A.N.: So here is my new story. It's something out of my usual writing and it's multi-chaptered one, but it's going to be pretty short, something between 10,000 to 30,000 words. I don't know exactly how long yet, we will see. I also have another multi-chaptered story in the shop, which I'm not ready to post yet. It's a fantasy genre, also something new for me, and I'm so excited over the both stories, even though on the other side - those damn bunnies - I said that I'm going to take a break from writing multi-chaptered stories- yeah, right – and now I have been writing two at the same time. That fact and the fact that I also have RL projects, I'm afraid that the updates are not going to be as frequent as they used to be. I spoiled you, didn't I, with my frequent and almost regular updates, but still, I hope you will bear with me. And as always, I do hope you would like the story enough to leave me a comment/review.

Summary: Trey Jordan only wanted one thing, to take revenge on Steve Robinson, but when he found Steve, 'Steve' wasn't the man he was actually looking for. But Trey wasn't about to give up his revenge because a little thing like that, was he?

WARNING: This is GBLT/LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender) themed fiction with explicit contents that is NOT appropriate for minors, and also contains bad language, some mild torture and blood.

And as always a big thanks to the wonderful diluain for beta'ing (have you by any chance read her Backwater? It's such a great, sweet story). All the remaining mistakes are mine.

Caught in revenge!, I. Chapter

It was dark brown, the door, the cheap kind, the kind that had sawdust pressed between two panels and if one kicked it the wood would bend under the blow.

Trey Jordan rubbed his sweaty palms against his light blue jeans, then his right hand was in the pocket of his light, grey-colored hoodie again, fingers sliding over a rectangular, plastic object that he had hidden there. His eyes on the tips of his sneakers and the filthy linoleum floor, he thought about kicking the door, adding a new crack to it, but instead he lifted his left hand again, and more forcibly than before, knocked on the wood.

He strained his ears, trying to catch the sounds amidst the noise of the television, but when there were none, his shoulders dropped and a crease appeared between his brows. He rubbed his stomach, and the acid that had gnawed his intestines since the moment he had stepped into the apartment building and climbed three flight of stairs, even through he could have used the elevator, subsided.

It was just his luck, wasn't it? After he had finally managed to gather enough of courage to knock on the door, there was nobody home. He chewed his lower lip, strands of his light brown hair falling on his brow. So much planning, so much mental preparation, only to end up with nothing. He kicked the door, the tip of his sneaker making a new dent in the surface. Damn it, why couldn't luck look his way just once? Pain shot through his stomach like somebody had shoved a long needle through it and he doubled over, one hand searching the pocket of his pants for a vial of pills , the other finding support on the surface of the door. He took two deep breaths.

The door opened and he lost his support and staggered forward, the top of his head hitting somebody's crotch. Oh, shit.

A hand grabbed his hair and pulled him up. "Who are you?"

He blinked, grimacing. Perfect, just perfect. He focused his eyes on the owner of the hand that still painfully held onto his hair.

The blue-grey eyes were narrowing at him under the mop of dirty blonde hair, before recognition flashed in them and the hand released him. "I have seen you before, you are the boy that works in the grocery store across the street?"

Trey nodded, even though in his opinion, at twenty-three years old, he was long past being a boy . But in this moment, with his clammy hands, shaking knees and his heart wedged in his throat, he felt like one. He put his hand on his stomach and absently rubbed it.

"What do you want?"

"I'm looking for Steve Robinson," Trey explained, his gaze on the man's face. From a distance the man looked as Trey remembered him, but up close, his body was too toned, his face too healthy and handsome, and his eyes looking down on Trey too nice. Ten years had passed since the man's image had been burnt into his memory, together with the imprint of barbed wire on his torso, but he doubted that his memory was betraying him, just as he doubted that Steve Robinson, the biggest bastard that Trey had ever had the misfortune to meet, could change for the better like that. People like him didn't change, not for the better like that, anyway.

"You found me. What do you want?"

"You are Steve Robinson?" Trey put his hand into his hoodie's pocket, his fingers wrapped around the plastic narrow object, his thumb on small switch on the left side.

"I said so, didn't I?" Steve leaned on the doorjamb, the movement separated the edges of his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, exposing the toned chest. He furrowed his brows together. "So, what do you want?"

"I... I..."Trey looked around -- the hallway was empty-- before his eyes were on the man again. On the man who was checking him out! Steve Robinson wasn't into guys, he preferred young girls, ten to thirteen years old. Something was definitively off. But that didn't stop Trey from leaning closer to Steve. "I found this." Out of his pocket he pulled the object and thrust the horns at its front against Steve's abdomen, simultaneously pressing the button of the device.

Electricity shook Steve's body and he collapsed on the floor.

