Hours went by - or at least he thought it was hours, it was really rather difficult to tell since there weren't any windows in the wallpapered bedroom. Charlie had quickly started to go stir crazy; he'd never been one to just sit still, and he truly didn't like quietude. Charlie hadn't ever enjoyed silence, that was why he talked so much; silence left Charlie in his own head with thoughts he'd have rather forgotten. Stir crazy wasn't his only issue either, nicotine remained at the front of his mind. His fingers twitched and shook, indicative of a smoker pining for another hit of burning tar that Charlie doubted would come. Inside his mind Kate's voice chastised him for his addiction, and he started to wonder if he should have quit years ago; 'Bit late to think about that, Charlie boy'.
Eventually though he'd managed to doze and, just after he'd started to nod off, fear had kicked him back into full awareness. He needed to sleep, had been awake for more hours than he knew, but Du'Met could have returned at any moment and Charlie really would have rather not have woken up to an ax in his stomach. So Charlie forced himself to stay conscious, forced himself to remain alert. He wiggled his toes to keep the blood flowing while he listened to his stomach growl violently. When he thought about it he'd not eaten since breakfast long before he and the crew had gotten into the limo.
Then, with absolutely no warning, the bedroom door flew open and Charlie shuffled back on the bed automatically to keep as much distance between himself and Du'Met as possible. For the first time Charlie saw his captive without his almost trademark apron on, and, though he'd dried off, his clothes were still rumpled and spattered with blood on the chest.
For a few moments the murderer paused to simply look at Charlie who was instantly reminded he'd changed into one of Du'Met's shirts. Du'Met's head tilted and a small smile tugged one corner of his mouth upward; did he like seeing Charlie in his clothes? Maybe that was a good thing in the long run for the blond.
"What- what's wrong?"
Blue-gray eyes watched the killer pull a tape player from his back pocket and held it up like some sinister case of show-and-tell. The button clicked and Kate's voice spilled out, 'we've already got a plan, it's leaving'. Charlie remembered her saying that to him; maybe if they'd just left there and then Charlie could have gotten of the island with them. The message was clear though, Du'Met was leaving and it seemed Charlie had little choice but to go with him. With the tape played, Du'Met pulled open his steamer trunk and tossed the tape player inside only to slam the lid closed again. Charlie watched his captor drag the heavy trunk from the bedroom, all the time internally telling himself to just shove Du'Met and run, but his body stayed rooted to the bed.
Dragging the trunk made a loud, reverberating sound and seemed to quickly annoy the masked killer because, all of a sudden, Du'Met pointed to the other handle of the steamer trunk demandingly and Charlie took the hint. Slowly Charlie pushed himself to his feet, moved to the indicated side and lifted the trunk up, then they carried it out into the bright control room. Again Charlie told himself to run but he'd never get far, there were too many traps.
Curious glances around the nerve centre revealed cables had been coiled up, screens had been taken down from walls and tough boxes lay open filled with various tools and tech. Du'Met had been packing and he'd been doing it with haste. It was then Charlie truly knew in his heart that his crew had indeed escaped, that was the only reason Du'Met would want to flee so quickly; they were alive and the police would be coming. Hell, after how many he'd killed maybe the fucking army would be sent.
Over the next five or so minutes Charlie took silent orders from his jailer to move the trunk along hallways he'd previously been running through alongside Jamie, until finally they broke out into the light of day. A cool breeze did wonders to help the blond feel somewhat human again and the sun's warmth soothed his chilly skin. Wind danced through tall trees like a dryad's symphony and, just for a moment, the director forgot there was a serial killer just beyond arm's length of him. Charlie hadn't ever been one to savor nature before, most of his trips outside were solely for the purpose of going for a smoke or seeking coffee.
Du'Met yanked the trunk then which had Charlie speed up his steps as they made their way to wherever the hell it was Du'Met wanted to dump the trunk. 'Maybe I should run now. Surely all I'd have to do is hide until the cops show up.' Charlie dismissed the idea almost as quickly as he'd come up with it. 'No. No, he'd chase me down before I got out of sight; or worse, he'd fucking shoot me.' Granthem Du'Met still had the bespectacled blond under his thumb, and that was undoubtedly where he'd remain. 'Or you're just a coward', Charlie chastised himself as the killer dropped his side of the steamer trunk, 'a coward too afraid to try bolting'. Suddenly Charlie's window to run firmly closed when Du'Met slapped a cuff onto his wrist and attached it to the trunk handle. Charlie blinked at his wrist; that was that then, he really wouldn't get away.
