Part Four
McKinley Manwhore.
Jacob chuckled to himself. Perfect. He sat in front of the computer adding the final touches to his expose for the McKinley Star. Now that he had a title and the article had been edited and proofread, he just needed to finish the photo. Jacob glanced over at the untouched original. No one needed to see Sam Evans' fingers wrapped in Kurt's hair, holding Kurt to him. With a bit of cropping and a bit of Photoshop, no one would. A few mouse clicks later, Jacob was done. He dragged the photo into place above the title and admired his work for a long moment. Kurt Hummel grabbing another student and forcing him into a liplock. That's what everyone would see. That's what Rachel would see. He pressed send.
It was a beautiful photo. The tilt of Sam's chin, the curve of his neck; eyes closed as he gave himself over to Kurt's lips. A rainbow of ice crystals like melted jewels scattered across their hair. If circumstances were different, Kurt would have printed it out and put it in a frame next to his bed. Instead, he deleted the photo from his dad's e-mail before Burt Hummel ever saw it. Next, he checked the school's website. As expected, the online version of the McKinley Star was up. Kurt couldn't very well delete the website, but with a few keystrokes, the site was blocked.
His phone rang. Mercedes. Again. Kurt waited until the ringing stopped then picked up the phone and tapped out a quick text. He had to warn Sam. He waited, holding his breath, until Sam answered.
Two hours of working on the room for Coach Beiste and another half hour of physical therapy left Sam aching and exhausted. He came home, did his homework, ate, showered and quickly dropped off to sleep. He had meant to send a quick goodnight text to Kurt but dozed off, phone in hand.
He woke when the phone started vibrating against his cheek. He glanced at the texted image—two notes—b sharp and b flat. Sam frowned, wondering why Kurt would be texting him in their secret code. He glanced at the clock. What could have happened in a few hours? B sharp was obvious, "be careful." B flat, "deny the relationship." He scrolled through looking for a b natural, the "all clear" signal. There wasn't one.
Sam didn't know how serious the situation was or how much time he had to act, so he hurried through their prearranged plan. First, he texted Kurt a bass clef—"love you"-before he turned off his phone, removed the sim card and hid it in a cd case. He barely had time to slide the cd into his backpack when his dad appeared.
Paul Evans stood in the doorway, belt doubled up in his hand. He slapped the leather against his palm twice. "Basement, now." As they walked through the kitchen, Sam saw his little sister, Sarah, cornered by their mom. He heard a sharp slap and Sarah's cry of pain. He bit his lip and kept walking. He knew from experience that interfering would only make things worse for both of them.
Sam padded barefoot down the concrete stairs and into the basement, his dad's heavier footsteps close behind. He knew that asking what he had done wrong would be seen as defiance. So, wordlessly, Sam undressed. He knew the routine. He folded his pajamas and set them to one side, standing before his dad in only his underwear. Paul Evans nodded once. Sam grabbed the metal bar suspended from the ceiling and braced himself. The first blow came low across the back of his knees. He stumbled.
"A man stands on his own two feet!"
Sam adjusted his grip and braced again. The second blow was easier, a glancing strike on his butt. The third time, the metal tipped leather bit into his injured shoulder and Sam cried out at the sudden pain that jolted him.
"-for if thou strike him with the rod, he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and deliver his soul from hell."
Sam fought to stay on his feet, to stay awake but each crack of the belt against his skin brought him closer to blacking out from pain. At some point, he must have lost the fight. He opened his eyes and was face down on the basement floor.
"If his body cannot be redeemed in this life, his soul must be salvaged for the next."
Sam's breath caught in his throat. No. He staggered to his feet and saw his dad talking with several of the elders from church. After a few moments of quiet debate, they approached him. Sam took a step back but his dad and the rest of the men grabbed him, pulling and dragging him up the basement stairs, through the mudroom and outside to the river. The cool November night chilled him before his feet ever touched the frigid water.
His arms were grabbed first and held fast. Then his legs. He was carried, struggling, down the riverbank. Someone grabbed his shoulders and pulled him under backwards. Sam broke through to the surface, choking on the water he swallowed.
He had a moment to catch his breath while the elders spoke of the purity of the water cleansing the evil from his soul. Then his dad's hand was at his throat, forcing him under again. He thought of Kurt. The way his hazel eyes had glowed when he opened the door to the costume room. The throatiness his voice when he said "jazz" during his solo duet. So damn sexy.
Shivering, lungs burning, Sam was vaguely aware of being lifted from the water and dropped onto the grass. He rolled onto his back with a moan. He had no idea how much time had passed. His dad knelt beside him and Sam saw the tears in his eyes. Paul Evans smoothed his son's bangs out of his eyes and kissed his temple.
"I wouldn't do this if I didn't love you."
He watched the other men walk his dad back to the house, talking in low voices, reassuring his dad that, yes, he had done what was best for his son.
Sam lay gasping on the muddy bank, cold, aching, muscles starting to cramp. Numbly, he listened to the crickets and frogs. Frogs. In spite of the pain, Sam smiled.
A/N: Thank you for the reviews!
From the previous chapter, "orgasmic with joy" was supplied by a friend.
In response to LizaGirl's review, I explain what's going on with Burt later.
"-for if thou strike him with the rod…"-Proverbs 23:13-14