No . . . Sir had promised he wasn't going to touch him. Oh, no, shit, no—this isn't what he was prepared for. He wasn't prepared for this. He wasn't ready—

"Casey . . ."

"No . . ." He shook his head, the single word no tumbling out of his mouth over and over again. No, no, no. This didn't make sense. "But-but you said . . ." This wasn't happening. "You-you said, you promised—"

"Casey, hey . . ."

His fingers were tingling. He ran them through his hair. Tightened. Gripped and pulled. "No, no—you said—I can't do this, I can't do this, please, don't make me do this—"

"HEY!" Big, scary grown-up man voice boomed and commanded quiet.

Case went still. His breath re-tightened in his chest, but his pulse continued to gallop.

Sir leaned in, his posture rigid. "What did I just say?" he asked, a low rumble. "Hmm?"

"I'm not gay," Case uttered—desperate, pathetic. Losing himself again to the ebb-and-flow of panic and fear. "Please, I'm not even gay—"

"Neither am I," Sir replied—detached, blunt. Leaving no room for emotion or confusion. "Don't get it twisted, Casey. This has nothing to do with being a faggot."

Case blinked at the harshness of the word faggot. As Sir's words settled over him, so did reason. If Sir wasn't gay . . . "Then why are you doing this to me?"

"Tsk, oh, come now, Casey, we've been through this—"

"No. No, none of that life is random tragedy bullshit! Why did you pick me—a boy—if you aren't gay? Because that wasn't random, this was a-a-a calculated fucking decisi—"

"Boys don't menstruate."

The word menstruate smacked into Case, leaving him stunned and breathless, like the shock of hitting concrete when his skateboard had flown out from under him.

"Boys don't get pregnant," Sir continued, his pragmatism slowly bleeding into derision. "And boys are so much more satisfying to break. You see, girls—bless 'em, they are sweet—they grow up conditioned to be scared. They expect to get assaulted. They get taught to fear men because our self-control can only go so far. So when tragedy and the cruel harshness of the world does befall them . . . deep down, they knew it was inevitable.

"But boys? No. When it happens to them, it blindsides them. It destroys them on such a profound level. And I, personally, find that exhilarating to witness."

Case stared at Sir, unable to respond. How was he meant to respond? What the hell could he say to something so insane, so cruel, so . . . inhuman?

"There's no need for the hysterics." Sir flicked his cigarette ash onto the bottom step. "I didn't tolerate it from the others, and I won't tolerate it from you. Understand?"

The others. Case remembered the hair still tangled in the brush. He remembered all the other tell-tale signs of life before him, everything he'd turned his blinders to.

He's not going to touch you, came the voice, penetrating the white noise. Remember? He's not going to touch you, not unless you ask him. That's what he wants. What he really wants.

Okay. That's what Sir wanted: to break him. To break him into submission, into asking for rape. Is it still rape if you ask for it?

I never asked for it. I won't ask for it. I'm okay, because boys don't get raped.

"No."

"What was that?" Sir asked, his tone losing its nonchalance.

Case refocused on his surroundings. Sir stared at him from across the basement, the physical distance between them insignificant. He could apologize, say he didn't mean it. Except he did mean it. So, swallowing down his nerves, he said it again, loud and firm: "No."

Sir cocked his head to the side, his mouth set in a grim line. "Really?"

Then, like a hairline fracture in a floodgate blowing open, all the energy and frustration Case had kept pent up inside for the last few days came bursting at the seams. "No! No—fuck-fucking, no!" Unable to stand still, he started to pace, gesturing aimlessly. "No! I'm not doing this! I'm not playing this fucking game with you!"

"I'm gonna give you a second to calm d–"

"Or what?" Case demanded, whirling around to face his captor. "Or what will you fucking do? Hmm? Drug me? Starve me?"

Sir met his fury with deadpan coldness. Case might as well have been screaming at a statue, expecting it to crack.

"Kill me? Is that what you're going to do?" Case advanced toward Sir—still seated on the bottom step, blank faced—fueled by his indifference. "Because I could do that myself. Soon as you leave, I could take a pair of sweatpants from that drawer and hang myself. What will you do then, huh? Mr. Trial-and-Fucking-Error!"

Sir rose to his feet.

Case stopped dead in his tracks, his anger derailed by a jolt of fear.

Sir's towering frame loomed over him. The muscles in his broad shoulders tensed, tendons and veins in his neck bulging.

