A/N: Thanks again for the reviews and favorites:). I can't believe how long this thing has become. I'm guessing this will be about fifteen parts. I know where I am going and how it will end.
Part Eight
Strong wind gusts and pelting rain drenched the Jemez Mountains. Temperatures hovered near freezing. The Fenton Lake Campground was deserted except for an older RV parked against the wall where it charged on shore power. The camper was drafty. Kurt Hummel shivered miserably under an Afghan blanket and wished he could pull it over his head. The handcuffs kept his wrists pinned to the metal railing beside the hard, uncomfortable bed. His back ached from lying on the thin twin mattress for such a long time.
The drugs were wearing off. Kurt felt every bruise, the pinched ache in his wrists, and the pounding in his head. The gag was gone. Wes had removed it once he'd ditched the Ford Expedition in Oklahoma yesterday morning. Daybreak turned the steep mountain hills pink. The sky was a brilliant mixture of orange and blue. Even the camper looked pink in the early morning light. Kurt had never seen a sunrise like it. The hues and color combination was brighter and somehow, more jubilant than any dawn he had witnessed before.
Footsteps distracted Kurt from the sharp, painful headache and spectacular colors. A coffee machine churned on the short counter. The sound of boiling water and its incessant drip only added to his discomfort. Wes ran a comb through his hair as he stepped closer towards the bed. The older teen had slept on the fold out couch-bed, but he had already removed the blankets and shoved the bed into its nook in the wall while Kurt suffered nearby.
"I bet you'd like a shower." Wes began cautiously. "I'll let you get up, shower, and eat on your own-but I don't want any trouble this time. Understand?"
Kurt nodded, but the other teen stayed where he was.
"Say yes," Wes snapped, "And just remember that I've got a gun, and what happened when you decided to fight me in Oklahoma. Got it?"
"Yes," Kurt muttered; acutely aware of the welts on his back. "I've got it."
"Good." Wes fingered the handgun tucked into his waistband. "Let's try this again."
The handcuffs opened with a loud click as Wes inserted the key. Kurt moaned when feeling returned his hands. Pins and needles traveled up and down his arms. Wes stood next to the coffee pot and warily eyed him from the tiny kitchen. Kurt fought nausea and pain as he slowly undressed.
A year ago, stripping in the presence of another boy would have turned him on. Football practices had been torture. Kurt had showered and changed after the other players were gone, knowing they would freak out if he got a hard on in the locker room. Sometimes he skipped showering all together when there were other boys around. It was too dangerous. He pretended Wes wasn't there and stepped into the undersized shower.
Pressure was almost non-existent, but it was better than nothing. Kurt stood under the warm water and pressed his head against the plastic wall. The bruises on his lower back stung as the spray hit his skin. All the contusions from Karofsky and McKinley were gone. I was supposed to be safe at Dalton. Kurt clutched a generic soap bar (which would so damage his skin) and cried.
He couldn't say who he hated more right then: Blaine or Wes. I wish I had never gone to spy on the Warblers. Before the heart attack, Glee Club had always been his safe haven and the best part of his day. Friendship and music made it easier to deal with the bullies and hate speech hurled his way. It wasn't until Kurt hit a rough patch that he realized how fickle friends could be. Religion was always a touchy subject to talk about, but the second he had admitted to being a nonbeliever, everyone had turned on him except Coach Sylvester and Noah Puckerman.
Puck had come by the hospital three times and offered comfort instead of prayer. Kurt had felt obliged to indulge the mohawked teen and spied on the Warblers even though he'd been frustrated in their boys' Mash Up meeting. The girls would have at least listened to his ideas-although Santana frequently made snide comments regarding his sexuality-they never told him to get lost or make himself useful.
If he had not gone to Dalton Academy, none of this would have happened. Blaine was nothing more than a hypocrite hiding behind a cute, charming smile. Courage. Kurt thought back to all of those text messages Blaine had sent when they first met and grimaced. The guy had a lot of nerve; telling Kurt to be courageous and stand firm when he couldn't even stand up to his own boyfriend.