Trey quickly shoved Steve farther into the apartment, stepped inside and closed and locked the door behind them. He allowed himself a deep breath and a moment to find his pills for his stomach and pop one into his mouth. Then, ignoring the sharp pain that still lingered in his abdomen, he pulled the backpack from his shoulder and put it on the green linoleum floor beside Steve's still twitching body. He probably set the voltage of his electric shocker too high, but that was safer than setting it too low.

He squatted down and from his backpack pulled out handcuffs, ropes, chains and tape, his heart hammering in his chest. He used them all on Steve. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and sat on his heels. His stomach felt better now and the tension that had held his gut in a tight knot reduced. But he knew that this was only the beginning.

Trey looked around the small room. It looked messy, the room, old newspapers and clothes laying everywhere and the furniture old and worn out, but on the surfaces of furniture there was no dust and even the window was lacking dirt and looked like it was just cleaned. In the left corner was a couch with a small table beside it, and a low cabinet with TV by the wall opposite the couch. Beside the low cabinet was a ceiling-high wardrobe, a part of it looked like it had a bed hidden under the wooden surface. In the right side of the room was a table with three chairs around it and a niche with a stove, sink and two cabinets. There was a door beside the kitchen niche, the bathroom.

Trey absently rubbed his stomach, his eyes on Steve, who was now looking back at him. Even if the face and the body fit the image from his memory, the eyes -- the eyes were all wrong. They should be like snake's, cruel and cold and, right now, afraid, because Steve was a bully, the kind that was strong in groups and the kind that liked to torture the weak, but was a coward inside, trembling at every danger he might face. And the man laying before him, whose eyes were betraying surprised and uncertainty, but were almost calmly staring back, wasn't Steve, not the Steve Robinson Trey wanted to get even with. He chewed on his lip.

He stood up and went around the apartment, opening the drawers and closets, going through stuff until in the TV cabinet he found Steve's documents, which said that he was the man Trey was looking for. Was he really?

Trey went to Steve, hanging his backpack on his shoulder, and hooked his arms under Steve's armpits to drag him into the middle of the room. Then he spread one of the newspapers on the floor in front of Steve and sat down. He took another pill, just the chalky texture in his mouth calming him down a little, then pulled the tape off Steve's mouth. "Who are you?"

"I'm Steve Robinson. And you, you are in trouble," the blonde said. "Untie me."

"I can't do that." Trey leaned forward, his brows raised. This guy had to be kidding him. He was the one tied up, he should be screaming for help – any other normal person would – not giving him orders and stubbornly staring back. But he had nice eyes, very nice eyes. Trey leaned even closer. They were the color of the sea where the water is neither blue nor green and they seemed gentle, even now when they stared at him with a mix of annoyance and patronizing understanding.

'Surely-Pretending-to-be-Steve' bent his knees and lifted himself into a sitting position. "If you untie me right now, I promise I will let you go, unharmed."

Trey drew himself back and rubbing his stomach, he looked at Steve's ID that he still held in his hand. "You are Steve Robinson? The one who was in prison for armed robbery? The one who was released on parole three years ago?" Trey waited until the blonde nodded, then he continued, "Then you must be aware that I can't believe a word you say. First, because if you are, by some miracle, really that Steve, you would never let me go; and second, if you are not – which is the case, no matter what your ID says – how can I believe anything you say, if you are lying about who you are?"

"You got me there." The blonde gave a smile to Trey before, with a swing of his body, he threw himself toward Trey. His head hit Trey's chest and knocked him down.

Trey tried to scramble up, his limbs flapping around, but the weight of the blonde was pushing him down. But after the panic subsided, after he saw that except for half-lying on him there was nothing Steve could do, he noticed that it wasn't half bad lying on the floor with Steve's head on his chest and Steve's lower body on his abdomen and thighs. It was almost comfortable, it reminded him of the good times when his twin sister's head had laid on his chest like that, when his fingers had combed her long silken hair and the time was filled with pleasant chat.

He almost buried his fingers in Steve's short blonde hair, but he caught himself in time, his arm dropping down. Steve, even though he wasn't the right Steve, was still the enemy and he shouldn't feel at ease with him like that. Why did he feel at ease like that? He had never felt at ease with anybody, not since …He blinked and swallowed the lump that appeared in his throat. It was actually a slap in the face that the first person who made him feel comfortable after such a long time was this man, an obstacle in his path of revenge. With all his strength he pushed Steve down from his chest, even kicked Steve's side in his rush to get the blonde off of him and to be on his feet.

Steve rolled onto his back.

Trey was looking down on Steve. He sighed. He had to get the information on where he could find the real Steve, and he knew what he would probably have to do it to get it and he didn't like it. He picked up his backpack and went toward the right side of couch. There under the window was a radiator and its pipes were probably steady enough to tie Steve to, to make him more stationary. He wrapped his fingers around the lower pipe and tried to move it. It didn't budge. Yeah, they were steady enough.

