Chapter 8: Free Use on Route 89
The gravel was cold under his feet.
Not cold like the marble in Konrad's foyer, or cold like the motel bathroom floor at 3 a.m. This was a different cold. The cold of open air and open road and no one for miles. The cold of a place that didn't care if you lived or died.
Gerard stood where Adrien had left him. Bare feet on gravel. Bare everything on gravel. The sign behind him was wood—weathered, splintered, the kind of wood that had been standing since before he was born. The paint was black and crude, letters slashed on by someone who didn't care about straight lines.
FREE USE.
He read it twice. Then he turned his head and watched Adrien's car disappear around the bend.
The taillights shrank. The engine faded. The road went quiet.
Gerard was alone.
The sky was bleeding. Orange and pink and a deep, bruised purple that spread across the horizon like something dying. The sun had maybe twenty minutes left. Then the dark would come, and the headlights would come, and whatever happened after that would happen.
He tested the ropes. They were tight. Adrien had done them himself—wrapped his wrists behind the post, looped the rope through the splintered wood, tied it off with a knot Gerard couldn't reach. His arms were pulled back at an angle that made his shoulders ache. His chest was exposed. His stomach. His cock, soft and shriveled from the cold.
He couldn't cover himself. He couldn't turn around. He could only stand there, facing the road, and wait.
A car passed.
It didn't slow. Just a blur of headlights and radio noise, gone before Gerard could even see the driver's face. But he felt the eyes. That brief, electric moment of being seen.
His skin prickled.
Another car. This one slowed. Brake lights flared red, and Gerard's stomach clenched, and he watched the car hover at the edge of the road like it was deciding something.
Then it drove on.
Gerard exhaled. He didn't know if it was relief or disappointment. Maybe both.
The sun sank lower. The shadows stretched. The air got colder, and his nipples hardened into tight, aching points, and his balls drew up close to his body.
He waited.
Twenty minutes.
He knew because he'd been counting. Counting the cars, counting the minutes, counting the steady thump of his own heartbeat. Twelve cars had passed. Two had slowed. None had stopped.
Then the truck came.
It was old. Rusted. The kind of truck that had been on the road for decades and would be on the road for decades more. It pulled onto the shoulder with a groan of brakes and a cloud of exhaust, and the door opened, and a man climbed out.
He was big. Not tall—wide. Thick through the chest and shoulders, with a gut that hung over his belt and arms like slabs of meat. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and jeans stained with oil. His face was weathered, lined, half-hidden behind a beard that hadn't been trimmed in years.
He stood by his truck and looked at Gerard.
Gerard looked back.
The man spat. A thick glob of phlegm that hit the gravel and stayed there. Then he walked.
His boots crunched on the gravel. Slow. Deliberate. He stopped about three feet away and crossed his arms over his chest.
"You the one they call free use?"
Gerard's throat was dry. He swallowed, and it hurt.
"Yes."
"Just gonna stand there and let anyone do what they want?"
"Yes."
The man looked him up and down. His eyes lingered on Gerard's cock, his nipples, the dark hair that covered his chest and stomach and thighs.
"Any rules?"
"No."
"No safe word?"
"No."
The man nodded slowly. Then he uncrossed his arms and reached for his belt.
"You ever been fucked by a trucker?"
Gerard's jaw tightened. "Yes."
"Good."
The man undid his belt. His jeans were dirty, and his hands were dirty, and when he pulled his cock out, it was already half-hard. Thick. Uncut. The kind of cock that didn't care about foreplay.
"Turn around."
Gerard couldn't turn around. His wrists were tied to the post. But he shifted his weight, twisted his hips, presented his ass as best he could.
The man laughed.
"That's not gonna work."
He grabbed Gerard's hips and pulled. Gerard's shoulders screamed. The rope bit into his wrists. But the man didn't care. He just pulled until Gerard's back was arched and his ass was out and his face was pressed against the splintered wood of the sign.
"Better."
Gerard felt hands on his ass. Rough hands. Calloused. They spread him open, and the cold air hit his hole, and he shivered.
"Someone's been busy," the man said.
Gerard didn't answer.
The man spat again. This time onto his own hand. Gerard heard the wet sound of him slicking himself up, and then he felt the head of the man's cock pressing against him.
"Relax."
Gerard tried. He really did.
It didn't matter.