"Am I that predictable?"
H. H. Holmes' biggest fan smirked at his captive from under his damaged mask for the briefest of seconds, knowing he'd read Charlie like a book, then returned to the trunk and carried on shifting it. It was next dropped at the dock; on one side Charlie saw a burnt out police boat, and on the other was an older looking speedboat which didn't seem to have had much use. Boats, electronics, all those cameras and traps; how did Du'Met pay for it all? Aboard the boat were a multitude of other boxes and trunks probably all filled with the things a serial killer deemed worthy of not being left behind. Not that Charlie knew how to feel about it, but he was one of those things as well.
As soon as the trunk and Charlie were aboard, Du'Met shoved Charlie to his ass and left him to get everything else. Charlie had little choice but to remain seated as he watched the boat fill up with this and that. Each time Du'Met showed up with a new crate or bag, Charlie had to bite his tongue to keep from making some sarcastic comment about the contents; don't piss off the murderer, you twat.
Eventually the time came for Du'Met, and by extension Charlie, to leave the island and the murder castle behind. The masked killer hadn't looked back once as they hurtled away but Charlie had, he'd watched the hotel grow smaller and smaller until it finally faded from sight as though it hadn't ever actually existed in the first place; if only Charlie's nightmare-fuel memories would fade as easily.
His crew was alive, that was what Charlie kept telling himself, they lived. His careless, desperate choice to accept Du'Met's offer without a single moment of hesitation hadn't left them all dead. If only Erin and Mark had believed he'd not been involved with this, not been complicit, he could have gone with them all to safety rather than sitting handcuffed to a trunk on a speedboat. Charlie sighed deeply, a sound barely audibly over the engine. Was this his life now? A packed lunch for a murderer? Was he being kidnapped right now? Was that what was happening? A hostage for if the police spotted Du'Met fleeing? Charlie wasn't as stupid as Kate liked to make out, he knew that by not dying in that furnace trap he'd destroyed Du'Met's planned artwork, ruined it; maybe this was his punishment for that.
~X~
Long after the murder castle had vanished from sight, Du'Met slowed the boat and turned to face Charlie, who sat with his back rested against the hull and his elbow atop the trunk he'd been chained to. When he was approached Charlie didn't bother backing away, he had nowhere to run to, and jumping in to the drink meant taking the trunk with him; and everyone knew that would be a bad move.
With that natural air of intensity, Du'Met crouched down by a black backpack, and, for the first time, Charlie noticed his blue duffel bag lay beside it. No - no, not his blue duffel bag, his had been crushed in the waste disposal; and, just like that, Charlie's spark of pleasant surprise tumbled out the boat and drowned. Out from the black bag came something and then Du'Met went to take a knee by Charlie. The blond lifted a single eyebrow when he was offered a water bottle and a granola bar; he wanted to resist or shove Du'Met's hand away but he'd not eaten since before the limo and his stomach growled loudly with eager anticipation. Dehydrated and starving hungry, Charlie practically snatched them from the killer and chugged down the water.
The bottle was almost entirely empty by the time he paused to breathe and Du'Met had seemingly lost interest in Charlie in favor of writing in a small notepad; 'how much shit does this bastard have in his pockets anyhow? How deep are they?'. Suddenly the notepad was shoved in front of his face and Charlie had to pull his head away just a little to read it properly.
"Not so fast or you'll be sick." Charlie read aloud.
If he told the director that because he was genuinely concerned for his health or because he didn't want vomit sloshing about on the boat's floor Charlie didn't know nor did he care. A headache had developed which was probably a combination of thirst and nicotine withdrawal, but when he went for another gulp, Du'Met's head tilted almost warningly.
"Yeah, yeah, okay."
This time Charlie forced himself just to sip lightly which apparently pleased the murderer because he returned his small notepad to his pocket then retrieved a bottle of water and granola bar for himself. It was odd for Charlie to watch Du'Met, who'd gone back to the wheel, eat, Charlie had just sort of assumed the man sustained himself on fear and blood alone. As soon as Du'Met's back was to Charlie the mask came off as well, another oddity. Blue orbs eyed it suspiciously; how much blood had splattered over that mask since he'd started killing?
