“How fine you look when dressed in rage.
Your enemies are fortunate your condition is not permanent.
You’re lucky, too. Red eyes suit so few.”
His head hurts. This is the first thing Vegas takes note of when he regains consciousness. He has a splitting headache; the right side of his head is pounding in sync with his heartbeat. His head is not the only thing hurting; his entire body is aching. All his muscles are sore as hell, as if he’s been running a marathon. Even the muscles around his eyes hurt when he tries to open them, so he stops trying. Bloody hell.
What the hell happened? The last thing he remembers is carrying in the groceries and then—shit! Someone tasered him! They got tasered in training at the academy once. A nasty experience and now it happened again! Which of course leads to the next question: who tasered him? Tick tock, tick tock… did I run out of time? Seriously? Already? Terror is flooding Vegas. No, he’s not ready for this yet. This is so unfair, he wants to live!
The anxiety rising within him pushes the pain aside for a moment. Think Vegas, think! As the daze in his mind recedes he becomes aware of several things: he seems to be seated on some sort of hard, cool surface, with his legs stretched out before him and his back resting against another hard surface. Bare skin against… stone? … bare skin…? Vegas shifts a bit… good, he’s still wearing his boxers it seems. His arms… they hurt… they’re raised, hanging in mid air? Bloody hell. Vegas tries again to open his eyes and his time he succeeds.
At first he thinks he’s gone blind, because there’s just darkness. Then the darkness slowly dissolves into vague shapes. There is no light source nearby; the only dim light filtering in is through large windows somewhere to his right. It seems to be nighttime. And now Vegas can also see what is wrong with his arms; they’re handcuffed to some sort of chain that goes up towards the ceiling high above. Very high above. What is this place? The thought is immediately followed by indignation. He’s chained up like an animal! What the fuck?! He’s not a pet! He’s going to kill whoever did this!
Vegas turns his head to scrutinise his surroundings, ignoring his screaming muscles, and is puzzled by what he can make out in the darkness. This seems to be some sort of loft apartment? It’s certainly not at all what he expected; he was betting on some abandoned office space or perhaps an old factory. This here is … odd. Doesn’t really fit the pattern. Judging from the huge windows, the high ceiling and unplastered walls, this seems to be a converted former industrial building. And judging from the furniture he can make out, it is a very much lived-in loft apartment.
What the hell is going on? And damn, Pete is going to be so worried. Vegas looks around, searching for his clothes, but can’t see them anywhere. He just hopes whoever took him forgot about his phone, then Pete can track him. The cop part of him rears his head and tells him not to get his hopes up. They didn’t find any phones or other personal belongs at the other crime scenes. The guy is too smart, Vegas thinks with a sinking heart. He wouldn’t make this sort of mistake.
Fuck fuck fuck! Vegas struggles to pull himself up on his feet. Everything aches like hell. Damn taser! He needs to get the hell out of here before the crazy dude comes back and turns him into ’Art Project’ #5. He needs to get himself unchained… and there he runs into the first problem. A closer look at his wrists and his heart sinks. The handcuffs themselves are bad enough; they’re maximum security handcuffs and it will be next to impossible to open them even if he finds a tool. But the handcuffs aren’t his only problem, no, that jerk has also used duct tape to tape his wrists together and—seriously, this is so overkill—Vegas can see flex cuffs too. Fuck fuck fuck! He is so screwed.
Another wave of anxiety hits Vegas full force. He doesn’t want to die yet! He has a visual flashback to buckets full of glistening intestines, and barely suppresses a whimper. He doesn’t want to die! Not like this! Not yet!
The chain, then… what about the chain? The way the chain is connected to the handcuffs might be the weak link? No luck here either. It looks like a heat-treated steel chain with padlock rings, just like the ones used for high security transports of prisoners. Just longer. Way longer. Vegas looks up and for a moment dizziness washes over him as the right side of his head protests against the movement. The ceiling is about four meters above him, the chain winds through some sort of metal ring there … no… is that a pulley?… and then goes on and on to the side, through another pulley and then down again across the room, way out of his reach. Fuck!
Vegas yanks at the chain, but that only results in some sort of chain reaction in the pulley system that makes the chain shorter; now the chain allows him to lower his hands to about waist height, but if he sits down again they’ll be stretched way above his head. Shit.
It’s a struggle to keep the mounting anxiety at bay. Think, Vegas, think! His circle of movement is restricted by the chain and there’s nothing, simply nothing, in his vicinity that he could use as a tool or as a weapon. Someone planned ahead. Not good.
Think, Vegas, think! Vegas closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths and then listens. Dead silence. No, wait… far away he can make out the sounds of car engines, a road maybe? Will it be worth calling for help? The killer could be nearby, he could alert him to the fact that Vegas has regained consciousness. That would be bad. Maybe wait until daytime to call, to increase the chances of other people being around to hear him? Fuck! Vegas is so damn stressed.
He doesn’t want to die! Macau… Oh God, he can’t leave his little brother behind, his father is going to have a field day when Vegas disappears, crying some crocodile tears and then making Macau’s life a living hell. Cannot let this happen!
And Pete… He’s not ready to leave Pete behind either. No way. He just found him, he refuses to be separated from him. He wants a long and happy, and probably very chaotic, life with Pete.
I don’t want to die! I’m not going to die! Not here, not yet, not now!
----------------------------------------
Eventually dawn comes, and with it more light filtering through the windows. By now, Vegas has had to face the grim reality that his phone must be switched off or has been left behind, because otherwise Pete would surely have sent the police after him already. So he’s on his own, and if he wants to get out of here alive, he will only have himself to rely on.
At least now he can get a better idea of the place he’s kept in. It’s indeed a loft apartment, open spaced. A kitchen area in one corner, but unfortunately far away from Vegas. Something akin to an office a bit further to the side; he can see a laptop there and a printer. A table and some chairs close to the kitchen, and assorted seats, couches and coffee tables arranged in small groups all over the large area. A large bed on the side the furthest away from him. The end of the chain seems to be close to a door that he assumes to be the entrance. There is another door, maybe leading to a bathroom. Vegas can see potted plants that seem to be thriving; there is also a basket of fresh fruits on the kitchen counter. An empty glass and a bottle of wine on one of the couch tables. Someone lives here.