The man pushed in. Slow at first, then all at once, and Gerard's body seized up around him. It hurt. Not the sharp, immediate pain of something tearing, but the deep, grinding pain of being filled too fast. His ass stretched. His insides shifted. He bit down on his lip and tasted blood.
The man groaned.
"Fuck. Tight."
He started moving. Slow strokes at first, pulling out almost all the way and then pushing back in. Gerard's body rocked against the sign. The wood scraped his chest. The rope burned his wrists.
"You like that?"
Gerard didn't answer.
"I said, you like that?"
"Yes."
"Say it louder."
"Yes."
The man fucked him harder. His hips slapped against Gerard's ass, and the sound echoed across the empty road. The truck's engine was still running, a low rumble that vibrated through the ground.
Gerard closed his eyes.
He thought about the platform. The men. The gratitude. He thought about the oak tree and the cup and the way Adrien had looked at him when he'd failed.
A bet is a bet.
He'd said that. He'd meant it.
The man came with a grunt. Hot and sudden, flooding Gerard's insides. Then he pulled out and stepped back, and Gerard felt the come dripping down his thighs, mixing with the dirt and the gravel.
The man tucked himself away. Zipped up. Adjusted his belt.
"Thanks," he said.
Gerard didn't answer.
The man walked back to his truck. The door opened. The door closed. The engine revved, and the truck pulled away, and Gerard was alone again.
He stood there. Pressed against the sign. Come drying on his legs. Wrists on fire. Shoulders screaming.
Another car passed.
Then another.
Then the sun went down.
The dark came fast. One moment the sky was orange, the next it was black, and the stars were out, and the only light was the moon—a thin, cracked crescent that hung in the sky like a broken smile.
Gerard couldn't see the road anymore. He could only hear it. The occasional car, the occasional truck, the occasional pair of headlights that swept across him and then disappeared.
He wondered if Adrien was watching.
He wondered if Adrien was far away.
He wondered if Adrien had ever done this before—left someone tied to a sign and driven off into the night.
Probably. Probably yes.
The thought should have made him angry. It didn't. It just made him tired.
Headlights.
These ones slowed. Stopped. A car door opened, and footsteps crunched on the gravel, and Gerard squinted into the dark.
"Jesus Christ."
A woman's voice. Low. Surprised.
She stepped into the moonlight. Tall. Slim. Dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, with hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She looked at Gerard for a long moment, and then she looked at the sign.
"Free use," she read. "That's... that's something."
Gerard didn't speak.
She walked closer. Close enough that he could see her face—sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, a mouth that was neither smiling nor frowning.
"You okay?"
He blinked. No one had asked him that yet.
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
She looked at his wrists. At the rope. At the way his arms were pulled back behind the post.
"That looks like it hurts."
"It does."
"You want me to untie you?"
Gerard's heart stuttered.
"No."
"No?"
"No."
She tilted her head. "Why not?"
"I made a bet."
"A bet."
"Yes."
"What kind of bet?"
Gerard didn't answer.
She waited. When he didn't speak, she shrugged and reached into her pocket. Pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Lit one. The smoke curled up into the dark, and she watched him through the haze.
"So what's the deal? Anyone who stops can use you?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Until two."
She checked her phone. "It's ten-thirty."
"I know."
She took a long drag. Exhaled. The cigarette glowed orange in the dark.
"You want me to use you?"
Gerard's mouth was dry. He tried to swallow. Couldn't.
"If you want."
She laughed. Not mean. Just amused.
"That's not how this works. You're the one tied up. You don't get to ask."
"I am not asking."
"Good."
She dropped the cigarette. Ground it out with her boot. Then she walked around behind him, and he felt her hands on his shoulders, his back, his ass.
"Nice body," she said. "For a guy who's been standing in the cold for hours."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She reached around and found his cock. It was soft, but her hand was warm, and she worked it slowly, steadily, until it started to harden.
"You like that?"
"Yes."
"You gonna come for me?"
"If you want."
"I want."
She kept working him. Slow strokes. Her thumb circling the head. Gerard's hips bucked, and the rope bit deeper, and he groaned.
"Don't stop," he said.
"I'll stop when I want."
She didn't stop. She sped up. Her other hand found his balls, cupped them, squeezed gently. Gerard's breath came in short, sharp gasps. His legs were shaking. His cock was hard and aching and leaking.
