Page 111 of Taken Off Camera
“The ankle ties stay for now,” Travis says, retrieving the lingerie from the desk. He holds it out, the delicate fabric obscene in his thick fingers. “Put this on. Everything else comes off.”
I rub my raw wrists, buying seconds while my mind races through options that don’t exist. The camera’s lens stares at me, black and unblinking. Ready to broadcast my degradation to whoever’s paying to watch.
He steps closer, forcing the lingerie into my hands. “Don’t make me ask twice, Elliot. The camera goes live in five minutes. With or without your cooperation.”
I clutch the lingerie in a white-knuckled grip, the delicate fabric balling up in my sweating palms. “I want proof Saint is alive first.”
Travis checks his watch again, irritation creasing the corners of his eyes. “We don’t have time for this.”
“No lingerie until I see him.” I channel every ounce of Saint’s stubbornness, praying it shields me like it always shielded him. “How do I know he’s even here?”
A muscle twitches in Travis’s jaw, his fingers tightening around the gun, and for a moment, I think he might shoot me and be done with it.
“Fine,” he snaps, grabbing my upper arm. “Then you change, or I put a bullet in his kneecap. Understand?”
The vise grip on my arm propels me forward, my bound ankles tangling beneath me. The stage creaks and shifts under our weight. At least it isn’t too high above the cement floor.
Travis half-drags me across the streaming replica, past the cameras positioned to capture every angle of the staged room. We reach a door at the back of the partitioned space.
“Don’t try anything stupid,” he warns, pushing the door open.
The stench of copper, ammonia, and fear hits me first, concentrated in the small, tiled space. A bathroom, bare except for a filthy toilet and sink with rust stains tracking down its sides. The fluorescent light above flickers, casting the scene in strobing horror-movie flashes.
Saint sits bound to the toilet, arms wrenched behind his back, ankles secured to the base with industrial-grade cable ties. Blood mats the left side of his head, a dark crust forming around his ear and trailing down his neck into his shirt collar. His face bears the mottled purple-yellow marks of repeatedimpacts, one eye swollen shut, his bottom lip split and puffy.
His one good eye widens at the sight of me, panic flashing across his battered face. He fights his restraints, the toilet rocking with his movements. The duct tape across his mouth doesn’t fully mute the desperate noises he tries to force out.
“Satisfied?” Travis yanks me backward before I can move toward Saint. “He’s alive.”
Saint thrashes harder, the toilet creaking under his efforts. His muffled noises grow more frantic.
“Saint, I’m going to get you out of here,” I promise, the words tumbling out before Travis can drag me away. “Stay strong.”
Saint shakes his head.
“Time’s up.” Travis yanks me back through the door. “He’s fine, as promised. Now you hold up your end.”
The door slams shut on Saint’s renewed struggles, cutting off his muffled shouts. Travis shoves me back toward the replica of my streaming space, the gun digging into my side with each step.
“Change,” he repeats, thrusting the lingerie back at me. “I’ve got equipment to set up.”
He backs away, keeping the gun trained on me while he begins adjusting the cameras with his freehand. Each movement is practiced, as if he’s done this before, positioned these exact cameras to capture this exact scene.
The thought sends a wave of nausea through me.
“Who’s watching this stream?” I ask, fingers clutching the blue satin without unfolding it. “Your trafficking friends?”
“They need to see your quality,” Travis replies without looking up from the camera he’s adjusting. “How well you perform under pressure. It’s an audition for private buyers only.”
The casual confirmation freezes my blood. “And if I refuse?”
Now, Travis does look up, his expression almost sad. “Then your friend dies while you watch. Then you perform anyway.” He shrugs, unbothered at the idea of taking a life. “Your choice of which version they see.”
I glance around, desperate for anything I might use as a weapon. The desk holds nothing but the computer setup. The chair might work as a barrier, but with my ankles bound and Travis holding a gun, my chances of overpowering him hover near zero.
“No one’s coming for you, Elliot,” Travis says, reading the calculation in my face. “That rich Alphawho tried to take you from me is probably dead. The other one, too. You have three minutes.”
Travis connects cables between cameras and a laptop. “If you’re not changed by then, I’ll start removing pieces of your friend.”