More importantly for him though, he spots a plastic bottle of water nearby. It would have been within easy reach had he tried to get it while still being seated, but now the chain has shortened and he has to work hard to reach it with his outstretched leg to roll it towards him. Water, great. Vegas is thirsty. There is a chance the water has been tampered with, but that’s a chance he’s willing to take. He drinks a bit but decides to keep some in reserve. With the edge of the handcuffs he scratches a small mark into the wall behind him. Keeping track of time might be a good idea.
And time he has. Lots of time. Vegas is getting tired, so he sits down, but in that position his hands are now raised above his head, which is very uncomfortable in the long run. But he needs to rest, he needs to keep his strength up in order to fight and so he falls into a fitful sleep riddled with nightmares of Tem, shouting his name, telling him… something… but he always wakes up before Tem gets to the point. He sits, then he stands for a while, until his legs start hurting, then he sits down again until his wrists, arms and shoulders hurt too much and he has to get up again.
It gets warm in the loft during the day. The air-conditioning isn’t working, or there is none. Vegas is glad he’s only wearing his boxers. He throws caution to the wind and shouts for help but there is no reaction and eventually he gives up when his throat starts hurting. He can still hear the cars far away, but nothing else. Wherever this apartment is located, it must be pretty deserted in the area. Vegas is hungry as well, but hunger can easily be ignored. His father used to lock him up in his room or in the cellar for a day without any food. He rations his water but by the evening the bottle is empty. At least he can use it to pee in now.
Vegas mood shifts like the sun; between anxiety, anger and desperation. The asshole wants to play mind games with him? Just you wait. I’m going to fucking kill you if you get anywhere close to me. I am going to wrap this chain around your neck and choke the life out of you. I’ll drag you down to hell with me.
----------------------------------------
Another day, another mark on the wall. Vegas is hungry and thirsty and by now very grumpy. He feels sweaty and dirty, his wrists are aching like hell and he has a lump on the side of the head where he was knocked out, which aches as well. He’s fed up with this situation. He’s fed up with waiting. He’s fed up with being treated like a dog. He hates the chain. He hates the handcuffs. He hates everything!
When he hears sounds coming from the direction of the entrance, he’s vastly relieved. He just wants to get this over with—come and try to kill me already. And if not, give me food and water, damn it! Vegas gets back up on his feet and watches the door warily. It swings open and the person who enters is the very last person he expected to see.
Seriously? Seriously?! Anxiety turns into white hot rage.
“Look who’s up again… How are you doing, Vegas? Enjoying your stay here?” Tawan strolls into the apartment with a gleeful smile on his face as he looks Vegas over. The murderous look on Vegas’ face makes him pause for a second, then he heads over to where the chain is secured against the wall and pulls sharply. As a result, Vegas’ hands get yanked up high above his head, his circle of movement thereby suddenly severely restricted. Vegas growls, and Tawan laughs.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you lunatic?! Has no one ever told you that you can’t just go around kidnapping people?” Vegas snarls, seething with anger. “I knew you were not the quickest bunny in the forest but this certainly is the dumbest thing you could have come up with as revenge for the beating I gave you.”
Tawan narrows his eyes in annoyance and yanks on the chain again. Now Vegas is forced to stand on his toes and yeah, that hurts. “It would be wise of you to shut up, Vegas. You’re not the one in charge here right now, I am, and I can do whatever I want to you. So shut your filthy mouth or suffer the consequences.”
Vegas looks at Tawan, the rich boy in the designer suit with the expensive haircut, doing his best to intimidate and scare him, and he can feel the corners of his mouth starting to twitch. All the anxiety and fear of the last day unloads itself; Vegas’ shoulders starts shaking. At first he tries to hold it in, but then he gives up and bursts out laughing. His whole body is shaking with mirth, he laughs and laughs, and seeing Tawan’s face go all red with humiliation just makes him laugh even harder.
“Stop it!” Tawan hisses. “Shut up!” He gets up close to Vegas and shoves him hard, and since Vegas is more or less dangling from the chain he swings against the wall, skin scraping against the stone there. Ouch. But even that doesn’t stop him from laughing.
The thing that does make him shut up is Tawan using the handle of a broom he got from somewhere to hit him hard across the chest. Fuck! Vegas breathes through the pain and glares at the other man, panting hard.
“Asshole…” he mutters and receives another hit. Fuck!
“Don’t like that, do you? Well, there is plenty more of that for you,” Tawan chuckles, sounding deranged.
Pete wasn’t kidding, this guy is troubled.
“Not so nice to be on the receiving end of violence for once, is it? How do you like it, Vegas? Want some more?”
Tawan rams the end of the broom handle into his solar plexus, which knocks the wind out of Vegas, pushing him against the wall once more, and leaving him gasping for air.
“What do you want?” Vegas asks breathlessly, as soon as he’s able to talk again. “Money? An apology?”
“I want you to suffer.” Tawan glares at him and starts pacing back and forth. “I want you to hurt. I want you to be in pain. I want you to beg me to let you go. I want you to walk away from Pete and never ever get anywhere close to him again.”
Vegas can’t help it, he snorts with derision. He’s supposed to take this deranged puppy seriously? He expected to be dealing with a truly disturbing serial killer and this is what he gets? And now he’s supposed to be scared? Boy, do I have news for you.
“You have obvious mental health issues,” he informs Tawan curtly. “You abducted a police officer, imprisoned him here, you’re threatening him and using force to hurt him. Newsflash you nutcase, you’re going to jail. I hope your little temper tantrum here is worth it when you are locked up for a couple of years, but don’t worry, maybe I’ll allow Pete to send you a postcard every second year.”
As expected, this gets him a good beating with the broom handle. Vegas allows his body to swing along with the strikes because that way it hurts less. He knows. You could say he’s had years of practice being a punching bag. The thought makes him chuckle again; he grunts through the pain and chuckles some more, driving Tawan into a frenzy. For a moment Tawan’s face blends with the memory of his father’s enraged features, so angry because a stubborn teenaged Vegas doesn’t make any sound during the beating he’s receiving.
“Is that all you got?” Vegas wheezes as he’s being battered and laughs. “You bloody amateur. You want me to suffer? I’m Vegas Theerapanyakul, you asshole. I’m the fucking crown prince of the minor Theerapanyakul family. Since my early childhood I’ve been subjected to a level of violence that would make you wet your pants and curl up in a corner. Just bring it on. You better pray the police gets you before my family does because my uncle will remove your bones one at a time.”
And then he receives yet another hit to the head—not again!—and everything goes dark.