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
She laughed again.
"Not yet."
She released him. Stepped back. Gerard sagged against the sign, panting, desperate.
"Why—"
"Because I can."
She walked back around to face him. Her expression was unreadable.
"I'm not gonna fuck you," she said. "I'm just gonna watch."
"Watch?"
"Yeah."
She pulled a folding chair from her trunk. Set it up on the gravel. Sat down. Crossed her legs.
"Go ahead," she said. "Do your thing."
Gerard stared at her.
"I do not understand."
"You want to come? Do it yourself."
"I cannot. My hands—"
"I know." She smiled. "That's the point."
Gerard looked down at himself. At his cock, hard and purple and straining. At his hips, the only part of him that could still move.
"You want me to—"
"Hum."
"Hum?"
"Hum. Move. Grind. Whatever you gotta do." She leaned back in the chair. "I'll wait."
Gerard closed his eyes.
He moved his hips. Small circles at first. Grinding against nothing. His cock bounced, slapped against his stomach, and the friction was almost nothing, almost worse than nothing.
But it was something.
He kept going. Faster. Desperate. His cock was leaking, and the precum made the slide easier, and he could feel the pressure building—slow, then fast—and he chased it.
The woman watched.
She didn't speak. Didn't move. Just sat there in the dark with her legs crossed and her eyes on him.
Gerard came.
It was messy and sudden and not quite enough. His whole body shook, and his ass clenched around nothing, and the come shot out in thick ropes that landed on the gravel.
He sagged. Panting. Empty.
The woman stood.
"Good boy," she said.
She folded her chair. Put it back in her trunk. Walked back to her car.
"Thanks for the show."
"Wait—"
She stopped. Turned.
"Yes?"
"Are you leaving?"
"Yeah."
"Will you—" He hesitated. "Will you come back?"
She looked at him. At the mess on the ground. At the sign. At his face, half in shadow.
"Maybe," she said. "If I'm bored."
She got in her car. The engine started. The headlights swept across him one more time, and then she was gone.
Gerard stood alone in the dark.
The night stretched ahead. Hours of it. And the road was empty.
But it wouldn't stay empty.
He knew that now.
He closed his eyes and waited.
The next car came at midnight.
Two men this time. Young. Drunk. They laughed when they saw him, loud and cruel, and one of them took pictures with his phone while the other fucked his mouth.
Gerard choked. Gagged. Took it.
They left without saying goodbye.
Another car. Older man. Quiet. He didn't fuck Gerard—just touched him. Ran his hands over his body, slow and careful, like he was memorizing something. He whispered "thank you" when he left, and Gerard didn't know what to say.
The hours blurred.
A woman who wanted to watch him piss. A man who wanted to suck his nipples. A couple who fucked each other while Gerard watched, tied to the sign, forgotten.
He stopped counting after thirty.
His body was a map of pain. His wrists were raw. His shoulders were numb. His ass ached. His cock was sore—not from use, but from the cold, from the wind, from the endless, grinding nothing.
He was tired.
So tired.
But he didn't pull at the ropes. Didn't try to escape. Didn't call for help.
A bet is a bet.
The moon moved across the sky. The stars shifted. The road stayed empty, and the dark stayed deep, and Gerard stayed where he was.
At 1:45, a car pulled up.
Gerard didn't look. He was past looking. His eyes were half-closed, and his body was shaking, and he wasn't sure if it was cold or exhaustion or something else.
A door opened. Footsteps.
Then a familiar voice.
"You're still here."
Gerard opened his eyes.
Adrien stood in front of him. Silver hair damp from the mist. Leather jacket zipped to his chin. His face was calm, unreadable.
"You came back."
"I did."
Gerard swallowed. His throat was raw.
"What time is it?"
"Quarter to two."
"Then I made it."
Adrien looked at him. At the ropes. At the dirt and the come and the bruises.
"You made it."
"I told you I would."
"You did."
Adrien reached out. His fingers found the knot behind the post and worked it loose. The rope fell away, and Gerard's arms dropped, and the pain hit him all at once—sharp and bright and overwhelming.
He collapsed.
Adrien caught him.
"That's it," he said. "I've got you."
Gerard pressed his face into Adrien's jacket. It smelled like cedar and soap and something warm.
"I did it."