"Why won't you let me see your face?" Charlie paled, he'd not meant for that to slip out. Du'Met didn't react at all though so Charlie felt a smugness flare up inside him. The director hadn't ever been able to resist pushing his luck. "Come on, you can't look that bad. You're tall, muscular and strong, 'course you're handsome."
And just why had he said that?! Why had he kept talking? By God, he honestly couldn't resist pushing his luck even remotely.
This time Du'Met did react, his motions paused and his head inclined a little as if listening to every word Charlie muttered, including the way Charlie's mind had clamped shut almost before he'd finished the word 'handsome'.
Unsure of exactly what to do the Brit returned to his snack and pretended he'd never opened his big mouth.
At first, like everyone else, Charlie had just assumed the mask was to further perfect his Holmes character, to blame all the killing on a separate personality rather than accepting responsibility for his own crimes, but now the blond wasn't so sure. True Du'Met emulated H. H. Holmes but he didn't kill the same way, not at all. Holmes had mostly been fuelled by greed where as Du'Met appeared to be driven by the chance to build the perfect trap. He enjoyed playing a game with his victims rather than just dispatching them. No, there was something else to the mask. Could it have been as simple as fear? A masked murderer lacked identity, and people feared the unknown almost universally. No, he'd not show Charlie his face, that would reveal him to be a human being rather than an almost supernatural serial killer.
"You're terrifying no matter which face you show me." Ah, yet more words he'd not intended to let slip from his lips. Yet again Du'Met didn't react but they both knew he'd heard it, and Charlie felt the need to change the subject. "I need to take a piss, you know."
Almost instantly the killer thrust a finger out toward the open water and Charlie sighed, the instruction was pretty clear. It was his only option so Charlie didn't bother to complain, just awkwardly pushed himself up unzipped his pants; difficult when one wrist was cuffed to a steamer trunk. Having Du'Met listen to him take a leak seemed the least of Charlie's current problems.
When the engine roared back to life and the boat took off, Charlie almost fell back on his ass with a grumble. Break was over, the mask was back on and Charlie sat back down with little option but to further accept his kidnapping. He sighed, had all of this been avoidable?
~X~
Eventually the boat came to a stop, the engine shutting off almost deafened the blond. Charlie had zero idea where they were, how far from the hotel they'd gone or even what time it was. Just based on the sun he assumed the hour was somewhere in the late afternoon.
Du'Met didn't say a word, not that Charlie had expected him to, just left the boat and vanished off into the trees. Had all his stuff not still been there Charlie would have thought him unlikely to return. For some time Charlie just stared at leaves dancing in the wind, five minutes, ten, twenty, and then the rumbling of a truck thundered through Charlie's chest as it came into view. A fairly sized box truck which seemed so far from Du'Met's aesthetic that it was almost comical.
"Travelling in something that doesn't scream 'I'm a serial killer' is probably less suspicious." Charlie mumbled to himself.
A fear struck him then, what if this wasn't Du'Met? Would that be better or worse for the Englishman's continued existence? Charlie had no need to panic for who else could have stumbled on them? His captor hopped out of the truck a moment later and set about transferring all the luggage.
This was clearly the end of something, they were off somewhere police wouldn't ever find them, and Charlie couldn't quite be certain he would be going as well. He didn't need a hostage now, Du'Met had escaped the hotel. Making himself useful would be a good idea.
"Want help?" Asked Charlie eagerly. "I can help, you know. I helped with the trunk."
Dark eyes regarded Charlie a moment from behind the damaged Holmes mask as he weighed the situation, then released the blond. Charlie rubbed at his wrist to sooth the pain there while Du'Met loomed with clear admonition.
"I won't run."
Together they loaded the steamer trunk and everything else the killer had brought into the truck. Soon they'd settled into a routine where Charlie remained on the boat and passed Du'Met crates, bags and boxes. The Brit knew if he so much as took a single step off the boat he risked being gutted, so he continued to play the submissive helper.