----------------------------------------
Vegas awakens to a world of pain. He’s still dangling from the damn chain, his hands and arms are so numb he can’t even feel them anymore, and the rest of his body signals the all-familiar, painful aftermath of a beating. If someone were to ask him, he’d rank this as ‘medium’ when it comes to the level of pain he’s had to endure in his life so far. Irksome, but he’s had worse. It doesn’t feel as if any ribs are broken; he can breathe just fine. When it comes to his head, he’d rather not get any further hits there or he’ll spiral straight into a concussion again. He’s probably pretty bruised, Vegas assumes. Kind of hard to check right now, it’s dark, so it must be nighttime again.
That asshole Tawan has just left him hanging here. With a groan, Vegas stretches his legs and feet until his toes touch the ground and there is a little less strain on his hands. He won’t be able to do this for long periods, so this will be a night without any rest. Fuck.
The most urgent problem right now is that he’s thirsty. Really thirsty. He mouth is dry, his throat is dry. This isn’t good. He can go without food for a bit longer, but he desperately needs water soon.
Pete must be pretty upset by now, Vegas worries, and wonders if the police is looking for him. Because if they are, this means his family knows as well, and isn’t that going to complicate things when he’s found? Everyone is most likely so upset right now, and all because of a spoiled brat with issues. Tawan deserves a good beating for all this, and Vegas will take great pleasure in doling out punishment once he gets out of these handcuffs. Damn, his shoulders ache. Vegas grits his teeth and glares into the darkness. I’m going to fucking kill you, you bastard.
----------------------------------------
The days blend into each other. Tawan comes and goes, he gloats, rages, whines, beats and threatens Vegas. He makes the mistake to get too close to Vegas and gets a nice hard kick into his crown jewels, courtesy of Vegas. Tawan’s howls of agony are extremely satisfying to listen to. They’re even worth the cigarette burns to the arms that Vegas receives in retaliation. Just some more scars to add to the old ones—as if his father hasn’t subjected him to something like this before. Vegas laughs into Tawan’s face as the glowing end of the cigarette burns his skin. He laughs because he refuses to groan in pain.
How long has he been here now? Two days, three days, four days? Vegas marks the wall and bides his time. At least he’s gotten some water and food. Tawan wants to keep him alive; he was most unhappy when Vegas started to pass out from dehydration. Yes, the idiot wants Vegas to submit, to beg for his freedom, to renounce Pete. He wants Vegas to be utterly broken. As if this will ever happen. Vegas simply endures whatever violence is thrown at him, because this is something he excels at, and because he firmly believes that the police will come soon to set him free. It’s only a matter of time.
He throws the bottle of pee at Tawan. It’s extremely satisfying to see the guy curse and then having to wipe up the mess. Vegas receives a lashing with a leather belt and fuck, that really hurts, he has some very nasty welts from that afterwards. But Tawan is so weak, the skin doesn’t even break. Unlike when his father used the belt on him. He still has some scars from that.
I’m so going to kill you, Vegas glares at the other man who keeps taunting him, while fantasising about ramming the plastic bottle down his throat until he chokes on it. You are so dead, I am so going to kill you if I get the chance.
----------------------------------------
Instead of a SWAT team, there’s a knock on the door. Tawan has been drinking wine and using Vegas as a target practise, shooting golf balls at him. Thankfully he doesn’t hit all that often. Vegas’ hands are currently at the height of his head; he’s holding on to the chain to keep the pressure from the handcuffs off his swollen and aching wrists. The knock startles both of them. And what startles Vegas even more is that Tawan places his wine glass on the table and then strolls to the door, apparently totally unconcerned with anyone finding out that he has a man chained up in his apartment. What the fuck?! The man really is a nutcase!
The door opens and Vegas’ heart stops. Nonono. What the hell is Pete doing here? Nonono. This is bad. This is so very bad. Why did he not call the cops? What the hell is he thinking, coming here on his own?! Tawans’ whole face lights up with a wide smile and Vegas wants to rip his throat out. Don’t touch him, he thinks. Don’t even think about touching Pete.
If Pete’s sudden appearance didn’t stress him out so much, Vegas would weep with happiness. He honestly didn’t expect to see him again and now that he’s here the emotions are simply overwhelming. God, he loves this damn idiot so much.
“Took you long enough,” Tawan drawls and gestures for Pete to enter.
Pete in turn gives Tawan a dimpled, gentle smile. He reminds Vegas very much of the innocent, naive therapist during their first therapy session. What the fuck? Vegas doesn’t move, he feels frozen in place.
Once Pete enters the apartment, it’s pretty much impossible for him not to see chained-up Vegas and yet Pete doesn’t spare him more than a glance in passing. This is more distressing to Vegas than the beatings he’s been subjected to these past few days. Tawan leads, heading for one of the seating areas nearby, and Pete follows him leisurely, while completely ignoring Vegas’ presence.
This seems to please Tawan. “Would you like a glass of wine, Pete?”
The way he leers at Pete makes Vegas want to gouge out his eyes. Mine. And what the hell is Pete up to? Why is he ignoring Vegas?
“Red wine? Yes, please.” Pete hasn’t stopped smiling since he entered. He takes a seat on the couch, so relaxed and apparently unconcerned that Vegas doesn’t know what to make of this situation so he stays silent, just observing everything for now.
“I have to admit I am a bit disappointed, Pete. I expected you a bit earlier.”
Tawan pours Pete a glass of wine and hands it to him, then sits down right next to him. Vegas grits his teeth to keep himself from making an outraged sound. He feels like a guard dog on a leash that wants to attack an intruder.
“You didn’t make it easy.” Pete sounds so mellow and gentle, it’s unnerving. He takes a sip of the wine and nods his head in appreciation of the taste. “A very good wine, as usual you have immaculate taste, Tawan.”
“I knew you would like it, I bought it specifically for you.”
Tawan looks at Pete like a lovesick puppy, as if Pete is the centre of his world. Vegas’ fingers clench around the hated chain. He imagines it’s Tawan’s throat.
“I’m so glad you finally came to me, Pete. I’ve missed you so much.”
“It would have been easier for me to come to you if you had left your new address,” Pete admonishes him gently, taking another sip of his wine. “Imagine my surprise when I found out that you had moved. Finding your new whereabouts was rather troublesome and took up a lot of my time.”
He looks at Tawan with a smile, but there’s an invisible edge to his words. Vegas feels himself tense slightly, but Tawan seems oblivious to the fine nuances of Pete’s voice.
