Dangerous Savior

By Carson Wulff

Ethan wants to get away from it all, but his road trip alone takes a frightening turn when he’s attacked by a biker gang in the middle of nowhere. Beaten within an inch of his life, Ethan is saved by a hulking man named Tom with a chainsaw and an indifference for carnage.

Except, Tom wasn’t exactly saving Ethan, he was protecting his family’s property from the bikers--and now Ethan has seen too much.

It’s too late to run, and Ethan definitely can’t fight a man with Tom’s monstrous strength. There’s only one thing Ethan can think to do to get out of this alive: make Tom like him.

No, more than that--make Tom want him.

But even if Ethan does manage to make the strong, quiet man fall for him, Tom’s family still wants Ethan dead. And from everything Ethan’s witnessed so far--Tom does exactly what his family says.

(This is a dark, M/M romance novel with high heat. It contains violence, gore, and disturbing themes. It is NOT intended for all audiences; reader discretion is heavily advised.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carson Wulff
• Release date: Sep 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463414750

Book preview

1

Everyone Ethan knows advises him against going on a road trip alone. They tell him it’s begging for a dangerous encounter that’s bound to leave him bleeding out in a ditch like a discarded fast food cup thrown from a car window. As if he’s so frail that he shouldn’t be alone walking down his own familiar hometown street at night, let alone traveling across the country on the open road without so much as a cell phone to contact the outside world.

Sure, Ethan was never the type to be into sports, but he’s not out of shape. He craves escape from his life like intense withdrawal and gets his fix through hiking almost every weekend. He’s slender, perhaps a bit short, but not entirely scrawny. Really, he doesn’t know what his folks are worrying about. He wonders, somewhere, in the back of his mind, if the way they constantly question his lack of girlfriend—and thereby, his sexuality—has anything to do with their insistence that traveling alone is dangerous.

No, it’s more likely that he’s paranoid.

Alone. That’s the problem. He’s doing this alone.

These days no one does anything alone, not when minimum wage is too low to keep the rent paid on one income. Everyone has roommates if they don’t live with family.

But Ethan insists on doing this trip alone—and he gets exactly what he wants. No cell phone. No technology. Just himself, his beat-up van with a broken A/C, and the hot summer breeze whipping through his mess of auburn curls.

If his life were a comedy movie, or perhaps horror, the vehicle would be packed tight with his friends, laughing and talking and growing closer. But Ethan’s been immersed in the world of drama and friendships for as long as he can remember. Thanks to the invention of the smartphone, he’s always had an instant link to everyone he cares about right in his pocket.

He lost himself, somewhere, in the buzz of social media, hangouts and rushing through adolescence only to burst right into college. Life’s been a whirlwind for too long and Ethan is barely able to grab on to any path and keep himself there—there’s no time to even consider whether the path he thrusts himself on is the right one.

This road trip is a break from all that. From roommates and family, friends trying to push him to date; the ever-shifting daily chatter, the sound of the grind that snuffs out any quiet moment to think, to know, really know himself and his own desires.

He’s been going with the flow for too long, trying to keep up with it whipping his body in its rapids.

One summer. That’s all the remedy he needs to cure his exhaustion. One trip. Alone. And he’ll get sick of the romanticized notion that keeps clawing at the back of his mind—the one that entails running away from it all to live off the land on some hunk of acreage somewhere. Once he spends a whole summer driving through the dying husks of once-flourishing farm towns, he’ll dispel any notion that running away from society is a good idea.

Right.

And it’s fine at first, really. The days fly by. The sun beats down on his van’s dull, chalky exterior of scuffed paint, the metal searing his fingers whenever he stops for gas at the infrequent stations. Eventually, even during the height of the day, he’s still the only vehicle on the road. He mapped the trip this way on purpose—all back roads and ghost towns and broken down, threadbare solitude.

It’s a wonderful, worn sort of quiet. Its appeal hasn’t been snuffed by boredom yet. He still finds the vacancy peaceful. Maybe something’s wrong with him.

Today, a week into Ethan’s trip, it’s been a mildly concerning distance since the last sign of life. He’ll need to stop to refuel soon. On either side of the two-lane road stretches untended farmland, long abandoned and flourishing with overgrowth. The arm he has draped out the window as he drives absorbs the heat of the sun, skin red with the sting of it.

Ethan isn’t entirely foolhardy, he did pack his cellphone, it’s sitting at the bottom of his bag under several changes of clothes. Turned completely off. Just in case there’s an emergency, or he gets really lost.

But as it happens, without his phone he has no GPS. So he has to pull over in the middle of nowhere to go over the map he picked up at the last rest stop.

It’s as good a time as any to eat some of his rations, which he planned to need at times like this when the road stretches on for dozens of miles without any sign of life beyond the buzz of cicadas.

Ethan settles on the grass by his van, the hot breeze doing nothing to help cool his sweat-slick skin. Staring out at the rows and rows of identical cornstalks, Ethan’s glad to have the safety net of his phone buried in his luggage, because the land is truly vacant for as far as he can see. If he happens to get stranded out here, finding civilization again will be a long, painful walk risking heat stroke and dehydration.