Once everything was in the truck, Du'Met actually offered a hand to help Charlie onto dry land and ushered him into the box truck. The killer wasted no time setting off for wherever it was they were going. Charlie had no clue if they'd left the country or just the state. Hell, Charlie didn't know how long they'd been in that fucking boat. For all he knew they could have passed into Canada via Lake Huron by now.
Everything was so damn quiet and the road desolate, clearly it wasn't well travelled. Du'Met hadn't just planned out an escape, he'd got it down to a fine art.
Charlie side-eyed his kidnapper, he was sans hat and apron but the mask firmly remained with that gouge cut out of it.
"You should probably take your mask off." He swallowed. "People could see us and seeing a dude with a destroyed H. H. Holmes mask is going to arouse suspicion real quick." Du'Met made no attempt to remove it so Charlie just kept talking. "Well, don't blame me if you get us into a fucking car chase. I was just trying to help. Why every time I try to help does it get thrown back in my fucking face? I mean-"
Suddenly the truck ground to a halt and Du'Met's trusty knife was to Charlie's throat. Not a word left his lips but the order was really rather obvious. Charlie could feel the sharp blade threaten his neck, it even cut through one or two stubbly hairs; if he swallowed he'd surely be nicked.
"Okay," he breathed cautiously. "I get it. I get it. I'm shutting up."
Those devilishly dark eyes looked Charlie up and down a moment, then the knife went away and the box truck started to move once more. Yet again, Charlie had avoided a doom flag. The former FBI agent certainly excelled at dominating a situation, if it wasn't so terrifying Charlie would have been impressed and a little turned on.
The desolate road was lined almost exclusively on one side with large, strong trees that kept Charlie's face shaded. Patches of grass were long and unkempt, the air was clear and they didn't so much as hear the distant engine of a vehicle the whole time. 'There's no one for miles, is there' he asked himself. Du'Met apparently had a natural talent for bugging out.
Not wishing for a repeat of the knife incident, Charlie just stared out the window at the passing trees. Should he have tried to escape? He'd asked himself that so many times already and still didn't have a real answer. Was remaining a good tactic for staying alive or simply proof he was a coward? The others had gotten away from Du'Met and his murder castle so why hadn't Charlie? Maybe if he'd just tried harder he could have freed himself from the fence and fled before the madman found him. Charlie sighed internally. He'd liked Du'Met's touch. Memories fluttered back to the blond, he remembered the feeling of Du'Met's hand around his cock and how good it had been despite the latex gloves. 'You're a fucking coward, Charlie' he growled to himself. 'Fucking disgusting! Who gets off to the asshole trying to kill him?'
Silently he glanced at the older man over the arm of his glasses cautiously for a split second. Tall, muscular but not vainly so, with a commanding presence. Yeah, he was Charlie's type even if his mother had done her best to Sunday-school it out of him. Charlie hated admitting he found his kidnapper appealing. No! No, he was not attracted to Du'Met, that was just ridiculous and the last thing he needed to thing about was his homophobic mother, Pam. He had no desire to think about any of this.
Charlie's mouth opened intending to ask where the hell they were going or something along those lines, but the instant his lips parted Du'Met let out a deep but short growl from the back of his throat, and Charlie's mouth clamped shut again.
Why the taller man had opted to keep him around remained a mystery but at least he was still alive.
Charlie's headache had been eased a little by that bottle of water he'd guzzled down, but the withdrawal refused to give him any respite. Part of Charlie wanted to ask Du'Met to scrounge up some painkillers, but he'd had a knife pressed to his throat enough for one lifetime.
At some point the headache eased just enough for the blond to pass out against the passenger window. Exhaustion had taken him rather than Charlie managing to relax enough to get some real sleep, that was plain to see. All the adrenaline had finally drained from his and tired limbs had surrendered slumber.
When he woke it was dark outside and raindrops clung to the windshield; he'd been out for some hours. The rain had been the thing to wake him, heavy drops that splattered against glass only for wipers to sweep them away. Headlights lit the desolate road, but other than that, everything was dark; even the moon had been obscured by stormy clouds. Charlie snapped awake then; the engine was running but the truck had come to a stop. Blue eyes darted to the drivers seat to find it void of serial killer; and wasn't that terrifying.
"Mister Du'Met?" He called out cautiously but no response came.