“I didn’t want to make it too easy for you.” The other man downs his wine with one gulp, places the empty glass back on the low table and then has the audacity to put his hand on Pete’s thigh. “You’ve been so naughty, Pete, having your little fling with Vegas. You deserved a bit of punishment.”
“I see…” Pete makes no move to remove the hand that is stroking his leg. “So you punished me by…” He arches a questioning eyebrow at Tawan who seems entirely too pleased with himself.
“By taking your toy away of course.” Tawan nods in the direction of Vegas. “I honestly do not know what you find interesting about him. He’s no fun to play with at all.”
He shrugs and pouts like a little boy; Vegas finds it disgusting and glares at Tawan with murder in his eyes.
Pete turns his head and for the first time really looks at Vegas standing there, all bruised and dirty and messed up, clinging to the chain he’s tied to like a dog on a leash. He takes his time thoroughly inspecting him, his facial expression staying ever so pleasant, but through all this he avoids meeting Vegas’ eyes. And Vegas hates every second of it. Pete shouldn’t see him like this, so weak and useless and abused. He hates it, and he hates Tawan for exposing him like this
God, how he hates Tawan.
“Oh, Tawan…” Something in the tone of Pete’s soft voice makes the hair on the back of Vegas’ neck stand up. “Sometimes I think all the therapy lessons with you have been for nothing, it really seems you did not listen to a single thing I’ve been trying to teach you. What a shame. What a waste of my time, and your money…”
Tawan must be so besotted with Pete that he is unable to pick up on the alarming undercurrent in Pete’s monologue, which sends goosebumps of apprehension down Vegas’ spine. He knows that tone. He knows that tone very well. From the rooftop. And from the situation in the office right before Pete snapped.
But Tawan doesn’t notice that anything is amiss; instead he smiles and reaches out to stroke Pete’s face.
“We don’t need those idiotic sessions anyway, Pete. Now that we’re together, we can spend the time on other things, just you and me, as it’s supposed to be.”
Pete’s soft-dimpled smile is beyond scary; Vegas actually shudders and instinctively inches backwards against the wall, watching the situation unfold with wide, wary eyes.
“Tawan, dear… let me just teach you one final thing, and then we can put the whole therapy behind us once and for all, all right?”
Tawan nods, so oblivious that his gentle therapist has morphed into a bloodthirsty predator that Vegas almost feels sorry for him. Almost, but not quite. He’s more than ready for Pete choking the living daylights out of this idiot. Serves him right.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
But what happens next is something entirely unexpected.
“Tawan…” Pete leans in and places a soft kiss on Tawan’s lips. Vegas can’t believe his eyes. “You remember what I told you about toys? I don’t think you do, so let me remind you again…”
He reaches out and caresses Tawan’s cheek gently, and Tawan leans into the touch, blatant yearning written all over his handsome features. “If you take someone else’s toys, you need to be able to deal with the consequences. You see… some people don’t like it when you steal their toys and damage them.”
Pete gives Tawan an angelic smile while at the same moment casually smacking the rim of his wine glass against the edge of the couch table, causing it to partially break. And before Vegas and Tawan can process what is happening, Pete forcefully rams the broken glass into Tawan’s throat.
To say that Vegas is shocked by the development would be a colossal understatement. He expected Pete to choke Tawan, maybe knock him out. He didn’t expect Pete to go totally feral. Not like this. Vegas clings to the chain and watches the bloody mayhem before him, stunned speechless.
Tawan screams, or at least he tries to scream; he makes incoherent noises, blood is spraying everywhere as the two men struggle and roll off the couch onto the floor. Pete is moving incredibly fast. The element of surprise is on his side, and he gains the upper hand almost instantly. Then there is a frenzy of arm movements as he stabs Tawan over and over again with the broken wine glass; …neck… face… chest… it doesn’t matter.
“I don’t fucking share my toys!” Pete snarls fiercely. “How dare you take what’s mine!” He slams the jagged edge of the glass into the flesh beneath him, and Vegas remembers how insanely strong Pete is, he stabs and stabs Tawan and just won’t stop, every stabbing motion flinging an arc of scarlet drops through the air like a ruby rainbow. Vegas is too shocked to even try to get him to stop. Holy shit!
It feels like an eternity, but it couldn’t have been more than five minutes at the most. At some point Tawan stops making noises, falls silent and still, and the only sounds left echoing through the large space is Pete’s harsh breathing, and the sound of something hard slamming into wet meat. There is so much blood. So much blood. And Pete, his deceptively gentle boyfriend, is like a wild, blood-covered animal, completely out of control, still stabbing down into the corpse, which by now looks as if someone has run it through a meat grinder.
Corpse… holy shit… Pete just killed someone.
“Pete…” Vegas has to clear his throat several times before he can speak, and then his voice sounds very shaky. “Pete, you can stop now.”
“… don’t … share… my… toys…” Pete snarls aggressively, single-mindedly focused on reducing Tawan’s remains to an unrecognisable mess. Vegas isn’t even sure is Pete can hear him; he seems to be totally unaware of Vegas’ presence in the room.
“Pete…” No reaction.
“Pete…” Still no reaction.
Vegas just wants this to stop. It feels like he’s been dropped straight into some horrid slasher movie. So much blood. Pete is covered with so much blood. So much red. It makes him sick to his stomach.
“Pete, would you please stop and look at me? Please?” he begs, his voice breaking. “Could you please stop and look at me? Pete?”
Finally his movements are slowing down; it seems Vegas is getting through to him after all. If only he wasn’t confined by this damn chain. Frustrated, Vegas yanks at the chain and then groans because he forgot that this has the opposite effect, and now he’s once again almost hanging in the air, his toes barely touching the floor. “Fuck!”
Pete lets up and turns his head, staring at Vegas, who stares right back as his danger sense kicks in full force, and screams at him not to move. Danger! This time he’s genuinely scared of the blood-covered man in front of him; this is not the Pete he knows. A piranha in a killing frenzy, that’s what comes to mind. A mindless killing machine. And now he finds himself the focal point of this blood-soaked stranger with the dead eyes, and it’s freaking him out. Vegas’ instincts tells him to run, but he’s all but hanging from a damn chain, with nowhere to hide. Fuck!
Part of Vegas wants to cry. He wants to wipe all this blood off Pete’s face, he wants to give him a tight hug, he wants to check Pete’s hands, because surely he must have cut himself during this staggering outburst of rage. He wants his Pete back and he wants this stranger to go away, to disappear. But Vegas doesn’t dare move a single muscle.
