Have a Great Weekend!

3/5/2026

The driver’s side door opened, then closed softly, and Clint heard Dylan walk around the back of the van. He could watch in the side mirror as Dylan approached. He opened Clint’s door and leaned inside, pulling a nylon jacket from behind the seat. Then he released the latch on the glove compartment, and it dropped open. Clint was given a good view of the handgun inside. Dylan extracted it and shoved it into his waistband behind his back, straightened, and adjusted his jacket so the gun was concealed.

Dylan smiled. “Never can be too careful or prepared.”

“No, you can’t,” Clint agreed and fought the urge to squirm. He was beginning to think more clearly, and the thought hit him that he’d likely been drugged. It almost felt as if his brain had been dipped in a fog that was just now lifting.

“I’m sorry about the rules, but until I know you’ll follow them, I will enforce them. I’m sure that won’t last very long,” Dylan said and smiled. “Do we have to review them again?”

Clint shook his head. “No. I won’t talk to anyone or do anything that would split us up.”

“Good.” Dylan reached out and brushed one hand over Clint’s hair the same way Griff often did, but Griff’s touch had never made him want to shudder.

A little voice nagged at Clint. How the hell did Dylan know Griff did that, and did it often? Or was it just coincidence? Something told him there was no coincidence about it and to tread carefully. Steeling himself, he forced his body to be still, to keep from jerking his head away from Dylan’s hand.

Licking his lips slowly, Clint focused on his feet and said in a soft voice, “Griff does that. I always hated it. I was thinking a few minutes ago how nice it would be to never be touched like that again.”

Dylan pulled his hand away very slowly and studied Clint briefly before speaking. “I know he did that, but I thought you liked it. One more thing that proves to me how bullied you were by him. Don’t worry, that’s all over with now.”

Clint jangled the chains. “Take these off, please?”

“I can’t. Not yet. It’s too soon.”

“How can I do anything?” Clint pleaded.

Dylan smiled. “Don’t you worry one bit. I’m here to take care of you and help you, and that’s what I intend to do.”

Clint swallowed his moan. He was afraid if he showed Dylan any negative emotion or reaction, it would drive him to be more controlling and obsessive. The man was very unstable, armed, and determined to do what he thought would make Clint his. Clint wanted to vehemently point out to Dylan that Griff wasn’t the bully here and had never hurt Clint in any way. After ten years of a life together, Clint could honestly say they were still very much in love. If anything, Clint felt he loved Griff more with each passing year. Dylan would never understand that or accept it, so Clint wasn’t even going to try that line of reasoning.

What Clint did do was hold desperately to the fact that Griff had the know-how and resources to find him. He didn’t doubt for a second there was a manhunt going on for him. Even if the US Marshals weren’t the hunters, Griff would have convinced the FBI or some other branch of law enforcement that Clint had indeed been kidnapped and was being held against his will.

As Dylan fiddled with the chains, Clint mentally ran through all the facts and advice about kidnap situations he’d learned over the years. Don’t argue, keep them talking—it’s harder to hurt someone you’ve come to like. If you get the chance, run!

Before letting Clint out of the van, Dylan readjusted the chains, though he’d have to shuffle instead of walk normally. There was about a foot of chain between his wrists, and if he was fast enough, he might be able to get it around Dylan’s neck. Clint had no intention of killing his captor, but he could sure make him hurt and attract a lot of attention doing it.
That’s what he wanted: attention. Attention meant safety from Dylan and freedom.

Clint’s hopes were dashed when Dylan used carabiner clips to run a length of chain from the one between his wrists to the one hobbling him. It was long enough he could stand without hunching forward too much, but would prevent him from lifting his arms high enough to get the chain around Dylan’s neck.

“Okay, let’s get you out of there.” Dylan slid one arm around Clint as he scooted slowly to the edge of the seat.

Clint was stiff, unsteady, and his lower pelvis was in so much pain from his bladder that moving was agony. He gasped and bit down on his lip. He hated needing to use Dylan for balance.

The van had been positioned so Clint could move from it to the gas station men’s room without easily being seen by onlookers. Once he was on the ground, Dylan made him stand still and adjusted his clothes to conceal the chains as much as possible. The bathroom door stood open.

Finally Dylan used a hand on Clint’s shoulder to guide him forward. Dylan used his free arm to keep the door from swinging shut until they were both inside.

“Look, man, there’s barely enough room for one of us, I got it from here,” Clint said. He knew it was probably useless, but for his own sanity’s sake, he had to try.

Dylan shook his head. “I promised to take care of you.”

“And I appreciate that, but I’ve been doing this alone since I was three,” Clint pointed out. A light bulb went off in his head. “Besides”—he looked down and laughed nervously, hoping that made him appear embarrassed—“I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Dylan sighed, and at first, Clint thought he was going to be left alone for the few minutes it would take to relieve himself. Instead Dylan walked behind him, one hand still on his shoulder, the foot or so to the urinal. It took some concentration and fumbling on Clint’s part, but he got his jeans undone. It was bad enough Dylan was going to stand there and watch him; Clint certainly didn’t want such an intimate touch from him as well.

Clint tensed when Dylan’s hand moved from his shoulder and ran lightly down Clint’s side. He shivered away from Dylan’s hand out of sheer reflex.

“Clint,” Dylan murmured in his ear.