He swallowed his trepidation and shifted so he could peer through wet glass better. Charlie paled; there, by the water's edge, was a yellow ferry exactly like the one that had started Charlie's dance with death. His feet carried him out of the box truck uncaring about the rain. His mouth hung agape and body shivered at the night air. Then, when the clouds parted just enough for the moon to shine a moment, blue eyes spotted a distant island and the shadow of a house.
"Oh God, he's got another one."
Bile rose up in the Englishman's throat. How could Du'Met have two hotels? How could he have two fucking hotels?! Had he been thinking logically, Charlie would have questioned where the funds came from for these murder castles, but logic and Charlie hadn't been speaking much lately.
In shock, he stumbled a few steps toward the yellow ferry, his feet squelched into mud and rain dripped down his face and off his glasses. Then, without a single hint of warning, Charlie was tackled to the ground by the walking muscle that was Granthem Du'Met, and pinned to the soggy ground with that all too familiar blade to his throat.
The few rays of moonlight that managed to worm their way bast the dark clouds was of little aid; all they did was glint off that godforsaken knife. 'Is moonlight sadistic now?' The headlights would have done more had the box truck not faced away from them. Fat raindrops soaked the pair, some dribbled off of Du'Met's mask into Charlie's eyes while others stuck his blond hair to his forehead, all while the murderer delighted in seeing the utter terror on the director's face.
"I'm sorry!" Said Charlie a little too quickly and loudly. "I wasn't running, I promise." That was actually true, shock at seeing a second sandbox of agonizing death had left escaping as something of an afterthought. "I'm so sorry, Mister Du'Met sir." He lifted his hands as best he could what with being pinned to the muddy ground. "I'm being good."
Pathetic begging continued while he tried to force himself further back into the dirty earth to put as much distance between himself and the knife as possible; it's savage silver glint almost more fearsome than the killer himself.
Du'Met watched Charlie for the briefest of seconds before he leaned back to sit on his haunches apparently believing Charlie hadn't been in the process of running away. The older man straddled him and had they literally been in any other situation, Charlie probably would have counted his lucky stars to have such a broad, tall and powerful man on top of him.
The panicked heartbeat bouncing around inside Charlie's ears was almost loud enough to drown out the heavy rain and distant rumbles of thunder; the rain had turned into a full-blown storm and clearly would get significantly worse before it got better. Unfazed, Du'Met pushed Charlie's shirt – still the navy one he'd stolen from his captive's dresser – up exposing his stomach and then chest to not only the chilly rain but also the knife that hadn't ever left his throat. Gloved fingers trailed up and down Charlie's surprisingly toned body – effort on the rowing machine had paid off – until suddenly a nipple was tweaked. A groan escaped Charlie's lips without permission and this seemed to be all the encouragement Du'Met needed because he quickly unzipped Charlie's pants and tugged them down just enough to expose the younger man. A wave of déjà vu washed over Charlie. Du'Met sheathing his ever-precent knife actually surprised Charlie but he didn't get long to think about that, not when his masked captive pinned his arms to the floor by the wrists. The former FBI agent kissed Charlie, a long, animalistic kiss more reminiscent of a man who'd been away at war than the careful and calculated serial killer Du'Met presented himself as.
Du'Met quickly treated himself to exploring Charlie's pale body; kisses trailed down Charlie's torso, his nipples were teasingly tended to and nips were peppered here and there all to force more of those little noises from the Brit's lips. This was another of Du'Met's games, Charlie knew that, but the older man's touch felt so good when it didn't come with a knife. That voice which sounded too much like Kate returned then to chastise him further. He couldn't enjoy this. How many had the hands pinning his wrists killed? No, he couldn't just lay there and enjoy it. He pleaded stupidly to be freed from the taller man's hold but the words fell on deaf ears. If Du'Met wanted something, he'd get it, and it seemed Charlie's body wanted it as well.
Dark eyes glanced up at him from behind the Holmes mask and seemingly twinkled with amusement. Next Charlie got what he'd wanted, his wrists were released but Du'Met didn't let go, simply slid his gloved hands down to Charlie's hips, and the anticipation that rumbled through Charlie's body had him moaning the second Du'Met took him into his mouth. The blond's head fell back into the wet ground caking his skin in yet more mud, his fingers clawed at the mud as well, all while a serial killer, a man who had actually tried to kill him, pleasured him. It was wrong, it was so very wrong, but Christ did it feel good. Soon Du'Met had to press Charlie's hips down while lightning and thunder stumbled ever closer.