Just as he’s climbing back into the driver’s seat, a roar of engines flare up in the distance. The popping, boiling rumble of motorcycle engines. A quick glance at the rearview reveals several dark spots on the road behind him wavering in a mirage of heat.

Ethan buckles his seatbelt, eyes locked on the rearview mirror, a flicker of vague curiosity crossing his mind. The motorcyclists must enjoy long stretches of deserted road like this where they’re free to speed without consequence. He decides to wait, not wanting to pull in front of their small procession.

As soon as the first motorcycle flies past, his van rattles with the velocity and proximity. The next bike passes. There’s a bang, a splintering crack. Ethan doesn’t have time to think, he ducks, alarmed.

The motorcyclists are shouting something as they pass. Jeering. Ethan can’t make out anything but a cruel tone.

His heart pounds in his chest as his van lurches again with another loud bang.

And then it’s over, the last of the motorcycles disappears in a whirlwind down the street.

Ethan swallows, his throat tight, dryer than the brittle leaves of the ruined crops that span in every direction. His pulse pounds painfully hard in his neck. The rest of his body feels numb, his limbs weak as if all the blood in his body has rushed to his head.

Mechanically, Ethan forces himself to move, to peer out the windshield. The bikers are specks in the distance again.

Fuck.

Why? Why why why? His brain screams the question at him over and over again—even though he knows why. Those guys are just some assholes, probably, who amuse themselves by fucking with strangers.

That’s all. That’s all.

And they’re gone.

So everything’s okay.

On shaky legs, Ethan climbs back out of his van and assesses the damage.

Rocks, large ones. The motorcycle gang threw rocks at his parked vehicle while speeding down the road. The rear passenger window is cracked badly, the panes splintered but holding shape. Shit. He’ll need to patch that up, somehow, to keep the glass from collapsing. Duct-tape? He’ll need to buy some.

Ethan runs his fingers over the dents knocked into the side of his van. Fuck. What if he had still been standing outside his van? He doubts the men riding the motorcycles cared what they were hitting. If he had been struck by the rocks instead…

But he hadn’t been.

Ethan shakes off the thought.

Shakes off the unsettling blend of dread and adrenaline that tells him to turn his van around and go back the way he came—away from where the motorcycle gang was headed.

He can’t turn back.

He’s been driving this vacant strip of road for too long. The last gas station is too far back at this point. And there’s no chance in hell he’s digging his phone out of his bag and calling for help over some strangers being assholes.

No. He needs to get back in his van and keep going. The next gas station can’t be far now.

He needs to not let this shake him. Needs to prove he can cope on his own, without having to run to share details of every life mishap with the first person he thinks to text.

He needs to keep going—and that’s exactly what he does.

---

Ethan wasn’t wrong. The gas station is only two miles down the road. Its facade is rusted and caked in the dusty beige of dirt kicked up by the wind. It’s got a broken window, which is nearly opaque with a buildup of dust and grime.

It’s the only sign of civilization Ethan has seen for miles. He would wonder if the place was even running if it wasn’t for the crooked neon OPEN sign glowing through the grey of the window.

The building itself looks so uninviting that Ethan would have hesitated to stop here even if there weren’t four motorcycles parked out front.

The riders are off their bikes filling up their tanks. They’re all gruff looking men, their features hidden behind helmets and visors. Their physiques are built up by bandanas and thick black leather vests.

Ethan taps the brakes. He can’t. He can’t pull up to the gas station with those men there. He should make a U-turn. Leave right now as fast as he possibly can. But his fuel indicator is dangerously close to empty. He steels himself. Pulls over on the side of the road a dozen meters from the gas station. And he waits. Because that’s all he can do—wait for the motorcyclists to leave.

Like hell is he going to confront the men that had no qualms harassing a complete stranger. No, he’s going to shrink down in his seat, bite his nails, and bide his time, eyes locked on the men at the gas station.

Time passes.

For several long minutes, everything is fine.

And then it’s not fine. Not at all.

Ethan can see it—the exact moment one of the men notices his van. The man elbows one of his companions, gestures in Ethan’s direction. Heads turn. It feels like someone poured a glass of ice water down Ethan’s back.

His entire body freezes, he doesn’t breathe.

The men, all four of them, leave their bikes where they stand and start stalking over to Ethan’s van.

He should run.

Strike up the engine and speed away, as far away as he can get. But he knows from studying the map that there are no turns off this desolate road for a long while—these men could easily catch up to him on their motorcycles. Ethan will definitely run out of fuel before the next gas station.

These men won’t attack him in broad daylight, with the scorching sun and the gas station employees bearing witness, would they?

No.

Then, why…?

It’s too late. They’re here.

One of the men with a bright red bandana wrapped around his head bangs on the hood of the van.

Ethan scrambles to lock the van’s electronic locks. He manages to hit the button as a second man tries the passenger handle.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, what do they want?

How is this even happening?

Ethan’s too stunned to think. To move.

