are some who can change into other animals, like bears or dogs; some who can transform into non-organic objects, like cars; and some - like Wren - who only have partial mutations. Wren's mutation means he can sprout dragonfly/fairy wings and use them to fly. He can also change the colour of his hair at will.
Skin-Walkers try to keep a low profile, as there are various government agencies out there looking for them. Weirdly, most of them seem to congregate in Las Vegas.
Currently Wren is being held prisoner by big-time Vegas casino-owners and used as a stage performer. Due to the mind-boggling "special effects" used in the show, people come from all over the world to watch and try to figure out how it's done. Wren's act is currently one of Vegas' highest grossing shows and for the right price he's also available for, uh... "private hire".
Title: Star Attraction
Author: son_of_darkness
Characters: Wren and Floyd © son_of_darkness
Summary: Wren's first escape attempt.
Warnings: Mentions of wounds and mild sexual violence
Rating: R
Word count: 2,895
Wren had made it as far as the toilet tank before strong arms around his torso were lifting him and dragging him almost effortlessly back into the room. Wren kicked and struggled and hissed but he couldn’t fight them off as they pulled him towards the bed and pressed him flat to his back, holding his limbs out-stretched against the mattress.
“Someone’s been a naughty boy,” Floyd chuckled, moving to sit astride Wren’s prone and damp hips. The man’s weight was almost crushing, bearing down on his slight frame. Wren tried to pull his arms free, but Moran and Vincent gripped them harder and Wren winced as he felt fingernails dig painfully into the tendons around his wrist.
Wren threw himself behind the garbage cans and crouched down low, clamping his own hands tightly over his mouth to stifle his heavy breathing. His teal stockings were ripped and torn and there were scratches and cuts all over his thighs from where he’d landed in the pile of broken glass beneath the window. His boots were heavy and they slowed him down, but stopping to take them off would only cost him further valuable seconds, and those were seconds he didn’t have.
Two men ran past him, shouting angrily to one another and Wren closed his eyes and curled up tightly until the sound of their voices has faded. He didn’t know where he was going or who he was hoping to run into, but he just knew he had to keep going. He wasn’t safe here.
He waited in silence for a few more agonising moments, before removing his hands from his mouth and opening his eyes. He turned as quietly as he could and peered round the side of the bins. The alley seemed deserted - no voices, no footsteps, no shifting light or shadow. If he was going to move, now would probably be a good time. With a deep breath, he stood and stepped tentatively out from his hiding place. His best bet seemed to be to get away from The Strip - maybe find a small downtown motel. He could crash there for the night then hitch a ride back up to California in the morning.
He looked left and right to check the coast was clear before changing his hair from its current fushia to a dull, non-descript brown. A cold shiver ran down his spine at the change, but he didn’t have time to dwell. He moved quietly through the backstreets, keeping off the busy main road until he was clear of The Strip completely.
He didn’t stop, though. The hotels in Old Vegas were far less fancy than on The Strip, but they weren’t what he needed. He wanted something out of the way - something solitary and discreet. Something cheap, or - if he played his cards right - free.
It seemed like hours he was walking, but eventually the lights and the buzzing commotion faded and he was no longer in the backstreets, but in the desert. Looking back over his shoulder he could see a dome of golden light encasing the bustling heart of Las Vegas. Looking straight ahead he could see a single flashing red light in the distance. He moved wearily towards it.
The bright neon sign was exactly what he’d been hoping to see. The motel complex looked run-down and neglected and as Wren pushed open the door of the reception, the smell of bleach hit him like a brick wall. He could see stains on the wall that they’d tried to hide and peeling paint in every corner. The ceiling looked as if it might cave in at any minute and Wren had to step over the puddle of vomit in the middle of the floor as he made his way to the desk.
He stood and waited to be noticed. The man behind the desk was sitting with his back to him, staring at a small black and white TV. Wren bit his lip, tasting lip gloss, and cleared his throat. The man didn’t respond, so Wren raised himself onto his tiptoes and rang the bell on the front of the desk. It was several moments before the man responded, but finally he turned in his revolving chair.
“What can I help you with?” he asked, his voice little more than a drone as he looking everywhere he possibly could before turning his eyes on Wren. When their eyes met the man seemed to give a small start, but Wren paid it no mind. He knew he looked a state and he was used to double-takes from strangers. His hair was brown now, but he was still in full make-up, covered in small gashes and cuts, and he was wearing nothing but a ripped, bright blue tank top on his top half.
“I’d like a room?” Wren asked, giving the man what he hoped was his usual dazzling, disarming smile. He was good at those. His voice was slightly shaky, but still the soft, light tone he had become so used to using.
The man looked at him for a little while and narrowed his eyes slightly. “For how long?” he asked, looking down at something underneath the desk. Wren assumed it was the keys.