Instinctively, Case took a step back, an appeasing I'm sorry making its way into his mouth. But his tongue refused to form the words, to utter even a syllable. Except Sir didn't come towards him. Instead, he turned into the space under the stairs, yanking open the dresser drawers. Grabbing clothes, gathering them into bundles in his arms.

Case scoffed, relief leaving him spitefully flippant. "Yeah, great. Go ahead, take them! Why don't you just keep me naked all fucking day?"

Sir hurled the clothes onto the ground. Grabbed the dresser, hauled it away from the wall. Lifted it chest high in the air. Sent it colliding into the exposed pipes in the opposite wall. A crash of metal, wood and stone. He spun on his heel. Stormed forward. The space between him and Case vanishing in his warpath. "You know what?"

Case backpedaled. Sir reached out, grabbing him in one hand. Fingers dug into the crook of his neck. Holding him in place as he leaned in close to Case's face. Close enough for Case to see the flecks of red around his eggplant bruises, and the weathered lines around his stormy eyes.

"You're right," Sir growled, his breath warm, stinging with malt and whiskey. "I would like that. To keep you naked and waiting like a personal whore. But I'm a patient man, and I know it'll be worth the wait. I wanna see the wet in your eyes when I've broken you—that's when I'll fuck you."

Sir's grip tightened, bruising the soft tissue in his shoulder and neck. Case winced. Quick recovery. Quick reaction. He spat in Sir's face.

Sir recoiled. A frothy blob of spit slid down the bridge of his nose. "Oh, you little cunt!" He snatched Case by the scruff of his neck. Dragged him across the basement. "You think you're so smart?" He stopped at the piles of discarded clothes. Forced Case's head down, as if he were a dog getting its nose rubbed into its own shit. "Go on, pick them up!"

Case landed on hands and knees, his fall softened by the scattered mess of hoodies, shirts and sweatpants. A dull ache in his kneecaps and wrists. A searing hatred in his core.

"Pick them up and make yourself a fucking noose!"

Case's heart thrashed against his ribcage. Blood whooshed and pounded in his skull. "Fuck you!"

Sir shoved Case down, face first into the pile of clothes.

Case pushed himself back up. Was knocked back down. Unable to lift his body against Sir's weight and strength. He swung his fist. Wrist caught in an iron grip. Arm twisted, pulled, pinned against his shoulder blades.

Case screamed. Pain. Fire and broken glass tearing his ligaments. "Let go!"

Wordless, Sir complied. Releasing his hold of Case's arm. Crouching behind him. Pulling their bodies closer together.

"Get off me!" Case shouted, feeling rough jeans against his bare legs. Feeling Sir mounting him from behind. Feeling the tip of Sir's erection through their clothes. "Get the fuck off me!"

Sir's arms reached forward, seizing the pants Case had been wearing moments before.

"Get–gaak!" Sir pulled the pant leg around his neck. Strangling him from behind.

Case reared back on his knees. Clawed at the fabric. Feeling it tight against the hollow dent in his neck. Feeling it cinch his windpipe.

"You really want to hang yourself?" Sir's deep, scary grown-up man voice rumbled against Case's ear. His breath was hot and humid with spit and ire. "Is this how you want to go?"

Wheezing. Sputtering. Choking.

He's killing me, Case thought. Tugging at the pants, unable to pull them away.

Light-headed. Pounding in his ears. The inside of his eyelids flashing red.

I'm going to die. Fuck. I'm going to die.

Teeth against his earlobe.

I don't want to die—

Mustering all his strength, Case swung his arm. His elbow rammed into Sir's nose. Sharp, tingling pain in his funny bone as it made contact.

Sir yelped—"Fuck!"

The compression around Case's neck disappeared.

Case fell forward. Coughing. Ragged breaths escaping his throat. He rolled over. Chest heaving as he wheezed for air. Oxygen flooded his lungs. Relief flooded his brain. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit–

Sir pounced on him. Straddling his hips. Pinning him down. Hands around his neck. Sir's face hovered over him—red with rage, strained with determination.

Oh, shit.

Case clawed Sir's hands. Nails sinking into skin.

Fingers tightened. Squeezing. Crushing his Adam's apple. Crushing his esophagus.

Get off me . . . Case thrashed under Sir. Kicking, bare feet scrambling against the concrete. Hips bucking, thrusting beneath Sir, desperate to shake him off.