It’s Pete who makes the first move. He gets back to his feet and drops the remains of the wineglass on the floor, then wipes his hands absently on his blood-covered pants, totally ignoring the dead man at his feet. Vegas groans inwardly. Tawan’s blood is everywhere. There is splatter all over Pete’s face and blood is dripping from his hair as well. He’s horrifying to look at. Don’t come any closer. Stay away from me. I don’t want you anywhere near me looking like this. But it makes no difference what he wants. Pete is heading his way, and all there is for Vegas to do is to stand as still as possible, and wait for what will happen. He barely dares to breathe when Pete stops in front of him. Vegas swallows drily, utterly confused about his fearful reaction to Pete, who is just standing there, slowly inspecting him while absently flicking some remaining blood off his fingers.
“Are you hurt?” Pete asks, in such a normal and calm voice that the cognitive dissonance of the whole situation is mind-boggling.
Vegas numbly shakes his head because he isn’t wounded or anything, but then he pauses and nods, because he can’t exactly be considered unhurt either. Damn, he’s so confused, he can’t think straight, and Pete looking at him like this isn’t helping, it’s creeping him out.
Pete’s eyes are so very black in his blood-smeared pale face. The pupils are dilated, making his eyes look even darker. Like a bottomless dark abyss, Vegas thinks, hanging from the chain, and in his shock he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “We have to get rid of the body.”
Pete blinks with surprise, his eyes widen, and a few seconds later he slams into Vegas, sinking those bloody hands into his hair, and then he’s kissing him fiercely.
Vegas is so surprised he doesn’t know how to react, and his mind goes blank. Kissing is the last thing on his mind right now. He doesn’t want to kiss. Pete smells of blood, he tastes of blood, and it’s simply too much for Vegas to wrap his mind around. This unexpected assault has knocked him off his toes, he’s once again fully suspended from the chain, with his full body weight hanging in the handcuffs and it hurts like hell. And the more desperate Pete’s kiss gets, the more upset Vegas feels. He does not like this, that’s all he can think about. Not like this. Not when Pete is like this. And so Vegas wrenches his head to the side, breaking the kiss. “Stop!”
But Pete just growls and pulls hard on his hair, forcing Vegas to look in his direction again before he slams their mouths against each other so hard that their teeth clank together. It hurts. This kiss hurts, Vegas body hurts and his heart hurts as well. I don’t like this, he thinks desperately, trying to break free again. I can’t do this right now. His wrists hurt so damn much, the smell of blood on Pete is making him nauseous, everything is just overwhelming and too much and the second he manages to once again disengage from Pete’s hungry mouth, he yells loudly. “It hurts, stop!”
This causes Pete to pause for a moment, and Vegas seizes that chance and shouts incredulously. “For heavens sake, you just killed a man and now you’re horny?!”
Pete freezes like a deer caught in the headlights. An expression too complicated to analyse crosses his face, and then he draws his hands back hastily, taking a step backwards and away from Vegas. The look in his eyes is no longer dead, all of a sudden it’s incredibly vulnerable, Vegas notes with surprise.
“Am I… are you disgusted with me now, Vegas?” he asks in a shaky voice.
Vegas wants to yell at him, but that look in Pete’s eyes stops him from voicing his irritation. Something tells him he needs to choose his next words very carefully.
“No,” he reassures him tiredly. “You don’t disgust me, I get that you need to blow off some steam after what just happened. I get it, okay? But I can’t right now. I am in so much pain, just get me off this chain and out of these restraints please. It hurts so much, Pete. Help, please?”
Pete swallows hard and nods, then turns around and strides across the room to unhook the chain from the pulley system. Vegas sinks to the ground with a groan, the excess length of the chain pooling around him, and closes his eyes, focusing on breathing through the pain. His shoulders, arms and hands are screaming, the numbness giving way to pins and needles. It’s agonising.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” he curses under his breath. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Bloody hell, this hurts.
“I got the key,” Pete says quietly.
Vegas didn’t even hear his approach. He keeps his eyes closed. He’s not ready yet to see Pete with Tawan’s blood all over him.
He can feel Pete inserting the key into the handcuffs and taking them off. He can also feel him cutting off the Flex cuffs.
“I’m sorry, this is going to hurt,” Pete mumbles after a while, and starts removing the duct tape from Vegas’ wrists too.
And yes, it hurts. Vegas hasn’t screamed the past few days but now that Tawan is dead he has no qualms about voicing his pain. He yells and curses and yells some more and then finally his wrists are completely free again. Vegas looks at them and sighs. Black and blue and red and swollen. Just like the rest of him, bruised all over.
“Any more ex-flings or ex-boyfriends with issues that I should be aware of?” he asks Pete, his voice tight with pain. “Just to prepare myself, you know, so that I can heal properly before the next one kidnaps me.”
There is no answer from Pete. Reluctantly, Vegas lifts his eyes and finds Pete staring in the direction of where the body is lying. Seems it has finally started to sink in what he has done. Damn.
“We need to get rid of the body.” Vegas reminds both of them again. Because that body needs to go or Pete will be in big trouble.
“We should probably call the police…” Pete mumbles, looking from the body to his hands, then starts rubbing them against his clothes, as if that will help remove the blood stains that have already started to dry. He’s starting to look distressed, and Vegas’ heart aches seeing him like this. Scary Pete is gone, this is the Pete he knows again.
A feeling of great calm washes over Vegas. “No. We will not call the police. If we do that, you’ll end up in jail for the rest of your life. I’m going to fix this, don’t worry.”
Oh God, what is he even saying? So much for being police officer. Say goodbye to all work ethics; apparently now he’s disposing of murder victims. For a second Vegas feels hysterical laughter bubbling up within him before he gets himself back under control.
With a groan, he struggles back to his feet before he limps over to where Tawan’s remains are located. Shit, Pete made a real mess. This is massive overkill. The body is nearly unrecognisable. Minced meat. Vegas swallows hard. Time to take control of the situation.
“Go and get the blanket from the bed,” he orders Pete.
“You can’t do that, you’re a police officer,” Pete reminds him quietly. It seems as if all the energy has left him.
True. As if he doesn’t know. Vegas swallows hard again because while withholding information regarding an investigation is one thing that might be excused, what he’s planning to do here goes against everything that being a cop means to him. It can’t be helped though. Pete must not go to prison for this.
“This is irrelevant. Stop arguing with me and do what I am telling you to do. I’m going to fix this.”