"You did."
"I did not fail."
"No."
Gerard's eyes closed. His body went limp.
Adrien held him.
The road was empty. The stars were out. And for a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Adrien lifted him up. Carried him to the car. Opened the door. Put him in the passenger seat like he weighed nothing.
"Sleep," he said.
Gerard didn't argue.
The car started. The heater came on. Warm air washed over his skin, and Gerard shivered, and then he stopped shivering, and then he was still.
He didn't see the sign disappear in the rearview.
He didn't see the road stretch out behind them.
He just slept.
And in his sleep, he dreamed of the cup. Empty. Waiting.
And the next task.
And the word that he would not say.
The word sat in his chest like a stone.
He woke with it there, pressing against his ribs, and for a moment he didn't know where he was. The ceiling was white. Cracked. A water stain spread across one corner like a map of someplace dry.
Then he remembered.
The sign. The road. The woman with the cigarette. Adrien's hands lifting him, carrying him, putting him in the car like he was something worth carrying.
He turned his head. The apartment was small—smaller than the cabin, smaller than Konrad's foyer, smaller than any place he'd ever slept. One room. A kitchenette. A bathroom with a door that didn't quite close.
Adrien was sitting at a folding table by the window. His laptop was open. His coffee was steaming. He didn't look up.
"You're awake."
Gerard pushed himself upright. His wrists were wrapped in fresh bandages. His shoulders ached but didn't scream. Someone had cleaned him—the dried come was gone from his thighs, the dirt from his chest.
"You cleaned me."
"Yes."
"When?"
"Last night. You were unconscious."
Gerard looked down at his hands. The bandages were white. Neat. Adrien's work.
"Thank you."
Adrien closed his laptop.
"How do you feel?"
"Tired."
"That's not what I asked."
Gerard swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold. The apartment was cold. Everything was cold.
"I feel like I did not fail."
"You didn't."
"Then I feel good."
Adrien stood. He walked to the bed and stood over Gerard, and his shadow fell across Gerard's face like a cloud passing over the sun.
"Tonight," he said, "you have a new task."
Gerard waited.
"No ropes. No sign. Just you."
"What is the task?"
Adrien reached into his pocket. Pulled out a map. Unfolded it and pointed to a spot on the edge of town—a gas station, small and isolated, surrounded by fields.
"There's a station here. Twenty kilometers from the city center."
Gerard looked at the map. The station was a dot. The road was a line. The distance was nothing.
"You want me to go there."
"Yes."
"How?"
"Any way you can."
Gerard looked up. Adrien's face was calm.
"Naked."
"Yes."
"Twenty kilometers."
"Give or take."
Gerard looked back at the map. The dot. The line. The fields that surrounded them both.
"That is far."
"It is."
"Can I take the bus?"
"You have no money."
"I can walk."
"You can."
Gerard thought about it. Walking twenty kilometers naked through the German countryside. Past farms. Past houses. Past people who would see him and stare and maybe call the police.
"Or," Adrien said, "you can hitchhike."
"Hitchhike."
"Yes."
Gerard looked at his own hands. The bandages. The rope burns underneath.
"I have nothing to wear."
"That's the point."
"What do I do when I get there?"
Adrien folded the map. Tucked it back into his pocket.
"You buy food and water. Enough for two days. Then you come back here."
"With what money?"
Adrien pulled a wallet from his jacket. Opened it. Pulled out a fifty-euro note and held it up.
"You'll earn this."
"How?"
"However you can."
Gerard took the note. It was crisp. New. The kind of bill that had never been folded.
"What if I lose it?"
"Then you fail."
"What if someone steals it?"
"Then you fail."
"What if I don't make it back?"
Adrien's expression didn't change.
"Then you fail."
Gerard folded the note. He looked around the apartment—for pockets, for somewhere to put it, for anything. There was nothing. No clothes. No bag.
He tucked it under his tongue.
Adrien watched him do it. Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or approval. It was gone before Gerard could name it.
"The station closes at midnight," Adrien said. "It's six now. You have six hours."
"And if I am late?"
"You fail."
Gerard nodded. He stood. His legs were still shaky, but they held.
"I will not fail."
"We'll see."
Adrien walked to the door. Opened it. The hallway beyond was dim and smelled like old carpet.
"One more thing," he said.
Gerard waited.