Pressure built inside his head. Throbbing, bulging. Eyeballs threatening to pop from their sockets.

Can't breathe . . . stop . . .

Sir's thumbs slid up Case's neck, stopping below his jawline. Stopping against his rapidly pulsing jugular. He tilted Case's head. Shook him like a Boggle tray, his brain rattling against his skull. Case's mouth fell open in a strangled, silent scream.

Release.

Sir eased away, allowing Case to desperately suck in air. Hacking cough, rasping breath.

Constriction.

Sir tightened his grip. Taking away Case's breath just as readily as he had given it.

The corners of Case's eyes prickled with tears. Stop . . .

His limbs sagged. His scratching hands fell limp to the floor. His surroundings blurred and blacked out as he slipped into dark recesses of unconsciousness. The dark recess of death.

"You know what?" Sir whispered, his voice muffled, only recognizable by its heat against Case's face. "I think you're all talk."

Sir pulled away, freeing his hold over Case.

Case violently gasped. His lungs inflated with air. Yes—yes! Air, sweet air. Sweet reprieve. Inhale–sputter, cough–exhale–a dry, relieved sob. He inhaled ravenously, oxygen clearing his senses like a breeze clearing dense fog.

"You don't want to die," Sir said, his voice a cocktail of malice and fact. "That's how I know you're not going to kill yourself. You're too weak."

He's right, hissed the voice, serpentinizing back into his consciousness. You're weak. Too weak for suicide. We all know that.

Sir stood—Case, still disorientated, sensing rather than seeing the movement. "We can play nice. Make this an easy, amicable situation. How this unfolds is all on you, Casey." Footsteps, a faint reverberation through the concrete and into Case's slack body. "Clean this shit up."

Against the rushing fluid in his ears and throbbing beat in his head, Case listened to the hazy sound of Sir ascending the staircase. The creaking open and close of the door overhead. Followed by what should have been silence—if it weren't for his harsh, uneven breathing.

Holy shit. He almost killed me . . . Holy shit . . .

For a long, long time Case stayed on the floor. Spread out, in a daze. Ears ringing. His body and the basement both seeming far away and intangible.

I almost died.

He swallowed, an unconscious reflex, and felt shards of glass inside his throat. He winced, imagining his windpipe as a caved-in tunnel. But the pain carried him back to reality. He sat up, the blood rushing from his head, shooting green sparks in his eyes. A pause, waiting for the wooziness to fade away.

When his vision cleared, he took in the full disarray of his surroundings. Clothes scattered across the floor. Empty drawers. The dresser on its side but still intact. Case inwardly sighed, knowing he'd have to clean the mess and already exhausted by the work. So instead, he forced himself into the shower, needing to reset and clear his senses.

Hot water eased the aches and tension in his muscles. Case hugged himself under the spray, too sore and tired to bother scrubbing himself clean with soap. He closed his eyes, and his brain bungeed him back to a certain moment before he was strangled: the moment he'd felt Sir's erection. He'd felt it, through both his sweatpants and Sir's denim jeans, pressed firm against his backside—but not for a second had he feared it. No, his terror had been overwrought and defined by one thing: his fear of dying.

I don't want to die.

Case sat on the shower floor, hot water turning lukewarm then cold as it hammered overhead. He brought his knees to his chest, sucking the knuckle of his thumb as he processed the realization he feared death more than rape.

I don't want to die down here . . .

And then, it dawned on him—slowly, like the sun waking up on a winter morning—if he couldn't escape and he was waiting for rescue, then he had to survive. And survival in this basement meant one thing: sex.

You survived a blowjob, the voice reminded him. That didn't ruin you.

Case swallowed involuntarily at the memory. The pain in his throat sharpened, reminding him the cost of saying no. The cost of prolonging the inevitable.

You're not a virgin. It's just sex. Not even that, it's a transaction without intimacy. Intercourse.

Sir could be nice. Sir said so himself: this could be easy, maybe even gentle if Case didn't put up a fight. It wouldn't be the first time Case had sex because someone else wanted him to. Not sex—intercourse.

One thing he was sure of: he wasn't going to die in this basement. He was going to feel sunshine on his skin, and drink sweetly-sour slushees and eat cheesy pizza, and wiggle his toes in freshly cut grass. He was going to finish his senior year of high school. He was going to apologize to Miles' family for being the reason their son was killed. He was going home, back to a family who loved him, and make up for all the hurt he'd put them through. No matter the cost.