So good. So close. So perfect. Just a little more. Just a bit more. A bit more and – Du'Met pulled off and peered up at his hostage. Though chilled to the bone, Charlie's cheeks were flushed, his eyes half-lidded and his lips parted to let out such wonderful sounds.
"No, please. Please, Mister Du'Met sir, please." Charlie panted though this time not for his life. "I need – I need you to."
Charlie's mind wasn't even totally sure what it was blabbering on about, it was just spewing out one plea after another desperately, it made Du'Met smirk again though. There was something beautiful about the way Charlie begged and the older man wanted to see as much of it as possible. Since his blond director deserved a reward, Du'Met took Charlie's cock into his latex-coated, and now muddy, hand and stroked him to completion. Du'Met's eyes never left Charlie's flushed face, and each time lightning flashed it lit him up like some fine art on display in a museum.
The blond came with a cry leaving his captive's hand and lower apron stained. If Charlie and logic had returned to speaking terms he'd have surely wondered when Du'Met had put the apron back on.
As the younger man panted, Du'Met lifted his stained hand, examined it for a split second then wiped his hand off on Charlie's face. Mud, rain, sweat and cum stained Charlie as though he were little more than some cheep whore as Du'Met started to rub himself against Charlie's thigh, thrust against him with determination. Charlie's orgasm-clouded form felt Du'Met's bulge against his body, the man could have done literally anything he desired to Charlie but rutting against his inner thigh in a storm was what he settled for. 'Is that good or bad?' Charlie's mind asked him.
Then, as quickly as it had all started, Du'Met stood up leaving Charlie flat on his back on the soaked ground, his navy shirt shoved up under his armpits and cum painted across his face. Du'Met hadn't climaxed, Charlie knew that and, in a way, he felt a little denied.
Apparently prepared to move along with his evening, Du'Met walked to the box truck and turned the engine off which killed the headlights and plunged them into an even inkier void. Charlie's body was heavy and exhausted, his nap in the truck hadn't done much, so he could do nothing when Du'Met grabbed him by the ankle and hauled him through the mud to the ferry where he was dumped beside the steamer trunk. The murderer went to the controls to get them moving.
Charlie stared up at the approaching island. Out of everything Charlie had imagined since answering that phone call, a second murder castle had not been on the list. This madman truly did have way too much money. 'Did he steal it from all his victims?' If that were true then Du'Met would get a real disappointment when he checked Charlie's bank account. Looked like it didn't matter he couldn't keep Lonnit Entertainment in the black any longer.
When they reached the island, Charlie didn't react to his captor picking him up in a princess hold like some kind of damsel again; it was preferable to the ankle-dragging though. Maybe he should have at least considered trying to run, but his body was fatigued and chilled to the core, his legs shaky and frankly he'd still not fully come down from his orgasmic high; at least he'd managed to tuck his dick away though.
Du'Met carried his captive up a path more easily travelled than the one at the other hotel, but the storm had left everything slick and dangerous. Then, once they'd reached the top, Charlie saw the second castle in all its demonic glory. It wasn't exactly the same as the last one, but both radiated a dark aura. When they got inside Charlie saw the lobby had been painstakingly moulded into an exact copy. Du'Met had recreated his re-creation. The lobby truly was the same, exactly the same.
On some level, Charlie was actually impressed with the skill and ingenuity that had gone into the murder castle replica, but to have a second waiting in the wings was both diabolical and really very Ingenious in a sick way.
Charlie was carried through the castle, back into the lion's den as it were, until Du'Met kicked open a door revealing a second nerve centre; not that he was surprised by that at this point. The crew had managed to survive but Du'Met would just go on killing in his spare castle. They were alive, that was the main thing; even Erin who'd convinced Mark to leave him for dead.
Another door was pushed open and Charlie found himself unceremoniously dumped down on a soft bed that had been covered over with a dusty sheet. If this was the second murder castle then the new room had to be Du'Met's second bedroom. It was bigger than the previous one and had a proper closet as well as what Charlie suspected was a bathroom. A dresser stood in the same place as the last one with a matching mirror atop it, though the drawers were all open and empty.