“Just one night,” he replied, still smiling. His legs were sore and he wanted a bath. He needed to make sure none of the cuts on his thighs got infected. Not that he entirely trusted the plumbing in a place like this, but still…
The man looked up at him again, then down beneath the desk, then back up before nodding and handing over a key. “Number thirty four,” he said, his voice now monotone. “Third building on the left. Second floor.”
Wren took the key with another warm smile and he wasn’t sure if it was his hand shaking or the receptionist’s, but it didn’t matter. He had a room. He didn’t actually have any money, but the man hadn’t asked him for any and he had other things he could offer if it came down to it. Hopefully, though, he’d be able to just slip silently away in the morning before anybody else was awake.
“Thanks, cutie,” he said brightly, before turning and making his way out the door and across the parking lot. The place was quiet but Wren was sure there were all sorts of elicit activities going on behind closed doors and he was glad of that. It meant he was just another face in an anonymous, seedy crowd. The flashing ‘Motel’ sign buzzed loudly as he walked underneath it and it stained the side of the building bright red every time it flickered into life. Wren trudged wearily up the creaky metal staircase, his boots heavy and loud on each step, and across the concrete landing to his room.
It was exactly as he’d expected - old, marked, peeling wallpaper; yellow nicotine stains on the ceiling; patches of carpet worn almost entirely through and a lone double bed pushed awkwardly against the left wall. The scent of bleach and chemicals was lingering here, too, though not as strongly as before. Wren could see where they’d tried, unsuccessfully, to remove some of the stains. He sighed; it wasn’t the glamorous hotel suits he was used to, but, he reasoned… at least he wasn’t a prisoner here.
He walked over to the bed and sat down to take off his boots. His feet ached and he kicked them off gladly, wincing only slightly at the loud thud they made when they hit the floor. He felt lighter instantly - freer. If he hadn’t been inside and trying to keep a low profile, he’d have spread his wings taken a moment to enjoy being able to fly freely once again. But that could wait. He didn’t want to draw attention, after all.
Standing, he looked down at his thighs and bit his lip. They would need to be cleaned. Thankfully the room was en-suite - he didn’t think he could risk washing himself in a public bathroom. He’d had too many painful experiences with Bad Men in public washrooms to try his luck again. That was one thing his boss - ex-boss, he told himself - had done right for him; provided a safe place for him to shower and change.
He walked to the bathroom and gingerly peeled the purple hot pants away from his hips and down over his thighs, stepping out of them and kicking them through the open door and back towards the bed. His stockings followed, then his top and finally his frilly yellow Tweetie Pie panties. The injuries probably looked worse than they were, he told himself, standing naked before the mirror. The cuts on his thighs covered back to front, from his knees up to just below his hips, and there was a large graze on his left knee from where he’d landed on it. Now that he had a mirror he could see the dark purple bruise blossoming under his right eye and the nasty gash on his shoulder from where his last punter had caught him with his knife.
He hadn’t brought anything with him - he hadn’t had time - so washing his make-up off now meant he would have to go without until he was back in Cali and safe. He supposed that was just a sacrifice he would have to make.
With another sigh, he stepped into the shower and turned it on.
The water was too cold at first and then too hot and the soap looked as if it had already been used, but Wren couldn’t afford to be picky. He rubbed the bar in his hands until it turned white again, then set about washing himself all over.
He guessed he must have been in there for about an hour. When he finally turned the shower off and stepped out onto the linoleum tiles the tips of his fingers had started to wrinkle. He pulled the towel from the rail and wrapped himself up in it before venturing back into the bedroom. The small alarm clock on the bedside table flashed 01:26 at him and Wren stared at it mindlessly as he rubbed the towel over his damp body. If he wanted to sneak out early, he would probably need to set the alarm for five o’clock. That gave him three and a half hours sleep. That was enough to be getting on with. Depending on who he managed to hitch a ride with, he could probably grab a few extra hours on the road, too.
He moved towards the bed to set the alarm, but a shadow moving past his window made him freeze. The bright red motel sign flashed again and there it was - the dark, bulky silhouette of two men. For a moment Wren couldn’t breathe, then he suddenly crouched down low beside the bed, feeling his heart hammer in his chest. They’d found him. Of course they’d found him. He’d been a fool to think any motel in Vegas would be safe from them, no matter how small or seedy.
He could hear their voices now and he recognised them.
He looked frantically towards the bathroom. He could try the bathroom window - that opened out onto the opposite landing and that would buy him enough time to…
A key slid into the lock and Wren didn’t have time to think of anything else. He leapt to his feet and ran to the bathroom, the towel falling, discarded, to the floor just as the door swung violently open and crashed into the wall.
“Get him!” called Floyd and Wren had made it as far as the toilet tank before strong arms around his torso were lifting him and dragging him almost effortlessly back into the room. Wren kicked and struggled and hissed but he couldn’t fight them off as they pulled him towards the bed and pressed him flat to his back, holding his limbs out-stretched against the mattress.