"If anyone asks—if anyone stops—you tell them the truth. You're doing this because you lost a bet."
"I did not lose."
"Because you made a bet, then." Adrien's mouth curved. Almost a smile. "A bet is a bet."
Gerard repeated it back.
"A bet is a bet."
"Good."
Adrien stepped into the hallway. The door closed behind him. The lock clicked. And Gerard was alone.
The apartment was on the fourth floor.
Gerard took the stairs. The stairwell was concrete and cold, and his bare feet slapped against each step, and the sound echoed up and down the shaft like something following him.
He reached the ground floor. Pushed through the door. And stepped outside.
The city hit him first. Noise. Light. Movement. Cars and people and bicycles and the distant rumble of the U-Bahn. He stood on the sidewalk and felt every eye turn toward him.
A woman with a stroller stopped. Stared. Hurried past.
A man in a suit looked, looked again, and kept walking.
A teenager on a bike almost crashed into a lamppost.
Gerard ignored them all.
He started walking.
The route out of the city took him through streets he didn't know. Past cafés and bookshops and apartment buildings with flowers on the balconies. Past a park where children played and parents watched and no one was naked.
He kept his eyes forward. His hands at his sides. His tongue pressed against the fifty-euro note.
The city thinned.
The buildings got shorter. The streets got wider. The cars got faster, and the sidewalks got emptier, and by the time he reached the edge of town, the only people who saw him were the ones driving past.
A car honked. Someone yelled something he couldn't understand.
Gerard kept walking.
The road stretched ahead. Two lanes, gray asphalt, fields on either side. The sun was low but not setting—a pale disc behind clouds that turned the sky the color of old milk.
He reached the on-ramp. Stood at the edge of the road. Stuck out his thumb.
The first car passed.
The second car passed.
The third car slowed, and Gerard's heart lifted, and then the driver saw him—really saw him—and the car sped up again.
Gerard kept his thumb out.
The fourth car stopped.
It was a hatchback. Red. Old. The kind of car that had been repaired so many times it was more patch than original. The window rolled down, and a woman leaned across the passenger seat.
She was maybe forty. Blonde. Tired. A half-eaten sandwich on the dashboard and a child's car seat in the back.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Gerard lowered his thumb.
"I am hitchhiking."
"I can see that." She looked him up and down. "You're naked."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I made a bet."
She stared at him. Then she laughed. Not mean. Just surprised.
"Get in."
Gerard opened the door. Sat down. The seat was warm, and the car smelled like cigarette smoke and fast food, and the woman shook her head as she pulled back onto the road.
"I've seen a lot of weird shit," she said. "But this is new."
"Thank you for stopping."
"Where you headed?"
"Gas station. Twenty kilometers."
"The one by the fields?"
"Yes."
She glanced at him. "You know it's gonna be dark soon?"
"Yes."
"And you're still gonna walk around naked?"
"Yes."
She shook her head again. Didn't say anything else.
The drive took fifteen minutes. The woman didn't ask questions. Gerard didn't offer answers. When she pulled up to the gas station, she reached into her purse and handed him a granola bar.
"Eat this. You look like you need it."
Gerard took the bar. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
She drove off. The taillights shrank. The road went quiet.
Gerard stood in front of the gas station.
It was small. Two pumps. A store with flickering fluorescent lights and a sign that said OPEN in red letters. A single car was parked by the door, and an old man in overalls was filling it up.
The old man looked at Gerard. Looked at his naked body. Looked at his face.
Then he looked away.
Gerard walked inside.
The bell above the door chimed. The clerk—young, maybe nineteen, with pimples and a phone in his hand—looked up. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Um."
Gerard walked to the aisles. He pulled a basket from the stack by the door and started filling it. Bottles of water. A loaf of bread. Cheese. Apples. A package of ham. A box of crackers.
The clerk watched him.
"Are you... are you gonna pay for that?"
Gerard walked to the counter. He set the basket down. Then he reached into his mouth and pulled out the fifty-euro note.
It was wet. Wrinkled. But intact.
The clerk stared at it.
"That's gross."
"Will you take it?"
The clerk took it. Held it by the corner like it was contaminated. Scanned the items. Counted out change.
Gerard took the change. Took the bag. Walked out.
The old man was still by the pump. Still watching. Gerard ignored him.