“You can hardly stand and walk, Vegas…” Pete tries again, but he seems so shaken by what has happened that Vegas just decides to overrule his objections for now.
“The blanket. Now,” he orders him in a harsh voice. “And while I wrap the body you are going to clean yourself thoroughly in the bathroom. Take a shower. Find a plastic bag to put all your clothes into. Put on some of Tawan’s clothes. And while you’re at it, check where he put my clothes too. Stop thinking about this, just do what I tell you to do.”
And when Pete just stares at him, dazed, Vegas growls. “Now! Get moving! We don’t have all day!”
And that’s all it takes. Pete shuffles off to follow Vegas’ instructions. I can do this, Vegas thinks. I will fix this.
----------------------------------------
If there’s one thing Vegas knows how to do, as a cop and as a Mafia heir, it’s disposing of a body. A part of him finds this rather amusing; the rest of him is too tired to care. Tawan’s remains are wrapped into a blanket, and then into several layers of large black plastic bags, to prevent any leakage during transport. Vegas has removed all of Tawan’s clothes as well; they’re in a separate bag. A third bag holds all of Pete’s bloody clothes and a fourth bag all paper towels he used to wipe up as much of the blood as possible, as well as the damn wine glass Pete used as a weapon.
Vegas is exhausted, but dealing with this is a priority. He keeps dropping things because his hands and wrists are a painful mess. While Pete is taking a very long shower, he searches the apartment for cleaning products and then empties all of them over the whole messy area. It doesn’t need to be perfect, he just needs to mess up the crime scene and clean up the worst of it.
He later even finds time to wrap up the cuts on Pete’s hands.
Pete tries to argue with him again. “This isn’t right, we should call the police…”
But Vegas ignores him just like the last time, and as a result, Pete falls silent. Together they carry the various plastic bags down a long flight of stairs, and Vegas waits inside until Pete parks his car in front of the entrance. It’s nighttime again. Vegas has lost all measure of time, right now he has no idea what day it is or how long he was held captured.
Together they stuff everything into the trunk. To give Pete something to do, and himself some much needed rest, Vegas orders him to drive.
“Where are we going?” Pete asks him meekly.
“I’ll give you directions. We’ll dump him into the Chao Phraya river. With any luck he’ll be washed out into the gulf. Even if he ends up in the mangroves, it’ll be sufficient to destroy all trace evidence. “
Pete sighs. “I don’t think this will work.”
“Shut up and drive.” Then Vegas belatedly realises that this was maybe a bit too harsh and adds, “Trust me, I know what I am doing. I’ve had Arm lecture me on floaters, and the river, and body disposal sites a lot of times. Arm keeps complaining how people drop the bodies at the wrong spot into the river so that they wash up immediately; he told me in great detail where one needs to drop a corpse into the water to make sure it disappears.”
This seems to be a sufficient explanation, because Pete stops asking questions. In fact, he’s very quiet all through the drive. It’s to be expected. After all you don’t kill a person every day. Sooner or later Pete will have a full meltdown, Vegas anticipates. Hopefully later, because right now Vegas needs help getting rid of the body.
They drive across the city in silence. Vegas only speaks to give directions, each of them lost in thought. Since it’s the middle of the night, the spot where they drop Tawan’s corpse into the water is deserted. There are no CCTV cameras nearby. Vegas makes sure to remove the plastic bag and the blanket first; those he will dispose of separately.
Pete stares wide-eyed at the corpse as it slips into the brown water and is carried away by the swift current. He’s very pale and Vegas would like to comfort him, but he’s afraid it would cause Pete to fall apart, and that cannot happen just yet. And so he brusquely tells him to get back to the car and then they’re off again, to another place.
“Are we going home now?” Pete asks with a quiver in his voice.
“Not just yet. But soon. Just hold on a bit longer.”
Vegas gives him new directions. He also decides to make a phone call, very reluctantly, but it can’t be helped. When they pull up in front of the Main family’s mansion thirty minutes later, Vegas sighs deeply. He’s been here way too often these past few weeks. This isn’t good at all, his father surely has noticed. Being a police offer, and basically disowned, he’s not supposed to interact with the family, especially the Main family. If he father gets wind of this, Vegas will be in big trouble. Not good at all.
Vegas orders Pete to park the car and then reaches over to pull up the hood of the sweater he’s wearing as much as possible, so that Pete’s face is hidden.
“Stay back and keep your head down. Don’t speak,” he orders, and they exit the car. Perfect Chan is already waiting for them and Vegas hands him the car keys. “Everything in the trunk needs to be disposed of. I’ll text you an address later; the place needs to be scrubbed and sanitised as well.”
Chan nods, but Vegas can see that he’s less than pleased about this. “As you wish, Khun Vegas. Might I suggest that you utilise your own family resources for this next time though?”
As if there will be a next time. Vegas isn’t Kinn after all.
Vegas snorts softly. “Huh, good joke! You’re developing a sense of humour in your old days. Just get it done, please? Would be such an embarrassment for the whole family to have me end up in prison after all.”
Chan gives him a hard stare that makes Vegas feel like a small child again. He decides it’s time to leave. He flashes Chan another faint smile, then drags the silent Pete away with him. Of course the man has seen the bruises on Vegas’ face; they’re difficult to hide. It remains to be seen what his uncle will do with this information. Vegas doesn’t like being indebted to his uncle, but this is a necessary evil. Chan will make sure there isn’t even a hint of physical evidence remaining that could point to Vegas and Pete. He’s frighteningly efficient. Perfect Chan indeed.
They take a taxi home, the silence between them is starting to grate on Vegas’ nerves. It seems to grow, like an invisible mountain, getting larger and larger by the minute. Pete doesn’t look at him, he just sits there, wringing his hands. This is perfectly normal, Vegas tells himself. Pete is in shock. He killed a person. This is a perfectly normal reaction. Vegas knows, he’s been through this himself, but he was a lot younger than Pete. Just a child… Vegas sighs.
Finally, they arrive at home. The second the apartment door closes behind them, Pete strips out of Tawan’s clothes.
“Throw them away, burn them, I don’t care. Just get rid of them,” he says tensely and strides away towards the living room, stark naked.
Vegas blinks in surprise, then looks down at the heap of clothes on the floor. He’s supposed to take care of this? Now? His body is an aching mess, he’s been held in captivity for days, and now he has to fix this too? But okay, Pete’s been through a lot, the poor guy is probably about to have a nervous breakdown any second now. Fine. And so Vegas goes and gets yet another large plastic bag, stuffs all the clothes into it and then immediately goes to dispose of them in the large trashcan down by the garage.