“Someone’s been a naughty boy,” Floyd chuckled, moving to sit astride Wren’s prone and damp hips. The man’s weight was almost crushing, bearing down on his slight frame. Wren tried to pull his arms free, but Moran and Vincent gripped them harder and Wren winced as he felt fingernails dig painfully into the tendons around his wrist.
“What did you think you were gonna do?” Floyd went on, reaching down and cupping Wren’s cheek almost affectionately in his palm. “Head out to California and make your own way? Start your own show? Your own business?”
“NO!” Wren snapped back, suddenly aware that he’d never shouted at these men before. He’d been so close to freedom. “I don’t wanna be your fucking freak show. I just want a normal life back home, away from this. Away from you.”
Floyd laughed and Wren could feel his insides clench so tightly he feared they might burst. He struggled again, but it was no more effective this time.
“You think something like you could ever have a normal life?” the man asked, a nasty grin fixed across his nasty face. “You think you could make it a week without someone trying to hurt you or fuck you or hunt you down? You think you could ever make something more of yourself than we have?”
“I DON’T CARE!” Wren shouted, feeling his eyes water with anger and frustration. He didn’t want this life - he’d never wanted this life. Floyd’s fingers suddenly dug sharply into Wren’s jaw, squashing his cheeks and pressing them painfully into his molars.
“Don’t get fuckin’ fresh now, kid,” he barked, the amusement instantly gone from his face. “You didn’t get away, did ya? That still makes you our property.”
Wren stopped struggling then and just stared silently up at him, feeling his chest slowly caving in on itself. There was a horrible lingering silence, then Floyd let go of Wren’s face completely. Wren stretched his jaw to try and work the soreness from his cheeks.
“If it wouldn’t ruin your act - and thus our profits - completely, I’d even cut those pretty little wings off you. That’s how much I don’t trust you right now. You see what you’ve done?”
He moved back and pushed himself to his feet and Wren could only watch as the man paced up and down in the dimly-lit room.
“You see, I have a dilemma now,” he said after a while, holding a finger to his mouth as if in thought. “Obviously we’re gonna take you back. You’re a nice little money-maker. Our star attraction. You know people come from all over the world to see your act?”
Wren swallowed heavily and nodded, his vision blurring and clouding as he listened to Floyd speak.
“Do you know how much money you made us last quarter?”
Silence.
“Over half a million dollars, kid. Almost six hundred thousand bucks. And that’s not even counting the other work you do for us. That’s a nice little earner on its own.”
Floyd paced again, the finger still held to his lips. Wren blinked and felt a hot, fat tear roll down over his temple and into his hair. He wished they would let go of him. He wished they would at least let him get dressed.
“But,” Floyd went on. “And this is where I find myself with a problem… you’ve got an attitude.”
He stopped and turned to face Wren directly.
“You’re all sweetness and light with people out in public, aren’t ya? Smiling and batting those pretty, long lashes of yours. You’ve got everybody fooled, don’t ya? But we’ve had complaints from unsatisfied customers about your lack of… professionalism, shall we say? And that don’t make me happy. ‘Cause I gotta deal with that, you know?”
There was another pause and then Floyd started pacing again.
“And then...” he chuckled. “Then you go and pull a stunt like this. And that really pisses me off, because Mr. Luciano is one of our highest paying customers. You treat a man like that with respect, kiddo. You don’t stab him in the leg and jump out his hotel room window. Which, by the way, is on the third floor. Not very clever.”
Wren exhaled shakily. “He tried to kil-“
“I don’t need your excuses,” Floyd interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “My point is, Wren - you don’t fix this attitude of yours, and I’m gonna have to give you some incentive.”
Wren’s eyes widened as Floyd pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked it open, the flashing neon light from outside glinting like blood against the blade. He struggled again as the elder man moved back onto the bed and kneeled between his cut and bruised thighs. The two other’s tightened their hold and Wren couldn’t speak as he felt Floyd reach down between his legs and take hold of his balls in a cruelly tight fist.
“Now,” Floyd said, pressing the blade of the knife lightly against Wren’s skin. “You don’t actually need these for anything, so it wouldn’t be much of a bother for me to cut them off.”
More tears fall from the corners of Wren’s eyes and he shook his head, trying not to move too much for fear of accidentally pushing himself against the blade. “Please…” he whispered, staring straight up at the ceiling, his heart hammering hard against his ribs and his pulse pounding heavily in his ears.
“You gonna be a good little freak for us?” Floyd asked, his voice deceptively gentle. “You gonna behave and smile all pretty for the punters?”
Wren nodded and let out a shaky, terrified breath through his nose. For a moment nothing happened, then suddenly the blade was gone from him and Floyd was standing again, smiling and slipping the knife into his pocket. “Ok, fellas. Let the kid get dressed. We’re taking him back.”
Wren sat up when he was released and rose unsteadily to his feet to collect his clothes. He pulled on his hot pants, top and boots, not bothering with his stockings, and allowed himself to be pulled from the building by Floyd as the others followed on behind.