Boyfriend. Of course Blaine gave me a blowjob on our second date. He really wanted that solo. Wes had told him about their relationship during their journey through the northwest corner of Kentucky and all of Missouri. Kurt's coherency was murky at best due to the drugs coursing through his bloodstream, but he did remember some of the sordid details from Wes' graphic and unapologetic tales.
Kurt hated himself for loving Blaine so eagerly and easily. Really, he should know better than to fall that hard after the whole Finn fiasco last year. Blaine had been a bright light at the end of McKinley's dark halls. Now Blaine was a cliché, skulking back to an abusive boyfriend every night. I thought it was a teacher—even though all the signs were right there in front of my face. The secret looks and late night study sessions should have been a screaming clue. Wes constantly hovered and always gifted Blaine with food and drinks when they studied in the library or the lounges.
"I think you've been in there long enough, Kurt." Wes' voice halted his spinning thoughts. "It's been ten minutes. Come on out now. Slowly."
He hurled the soap onto the floor and glared at the faucets as he turned the water off. In retrospect, attempting to escape when he was still recovering from potent narcotics had been a bad idea. All he had seen from the dilapidated motel room was an endless stretch of tall prairie grass and asphalt. Normally, he was a fast runner. Every Cheerio was-they scattered like rats when Coach Sylvester was pissed about something.
The room décor alone was a good enough reason to run away. Someone had hired the worst interior decorator on the planet and let them put up hideous frog patterned curtains. The same frogs adorned the bedspreads and ugly shag carpet completed the circa nineteen fifty five style. Kurt rubbed at his arms and waited for Wes to turn the water on. The older boy had believed he was still asleep and removed the ropes. He'd told Kurt why they were in Oklahoma last night, but he didn't want to go to Arizona or convince Blaine that Wes had saved him—he just wanted to go home.
Steam trickled under the bathroom door as warm water poured out of the showerhead. Kurt stumbled towards the door and struggled with the locks. The gold chain slipped off easily, but the deadbolt was older than dirt. His fingers trembled as he tried a few combinations of pulling and jiggling until the lock finally gave. It popped open, revealing gray skies and a light rain.
A cold wind blasted his face when he stepped onto the second floor balcony. The parking lot was practically empty; there were only three cars parked in front of the motel. A neon sign advertised a gas station across the street. It wasn't far. Kurt could alert the manager that he had been kidnapped and dragged through three different states. The police would arrive and realize that Wes was in the middle of some kind of psychotic break.
His knees wobbled as he leaned on the railing and cautiously walked towards the stairs. The cement was cold against his bare feet. Strong hands suddenly gripped his shoulders and threw him into the wall. The window rattled. Kurt squeaked as Wes roughly hauled him back to the room. The door slammed shut and shook the wall, but no one had noticed their struggle. Other travelers were heading home for the holidays. They were focused on long road trips, traffic information, and weather reports.
The frogs spun as Wes shoved the gag back into Kurt's mouth and bound his hangs together. It took him a moment to realize that the other boy was completely naked and wet. Kurt grimaced. Wes had been naked outside and nobody had noticed.
"I fucking hate you." Wes sneered and picked up his belt from the floor. "None of this would have happened if you hadn't come along and screwed things up."
The leather belt struck his back with a cold, hard fury. Kurt screamed.
Wes crowded him as soon as he stepped out of the shower. Kurt tensed when he gripped his left forearm, but no blows came.
"Sit here." Wes guided him to the metal table and promptly handcuffed his wrist to the wooden bench. "Eat some breakfast. I've got to make a phone call."
He grabbed his new cellphone and hurried outside. Kurt numbly stared at the plate of fruit, vegetables, and crackers. The food looked vaguely appetizing: he just didn't know if he could actually keep it down. After a few minutes he decided an apple would probably be all right and cautiously bit into to it. The hot tea eased his dry throat. At least Wes believed in eating healthy food. Kurt eyed the camper and noticed the folded map beside the paper plate. Intrigued, he unfolded it and regarded the highlighted roads and highways. Wes had carefully and meticulously planned out their route to Arizona.
The camper door banged open and Wes walked inside with a prepaid cellphone attached to his ear.