When he comes back to the apartment, he finds Pete in the living room. He has slipped into a set of Vegas’ clothes and is currently taking a swig of whiskey, straight from the bottle. Damn. Vegas doesn’t know how to handle this situation; there is some sort of dissonance between them right now that Vegas is too exhausted to figure out.
“You really want to get drunk right now?” he tentatively asks Pete, and receives a dark look instead of a reply as Pete takes another swig.
Vegas raises his hands to placate him. “All right, do whatever you need to do right now. I’ll just take a shower, if that’s okay with you?” And since Pete doesn’t reply and just keeps drinking, he turns around and heads to the bathroom.
Pete is upset. Okay. He has every right to be upset, Vegas tells himself as he strips and steps into the shower. The pleasantly hot water feels heavenly; he’s been longing for a shower for days. Sure, his various abrasions, burns, welts and cuts hurt, but in a good way. He just wants to feel clean again, wash all reminders of Tawan away, watching them disappear down the drain along with the water. Good riddance, he thinks tiredly. Just a pity he died so quickly.
Vegas takes a long time to shower and then it takes a while for him to try and patch himself up again. He doesn’t want to bother Pete with this right now.
Pete… That scene when Pete attacked Tawan replays itself in Vegas’ mind over and over again. He still can’t believe that Pete so totally lost control, the brutal way he stabbed the other man, the sheer ferociousness of the attack. It is just a lot to take in and process. And then afterwards… Vegas shudders. The look in Pete’s eyes, the expression on his face as he kissed Vegas. Chilling. Truly chilling. Vegas wants to wipe these memories away and erase them. He doesn’t want to think about this or deal with it right now. He’s tired, he’s aching, he wants a hug and some comforting words after the whole mess he’s been in.
What he gets is a Pete who seems dead set on getting drunk as fast as possible. When Vegas exits the bathroom the whiskey bottle is already two thirds empty. Holy shit.
“Uhm… You might want to consider holding off on the drinking?” he suggests cautiously. It feels as if he has to walk on eggshells around Pete right now. “You’ll get alcohol poisoning otherwise?”
Defiantly Pete takes another swig. Shit.
“You don’t have to worry, no one will ever find out about what you did,” Vegas tries to reassure Pete in another way. “I won’t tell anyone. You’re safe.” If only he could find the right words in his tired mind. “I know how it feels to kill someone for the first time, it sucks, but trust me, you’ll get over it eventually.”
Pete snorts, seemingly unconvinced, and keeps on drinking.
Damn, he’s so tired. Vegas wants to go to bed. He wants someone to take care of him and instead he is now expected to be the one taking care of someone else. It’s a new situation for him and he feels entirely out of his depth. He doesn’t know if Pete wants him around or not—something is amiss here and he can’t figure out what it is.
Confused, Vegas watches Pete quietly for a few more minutes and then gives up and sighs deeply. “Well, I am going to bed.”
“Do you hate me now?” Pete asks softly just as Vegas is about to walk out of the room.
Vegas gives Pete a puzzled look. “Why would I hate you?”
“I killed someone. I am a killer.” Pete’s words echo through the room and feel incredibly heavy.
“So did I,” Vegas reminds him softly. “It’s okay, you didn’t mean to do it. It was more or less an accident.”
Pete meets Vegas gaze defiantly. “I wanted it though. I wanted to kill him. I really wanted to kill him. Does this disgust you?”
The viciousness in his voice startles Vegas. He’s at a loss for words to reply with.
Pete takes note of it and his face turns hard. “See, you hate me now.”
Vegas helplessly shakes his head. He’s the last person someone should come to when dealing with trauma. He can’t even deal with his own trauma. “I don’t hate you. I truly don’t.”
“Yes, you do. The look on your face when I walked towards you afterwards… you were really disgusted with what I had done. It was written all over your face, don’t bother to deny it.” Pete looks increasingly upset. “You think I’m a monster, don’t you?”
“You are not a monster, Pete, I love you. You are a civilian who got thrown into a situation that you were not prepared for, and so you took some unfortunate decisions. What you saw on my face wasn’t disgust, it was shock.” Vegas sighs and runs his fingers through his wet hair. His head hurts, he is ill prepared for this conversation, he’s simply not a good trauma counsellor. “If you had just called the police instead of trying to handle it on your own, the situation would have ended differently.”
The alcohol seems to start having an effect on Pete. First he wouldn’t talk, and now he doesn’t want to shut up. “Bullshit. You looked at me with plain horror, that wasn’t shock. You think I’m a monster. You didn’t want me touching you either.” Pete points the now nearly empty bottle accusingly at Vegas. “And now you’re blaming me for the whole incident too.”
If he weren’t so exhausted, Vegas would be more careful how to phrase his replies, but he has always had a short fuse and Pete seems determined to light it. “Well, strictly speaking it is true, it was your fault. It was your ex-fling after all who kidnapped me. And if you had let the police handle the situation, you wouldn’t be a murderer now.”
Pete flinches as if struck and then glares at Vegas. “Well, thank you so much for making me feel even worse than I was already feeling.”
“Oh, give me a break!” Vegas’ patience finally snaps and he glares right back. “You’re not the one who got abducted, chained up like a dog, who was beaten regularly, whipped with a belt and burned with a cigarette. You had a few shitty hours, while I had to suffer for days and then I even had to handle the body disposal for the guy you killed, and sanitise the crime scene in order to keep you out of prison. Just accept that you messed up big time, Pete! What the hell were you even thinking, coming to Tawan like this? You are not a bloody cop, I’ve been telling you this over and over again.”
Pete reels under this verbal attack, drops the bottle and clenches his hands into fists. “I wanted to save you!” he hisses, outraged.
“Save me by kissing Tawan?” Vegas is equally outraged now that he remembers that part. “What the fuck was that about? Refreshing old memories? Was it nice? Did you like it? Did you like how he groped you?”
Pete’s face turns first white and then flushes with anger. “Asshole!” He turns around and stomps towards the door. “Go to hell, Vegas!”
“Where the hell do you think you are going?!” Vegas shouts after his retreating form.
“Home!” Pete snarls and grabs his shoes, wallet and keys.
“Fine! Whatever!” Vegas yells after him; if he had anything in his hands right now, he would throw it at Pete, he’s so angry with him.