Next think Charlie knew had been cuffed to the wooden bedpost. Silly really, Charlie couldn't have wandered off even if he'd wanted to.
"So this is your bedroom I take it." He said simply to fill the silence; the quietude had gone on much too long already and the storm had been left outside.
Du'Met hardly batted an eye, just left Charlie alone in the dusty bedroom. The blond sighed and stared at where his wrist was cuffed then to the door which had been left open a sliver.. The magnetic lock hadn't clicked in to place, must not have been up and running just yet; okay, the cuffs made more sense now. At least the door being left ajar had provided a touch of light.
The director sighed deeply. Like the last room he'd been confined in, it had no windows, but instead of the bed being pushed up against the wall, this one had access on both sides. A dust sheet had partially slipped off a leather armchair which sat in the corner by the presumed bathroom door, and a closet hung wide open. Apparently Du'Met had bought furniture in bulk and just kept using it everywhere; then again it was an aesthetic murder castle not a home renovation show.
Charlie shivered as the mud started to dry and chill his skin. He felt shame. He'd given in to Du'Met's touches yet again. And why had having his own cum wiped over his face made him purr? Ashamed of himself, Charlie wiped a muddy sleeve over his face to clean it off as best he could. If he stretched he could just see himself in the dresser mirror, a long line of mud went from the right of his forehead to the left of his upper lip but Charlie didn't bother trying to tidy himself up further. He looked like a drowned rat, his hair stuck to his forehead and his stubble had officially turned into a beard and even Charlie admitted he needed to shave. He tilted his head back a little so he could see the cut on his nostril, when he brushed a finger over it he found it scabbed and the pain was practically non-existent now.
Unsure of exactly what else to do, Charlie just sat there in the darkened room while he wondered how his life would have gone if he'd just said no to Du'Met's offer. Then, suddenly, the wall lights flashed on practically blinding Charlie, and the magnetic lock clicked into place automatically.
"Got everything working then." He grumbled to himself.
The blond took another look in the mirror once the blotches had faded from his vision; he really did look like shit.
~X~
Roughly an hour sailed by with Charlie growing increasingly bored, the silence was spirit-crushing, but he supposed Du'Met had gone to bring in all the stuff he'd brought with them. Probably better if all that equipment wasn't left sitting around in a storm.
As they had the last time he'd been locked up inside Du'Met's bedroom, Charlie's thoughts turned to his team. He wondered if they'd still be giving statements to police or if they'd managed to return to their homes for some nightmare-filled sleep. Did Erin regret convincing Mark to tie him up or had they all just decided to collectively believe Charlie had helped plot the entire thing? Hell, Charlie even wondered if Jamie and Erin would really make a go of things now they had their whole lives ahead of them. Maybe it was for the best Du'Met had taken him rather than any of the others. Charlie was alone, had always been alone. Mark and Kate could have a future together if Kate tone her arrogance down a bit, Erin and Jamie could have a future together. Charlie had no one and so was an outlier. He had no partner, had basically given up on dating years ago and even easy one-nighters he'd picked up in bars seemed pointless after a while. He'd expected to die a lonely old man with lungs full of tar.
Oh to have a fucking cigarette, how delightful it would be. Charlie had done his best to ignore his craving for fuck knew how long. His hands had been shaking since Mark had tied him up to that godforsaken fence and his brain couldn't quite bring itself to concentrate on anything too long. To make matters a million times worse, Charlie was freezing from the rain and desperately needed to pee.
If nothing else it looked like he had no choice but to quit smoking, he'd always thought about doing so, his crew had kept telling him to, kept teasing him about it. Charlie had lacked motivation, no option seemed to be decent motivation now. Maybe if he'd had a set of healthy lungs he could have escaped with the others.
"Just took a serial killer to convince me to quit." He grumbled to himself.
Charlie picked at a patch of dried mud on his neck Everywhere had started to grow itchy and he couldn't stop fidgeting. The mud that had dried into the back of his head had clumped his hair, his back had a coating so thick it was practically a second skin and every time he moved it pinched.
At least when he'd helped Du'Met move everything he'd had something for his mind to focus on. With only dry mud and fear to occupy his time Charlie did his best not to go stir crazy. Not to go insane, was that really all he had now? God, he hoped the rest of Lonnit Entertainment did something with their lives because Charlie's had officially gone to shit.