He should just drive away, to hell with his need for gas or logic or anything other than the building, crashing need to flee. Turning on the engine and hitting the gas pedal now would entail running over the man still banging on the hood, standing dead center. Blocking Ethan’s way.

His whole body surges with adrenaline, urges him to run. There’s nowhere to run. There’s a man at each of the exits.

He should turn the key. Hit the pedal. He shouldn’t give a damn about mowing over the man threateningly beating on the hood of his van so hard it dips slightly with another dent.

Ethan can’t do it. He can’t run over another human being with his van.

Tap tap tap. The barrel of a gun knocks gently against the window. The man’s grin is wide and yellowed.

Ethan struggles out of his seat belt, scrambles out of the driver’s seat, eyes locked on the gun, the grin, the man.

Fuck fuck fuck—he should have just hit the gas.

It’s too late now.

Instead, Ethan crawls into the back of his van as if that will do him any good with an assailant at every door.

Glass shatters. It’s not the deep splintering noise that came with the rock hitting his window earlier. It’s a melodic tink tink tink of hundreds of tiny shards spraying into the van’s cabin and the pavement below. Ethan swings a look over his shoulder to find his driver’s side window reduced to a sharp perimeter. The man reaches in through the empty space, unlocks the door.

As soon as the door swings open a grip clamps down around Ethan’s ankle, jerking him roughly. He scrambles to cling to the back seat, the front seats, anything—anything. But the man heaves his body back into the front of the van and out the door onto the pavement like Ethan is nothing more than a rag doll. He supposes he really is nothing more than a rag doll compared to these men.

Please, Ethan manages to say in the midst of heaving breath. It’s a plea, but he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Doesn’t know what these men plan to do to him or why they’re doing it. How can he beg for mercy against something he can’t begin to comprehend?

"Please what, boy?" The man manages to make the question sound like a threat.

Ethan swallows, scrambles until he’s looking up at the man from his elbows. The gun barrel held lazily in his face stops him from trying to run. Why—why are you doing this?

The man laughs. Cause we can.

A sharp kick from behind from another one of this man’s gang members sends Ethan sprawling back down on the hot, crumbling asphalt.

Ain’t never needed a reason, have we Jed? the third man laughs, addressing the first.

Jed.

That’s the name of the man who pulled Ethan from the car.

The man with the gun.

You got that right, Ricky. We don’t need no reason. Jed’s lip curls in wicked amusement. But money’ll do.

Ethan almost breathes a sigh of relief, or a laugh of confusion. All that comes out is a pathetic whine. Money. That’s all they want? Money? Money’s easy. Money’s nothing compared to the value of his life. Of course, he’ll give them his money.

Wallet’s in my back pocket, Ethan croaks out, trying to shift his sore body to reach for it. Jed kicks him in the stomach to halt him, sending him curling against the pavement. Glass from the shattered window scrapes beneath his body, tiny shards sticking in his arms.

No sudden movements, boy, or my trigger finger’ll get real twitchy, Jed growls, delivering another careless kick to Ethan’s gut.

Tears spring hot in Ethan’s eyes from the pain, but he’s not crying. He doesn’t contain any emotion within him right now that’s capable of bringing real tears. No, all he can manage to feel is desperation, fear, the sickly pounding of his own pulse. He’s too confused for tears, mind scrambling too frantically for a way out of this. There’s no time to grieve his situation. Not now.

Ricky, why don’t you be a doll and relieve this gentleman of his wallet?

Ricky’s grin has too much delight in it, his leathery, sun-ruined skin stretching into a sweaty, predatory expression. He bends over Ethan, forces him to sit up with a fist in his shirt.

Ethan knows what’s coming before he feels the man’s hand slip into his jeans. The expression on the man’s face is enough.

Ricky fishes for the wallet in Ethan’s empty back jean’s pocket, his hand squeezing Ethan’s ass pointedly rough, trying to get a reaction.

Ethan flinches. Tries his best to stifle a grunt of alarm. He knew this was coming. He knew it.

Ricky’s eyes twinkle with callous amusement as he switches pockets, finding Ethan’s wallet and tossing it behind him to Jed. To Ethan’s horror, he jams his hand down Ethan’s front pocket and retrieves his car keys.

Ethan’s first thought is that they’re going to steal his van, and that’s okay—that’s okay because a van is not worth anything, in the grand scheme of things. Certainly not as much as a human life. His life.

But Ricky doesn’t keep the keys. Instead, he chucks them as hard as he can out into the pale yellow of the dying cornfield.

Fear seizes Ethan’s gut. If they don’t want his van, then what do they want?

They don’t want him getting away, at the very least.

What does that mean?

What does that mean?

Once the wallet and keys are gone, Ricky’s hand goes back to Ethan, groping him again. He’s bent so low over Ethan that he can smell the stink of the man’s breath as he laughs through his mouth, feel the damp heat coming off his body.

It takes every ounce of restraint Ethan has to resist turning away. He can’t make any sudden movements. Can’t give this man any excuse to harm him further.

Ethan’s skin crawls under the man’s attention. Does this gruff biker even