"You heard me," Wes hissed, "I think you should say hello."
Kurt cringed when Wes handed him the cell. The taller teen impatiently gestured at it and glared. He sighed and picked up the phone.
"H-hello?" The half-hearted greeting sounded quiet and strained.
"Kurt?" Blaine gasped. "Oh, god. Are you all right?"
"No," Kurt snapped, "I am not okay!"
Blaine breathed heavily into the phone and sniffled. Kurt glared at the cell; pissed he was in New Mexico instead of at home. His dad would worry, which would create extra stress he didn't need.
"I talked to Finn," Blaine stammered, "and your Dad."
"Y-you did?" Kurt had no idea how long it had been since Friday. The past few days had blurred together. "How are they?"
"Confused." Blaine apologetically sniffed. "They thought Karofsky broke into your house and kidnapped you, but the police didn't find anything when they searched his house, and he had an airtight alibi. They didn't know what to think until Puck was coherent enough to tell the authorities what Wes did to him."
"Wait," Kurt frowned, "what happened to Puck?"
"Wes cracked his knee with a baseball bat," Blaine somberly explained, "Wes swears he was set up—but there were eyewitnesses. They saw an Asian driving a white SUV. Wes says he was framed-and the police seem to agree with him. Scott Lee was shot with his parent's gun and his fingerprints were all over your house."
Blaine's story only confirmed what Wes had told him earlier-that he'd been framed by students at Dalton for fabricated transgressions. Kurt remembered other students bad mouthing Wes behind his back.
"I don't understand," Kurt mumbled, "why would anyone go after Puck?"
Wes glared at him as he asked the question, but Kurt ignored him for the moment.
"Puck told Finn that Wes was paying him to date you," Blaine paused, "he seemed to think that I had seduced you and pressured you for sex-and that you gave in."
"What?" Kurt said, incredulous. "Where did he get that idea?"
"I could probably make an educated guess," Blaine whispered, "Finn was pretty pissed at me when he called. Your Dad intervened once Finn started yelling. I managed to convince him that we weren't sleeping together or even dating—fortunately, Mercedes and Rachel helped me out."
"I think you two have had a long enough chat." Wes growled and abruptly snatched the phone away.
Kurt pushed the plate of food away, upset his family had believed he would let anyone pressure him for sex. Karofsky's unwanted advances had terrified him. Sex intimidated him now in a way it never had before. His nightmares often involved Karofsky stealing more than a kiss, a stroke, and a wedding figurine. Sometimes the big football player didn't stop when Kurt pushed him away.
"I let you talk to him, Blaine," Wes' irritated tone distracted him from his new misery, "Just meet us where I said to. Stop worrying so much. He's fine. As long as you're on time, he'll be home in a day."
The phone call ended and Wes stared at him for a long, tense moment. Kurt wiped the tears away from his eyes.
"Why did you pay Puck to date me?" Kurt hated the way his bottom lip trembled.
"I thought if you got a boyfriend, Blaine wouldn't be so distracted anymore," Wes shrugged, "I realize now that I didn't need to go to all that trouble. I should have just told you that Blaine and I were together. I think that would have done the trick."
"If you're so into him," Kurt started uncertainly, "then why do you hit him? And if Blaine is so into your relationship, then why has he been spending so much time with me lately?"
It was the wrong thing to say. Wes backhanded Kurt across the face.
"Don't judge me," Wes glared, "and don't talk about Blaine. You're nothing more than a weak, pathetic virgin. All you are is a distraction to Blaine-even if he did sleep with you-he would never date you. So shut up-or I'll gag you again."
Tears rolled down his cheeks, but Kurt didn't say anything more. Wes stalked away from the table and climbed into the driver's seat. The engine fired up and the camper quickly left the campground. Kurt rubbed at his sore cheek. Hopefully, Blaine would call the police and the authorities would be waiting for them when they made it to Arizona. The older boy might have given Wes a blowjob for a stupid solo, and he let his boyfriend push him around, but he had sounded upset and worried on the phone. At this point, Blaine was Kurt's only ally.