The walk back would be long. Twenty kilometers. Through the dark. Past fields and farms and houses with lights in the windows.
He started walking.
The road was empty.
Dark came fast. The sky turned from gray to blue to black, and the stars came out, and the moon was a thin crescent that gave barely any light.
Gerard walked.
Cars passed. Some honked. Some slowed. None stopped.
He didn't care. He had food. He had water. He had a bag in his hand and a bet to win.
He walked.
His feet hurt. The asphalt was rough, and his soles were soft from days of cold floors and gravel and dirt. Every step was a small pain, and the small pains added up.
He kept walking.
The fields stretched on either side. Dark. Silent. Sometimes he heard animals—a fox, maybe, or a deer. Sometimes he heard nothing at all.
He walked.
An hour passed. Maybe two. The city lights were still far ahead, a faint glow on the horizon that never seemed to get closer.
Then a car pulled over.
Gerard stopped. Turned. The car was dark—black or blue, he couldn't tell. The window rolled down.
A man leaned out.
"You need a ride?"
Gerard looked at him. Forties. Clean-shaven. Normal clothes. Normal face. The kind of man who could be anyone.
"Yes."
"Get in."
Gerard got in.
The car was warm. The heater was on. The seats were leather, and they smelled like cologne, and the radio was playing something soft.
The man glanced at him. "Where are you headed?"
"City center."
"That's far."
"I know."
"You're naked."
"Yes."
"You want to tell me why?"
Gerard looked out the window. The fields were passing. The city was getting closer.
"No."
The man laughed.
"Fair enough."
They drove in silence. The radio played. The heater hummed. Gerard's body slowly warmed, and his eyes started to droop, and he caught himself before he fell asleep.
"You okay?"
"Yes."
"You look tired."
"I am."
"You want to stop somewhere? Get some coffee?"
Gerard shook his head.
"Just drive."
The man shrugged. Kept driving.
They reached the city limits at midnight. The buildings rose around them. The lights got brighter. The streets got busier.
The man pulled over at a corner.
"This good?"
Gerard looked out. He recognized the street—the same café, the same bookstore, the same apartment building with flowers on the balcony.
"Yes."
He got out. The bag rustled in his hand. The cold hit him again, sharp and sudden, and he shivered.
"Hey."
Gerard turned.
The man was leaning across the seat. Looking at him through the open window.
"You're interesting."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
Gerard didn't answer.
The man rolled up the window. Drove off. The car disappeared around a corner, and Gerard was alone.
He walked.
The streets were quiet now. A few people passed—a couple holding hands, a man walking a dog, a woman on her phone. None of them looked twice.
Gerard reached the apartment building.
Climbed the stairs.
Opened the door.
Adrien was waiting.
He was sitting at the folding table. The laptop was open. The coffee was cold. His eyes flicked to the bag in Gerard's hand, then to Gerard's face.
"You made it."
Gerard set the bag on the table. Opened it. Showed the water. The food. The change from the fifty.
"I bought food and water."
Adrien looked at the items. Then at Gerard.
"How did you get there?"
"A woman gave me a ride."
"And back?"
"A man."
"Did you tell them why?"
"The woman. I told her I made a bet."
"And the man?"
"He didn't ask."
Adrien nodded slowly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a second fifty-euro note. Held it out.
Gerard took it.
"This is your payment."
"I thought the first was."
"The first was for the food. This is for the task."
Gerard looked at the note. Then at Adrien.
"What do I do with it?"
"Whatever you want."
Gerard folded the note. He didn't have pockets. He didn't have anywhere to put it.
He set it on the table.
"I do not want it."
Adrien raised an eyebrow.
"No?"
"No."
"What do you want?"
Gerard looked at him. At the silver hair. At the smooth face. At the demanding eyes that had watched him suffer and hadn't looked away.
"I want the next task."
Adrien was silent. The clock on the wall ticked. The city hummed outside.
Then Adrien stood.
"You'll get it," he said. "Tomorrow."
He walked to the door. Opened it. Stepped into the hallway.
"Get some sleep."
The door closed. The lock clicked.
Gerard stood alone in the apartment. The bag of food on the table. The fifty-euro note beside it. His body tired and bruised and still naked.
He walked to the bed. Lay down. Closed his eyes.
And the word was still there.
The word he would not say.
Waiting.