Page 3 of Hurt

There was a confident kind of smile on Elijah’s face. Like he knew his boss well enough not to bother.

Kurt had heard enough about the Weavers to know that they often took in the orphans of their organization—victims of one of their bloody coups. They gave them a name and an education. Then they gave them an option: Join or get out of the state. Elijah was one of those orphans. Not related by blood, but closer than the average member.

The door opened again, and a chill ran down Kurt’s spine. He saw the smile fall on Elijah’s face, and his eyes narrowed.

Without turning around, Kurt reached for the closest bottle of liquor. It didn’t matter what it was. It just needed to numb him from the inside. Upending the bottle of whiskey, he wrinkled his nose at the wooden taste. Holding back a cough, he set it down and closed his eyes. It wasn’t enough. It never was.

Ezra Vega lowered his sunglasses and looked around until he caught sight of Kurt’s back. His boots thudded against the floor as he unhurriedly walked to the bar. Resting his elbows on the lacquered surface, Kurt could hear the creaking of his leather jacket.

“It’s Friday,” he said with a smirk.

Kurt’s entire body screamed at him to run. To throw the bottle at his head and take off into the desert. Pop his thumb out for a passing car and take a chance on hitchhiking. Anywhere but here.

But he didn’t.

Waving over Rhett, he went around the bar and into the back room. Technically it was a storage room, but it also served as a break room for employees and a surgery suite when Molly needed it. A battered, questionably clean futon was pressed into one corner, and an uneven table were the only real pieces of furniture. The rest of the room was stacked with boxes and all manner of crap that had been accumulated over the years.

Ezra followed Kurt without complaint, closing and locking the door behind him. Crossing his arms, he leaned back against the door and made a show of looking Kurt up and down.

“Those pants look good on you.”

“And wearing sunglasses at night makes you look like a douchebag,” Kurt snarled back.

The shit-eating grin fell off Ezra’s face, and he crossed the room in two steps, grabbing the back of Kurt’s neck and wrenching his head back.

“You want to run that mouth, then you might as well do something useful with it.” His fingers buried themselves in Kurt’s hair, pushing him to his knees in front of him. Kurt winced as his knees collided with the wooden floor. Worse than the pain was having to brace himself on Ezra’s legs.

The fingers in his hair tightened and pushed his face closer to the zipper on his jeans. “We do this every month, don’t we? When are you going to learn how to behave?”

Kurt didn’t answer.

The silence pissed Ezra off. He yanked Kurt’s head back and sneered down into his face. “Hey, we don’t have to do this. I can always go out and talk to your sister. Maybe she would like to take your place? She’s pretty enough.”

Nausea roiled in Kurt’s stomach, and he gritted his teeth to keep from vomiting. He didn’t trust himself to answer, so he just did what he had to. It wasn’t pleasant. Everything about Ezra made him want to gag. The size of his dick, the stench, even the way his fingers curled in his hair. Every grunt of satisfaction made Kurt want to scream, to claw his eyes out so he wouldn’t have to see what was happening.

Ezra wasn’t gentle. He snapped his hips and laughed when Kurt gagged. Laughed as the tears streamed down his face, and he panicked when he couldn’t breathe. When the tears weren’t enough, a hand cracked down against his face.

Kurt fell backward from the slap, gasping for air.

“I told you no teeth!” Ezra snarled, grabbing Kurt and tossing him on the futon.

He didn’t take off Kurt’s boots or even undo his belt. Just wrenched his pants down around his ankles.

“You know, I’d tell you to smile,” Ezra said with his lips pressed to Kurt’s ear. “But you’re prettier when you cry.”

Kurt would never give him the satisfaction. He would bite down on his forearm to avoid crying out in pain. Always pain. There was never any pleasure when it came to Ezra. He knew sex wasn’t always painful. Someone had to enjoy it. But not him. Kurt didn’t have the luxury of enjoying himself.

Fingers curled around the arm of the futon and face buried in the cushion, he bit down on his arm and tried to think about anything else. Anything but sickening fluids running down his thighs or the way Ezra’s hips sounded as they slapped against his.

Normally he focused on the pain. Ground himself in the acute ache that stabbed into him. He let himself drown in it, expect it. Pain was easy. He could endure this. He did it every month. At first, he thought the pain would kill him. But it didn’t. It was the only constant, so he buried himself in it. Let it fill him until it was all he could think of. It was better than the alternative.

“You know,” Ezra said as he zipped up his pants and straightened his clothes. “You really should thank me.”

Kurt was curled up on the futon, back to him. He didn’t want to see his face.

“There’s no way you could pay back your parents’ debt. I’m keeping my dad off your back. I’m protecting you, Kurt.” Ezra ruffled Kurt’s hair before putting the sunglasses back on and exiting the room.

The moment the door closed, Kurt bolted off the futon, running to the small bath attached to the room. He barely made it to the toilet before he vomited. His pants were undone, and his underwear was uncomfortably wet. His ass ached. But it was nothing compared to the hatred he felt. The utter contempt and revulsion.