Pete slams the door shut on his way out and then it is just Vegas left in the apartment, trying to figure out how everything could unravel like this. Gah! What the actual fuck has just happened here?
“Bloody hell!” Vegas curses, and then decides to call it a night. He’s not going after Pete right now. Enough is enough. Time to put himself first. He’ll figure out how to fix this tomorrow.
----------------------------------------
Vegas sleeps until late afternoon the next day. No nightmares this time, he’s too exhausted to even dream. And when he wakes up, he feels as if he has the body of a ninety year old. Fuck! Everything hurts! He pops some painkillers and limps into the bathroom to take another long hot shower which helps with loosening up his aching muscles. He avoids looking at himself in the mirror because he knows it looks bad. Been there, done that. As a child, the sight of his bruised body made him cry, but Vegas is an adult now. Been there, done that, gotten used to it. He’s learned that bruises fade, as does the memory of what caused the bruises.
He makes himself breakfast and is glad for the painkillers to finally kick in. His phone has finished loading, he found it along with his clothes in Tawan’s apartment last night, just switched off. When he turns it on, he’s greeted with a flurry of messages and notifications.
The first thing he does is send a message to Pete: ‘How are you doing? Sorry for what I said yesterday. Make sure to drink lots of water against the hangover. Send me a life sign or I’ll send an ambulance.’
The only reply he receives is an emoji with a raised middle finger. Well, at least Pete’s still alive and awake. And still pissed off. Anger is probably better than drowning in self-pity.
Vegas checks the date—his captivity has messed up his sense of time—and then contacts work to find out that he has apparently been at home, sick with the flu these last few days. Must have been Pete who called it in.
He has a message from Chan, short and concise: ‘Done.’
He has a message from Porsche: ‘What the hell happened? Call me!’ Oh, dear. Someone must have been spilling the beans. Damn Chan.
He also has a message from Kinn: ‘Stop taking advantage of the family resources!’ Well, fuck you, Kinn.
And a message from Arm: ‘Did more X-rays on the wreck. Think there might be an ID stuck inside there. Will let you know when I get to it. Don’t come back to the office until you’re fully recovered, no one here has the time to get sick because you infected us.’ So considerate, Arm. And also, an ID? That’s a first. Intriguing.
Vegas smears ointment on his aching wrists and bandages them. Then he goes back to bed for another nap. When he wakes up again after a few hours he gets more food and then his laptop, intending to do some work from bed, at least so that he doesn’t fall behind too much with everything.
The sheer amount of unread emails in his inbox is frightening. He works through them one at a time while snacking and popping more painkillers.
Then an email makes him pause. The subject line reads simply ‘Vegas’. The sender is [email protected]. Tem. Vegas swallows hard, thinking about Tem’s key ring. What the hell? When he reluctantly opens the mail there is no text, just an attachment.
Vegas looks at the screen with apprehension. Everything within him screams not to open that attachment. He doesn’t even know why but this is making him really uneasy. Nothing good will come out of this. He thinks about the Tem from his nightmares, screaming silently at him, trying to talk, to make himself heard. No, he really does not want to open this attachment.
One click and an image starts loading.
This looks like a photograph of a page from an old-fashioned photo album, but the photo at the centre of the page seems pretty recent, judging from the style of clothes the people on it are wearing. There’s even something written underneath that photo, handwritten, blue ink, nice handwriting.
Vegas takes a closer look at the photo first, zooming in. It depicts a group of people during what might have been a garden party. Most of the people are middle-aged or older, they’re all well-dressed and appear to be having fun. In the background he can make out a banderole, and when he zooms in further he can decipher that this is a birthday party. There is even a date; it seems this photo is just two years old.
He doesn’t recognise anyone in the photo, no matter how long he looks at the group of people, and that puzzles him. Why would Tem send this to him? Because he’s sure this was sent by Tem. Vegas knows that a lot of email programs allow you to schedule emails to send at specific times—this is what must have happened here.
Confused, he zooms in on the hand-written text underneath that photo. It seems to consist of a list of names, most likely listing the people on the photo. Kultilda Atitarn and his wife Thanid Atitarn. Pricha Supasawat. Thampapon Kanjanapas and his wife Maniwan Kanjanapas. Kamut Saengtham, his wife Chirawan Saengtham and their son Phongsakorn Saengtham. Sugunya Ahunai. Chet Kadesadayurat. Somchair Chutimant.
Nothing sounds familiar.
… Wait…
… Kamut Saengtham, his wife Chirawan Saengtham and their son Phongsakorn Saengtham…
… Wait…
… Kamut Saengtham, his wife Chirawan Saengtham and their son Phongsakorn Saengtham…
Vegas’ breath catches in his throat and his stomach drops. It feels as if ice is flooding his veins, as if someone has dropped a whole iceberg onto his shoulders. How is he supposed to breathe like this?
“It’s all a big fucking lie. You need to trust me, Vegas.” Tem sounds so sincere that it hurts.
Vegas swallows hard, staring at the list of names in total disbelief. He reads through them again and again. Yes, this is not a mistake, he read it correctly. But he doesn’t trust his eyes, he must be wrong.
Tem points his gun accusingly at Pete. “He’s been lying to you the whole damn time!”
Vegas notices absently that his hands have started to tremble. Maybe it’s from the flashbacks he’s experiencing. Maybe it’s from shock. He feels stunned. This must a mistake. He double-checks. He looks at the photo again, matching all the names to the people in the photo. He still doesn’t recognise any of them but he recognises the names. One name in particular. What are the chances that this is another person but with the same name? Minuscule. Practically non-existent, this is Thailand after all. And now he knows why Tem sent him this photo.
“You need to stay away from him, he’s not who you think he is…”
Phongsakorn Saengtham. Written in lovely blue ink. The name burns itself into Vegas’ retina. His eyes skip up to the young man in the photo. He’s tall, smiling widely, towering over his parents. No dimple. It doesn’t add up, Pete is the same height as Vegas, not that tall. Young as well. This photo is just two years old and the young man looks like a college freshman. Barely twenty. It doesn’t add up, Vegas and Pete are the same age, in their late twenties.
Pete smiles cheerfully at Vegas. There is that dimple again. “This is a first for me. I didn’t have any role models for adult relationships, my parents died when I was young. What did your parents do all day?”
On the photo, Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham’s very much alive parents are beaming proudly at their tall son, a son that Vegas doesn’t recognise. A son that definitely isn’t the same Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham he knows. With shaking hands, Vegas closes the laptop. This can’t be happening.