"What are you doing?" Steve's eyes were following Trey's every move.

Ignoring him, Trey took another pill for his stomach and pulled additional ropes from his backpack. Then he went to Steve and even though he was resisting and wiggling, he managed to hook his arms under Steve's armpits and drag him toward the radiator. He put his backpack on the floor.

"If you think this will scare me, think again. You are not the type who would hurt people."

"I wasn't. But I am now." Trey threaded the rope around the pipe and then under the link of Steve's handcuffs. Life had made him that way. He hadn't had a choice, it was either that or be drowned in sadness and guilt.

"I don't think you'll hurt me."

How should he reply to that? Trey looked at him and his fingers untied the knot of the rope that held Steve's arms to his body, but before Steve could make any move he pulled on the rope that wound around the pipe and the handcuffs. His move forced Steve to lift his arms up above his head and Trey quickly tied a strong knot. Should he tell him how it really was?

"You won't hurt me!"

Should he tell him how he needed this? Not just to avenge the death of his beloved sibling, the soul who was destroyed because she was too good and too fragile for this world, but to get stronger, to step out of the circle of guilt and despair into which he had fallen after Patty killed herself. Trey straddled Steve, an expression of determination on his face.

Steve looked back, his hands testing the ropes.

"I need to know where Steve is." Trey pulled his backpack closer and pulled a bowie knife out of the leather sheath at the bottom .

"You are just pretending to be tough." Steve's voice was still calm and collected.

Trey pulled the edges of Steve's shirt apart. His gaze travelled over the sun-kissed skin that covered Steve's hard body. If not for the element of surprise, he doubted he would ever have been able to restrain the man, he was so much stronger than him. He shook his head, he shouldn't dwell on things like that, he should concentrate. He furrowed his brows together, his eyes on Steve's chest. The spot between the six and the seventh rib on the right side of the chest – he positioned the tip of his knife there, on the spot where he could dig into the man's body, just beside the spleen, without damaging any of his internal organs. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, he felt like he had stepped out of his body, become an observer. "Tell me where Steve is."

"You won't do it."

Trey took a deep breath. He hadn't felt any hatred for this man, no grudges, just an annoyance that he had to do this, because the man stubbornly insisted that he was Steve Robinson. And it was harder, he didn't want to do this. He pushed the tip of knife into the flesh and the first drops of blood dirtied Steve's honey-coloured skin.

Steve groaned.

"Tell me!" Two more centimetres of the blade disappeared into Steve's body and the blood gushed more freely from the wound.

Steve's breathing became shallow. "I'm Steve Robinson." Gravity shaped the steam of blood into a puddle on the ground beside his body.

"No, you are not!" Trey turned the knife, the steel wickedly gleaming in the afternoon light coming through the window above them.

"Yes, I am," Steve's voice strained.

"Please." Trey leaned forward, his breath caressing Steve's cheek, the knife digging deeper into Steve. "Just admit the truth and tell me where I can find Steve."

"I'm Steve."

"Please." Trey leaned his cheek against Steve's, his breath almost as laboured as his victim's. He'd already had his main rehearsal, he'd already hurt somebody, he'd had his first taste of revenge and even though it filled him with a twisted sort of satisfaction, he hated the whole fucking ordeal. "Don't make me do this anymore. Just tell me."

"I… can't."

"Tell me!" Trey pulled the knife out and straightened. He chewed on his lip. Playing with the knife might damage Steve and he would hate to do that. He just wanted to cause Steve some pain , a lot of pain, enough of it to make him sing like a bird, that was all. He put the knife beside them and then his fingers felt the texture of the torn skin, warm blood and slippery flesh. He pressed two digits into the wound. "Tell me!"

"I can't! Damn it. I can't!" Steve arched his body, perspiration on his forehead and the side of his face forming into the drops that slid down his face.

"Why not?"


"That's not an answer." Tray's dug his fingers deeper into the wound, so deep he could swear his fingers touched something spongy. Oh, god. And the only thing he got from Steve was another groan.

He looked at Steve's narrowed lips, at his eyes closed in pain and then his gaze zoomed in on his hand, on the warm liquid that was sticking to his skin, it was so red, so red… He could feel the acid in his throat and he jumped up and stumbled toward the bathroom. He shoved the door open, almost bumping into its edge in his rush to get to the toilet. Then he was on his knees, one hand on his stomach, the other one on the ground and the nasty taste filled his mouth as his stomach contracted and his late breakfast ended up in the toilet. Damn. Why couldn't he have the right Steve in his hands? At least then the torture would make him feel good, not ill.