Chapter One

Peter Pettigrew never wanted to do this. He never wanted to sell his body for money. But he did. And he’d wound up in a harder situation than he’d ever imagined. He was in a pitch black basement, hands bound behind his back, pants discarded and torn to shreds from weeks ago. He was going to die soon. He was not ready to die. He was too young to die.

It had started on a Friday. He normally didn’t work on Fridays, but the circumstances at home has gotten much worse and he needed all the money he could get. Usually he ended up with a solid 200, but on days when the suits rolled around, he’d get a whopping thousand, at least. So he put on his best brown jacket, their favorite black skinny jeans, and leaned against his light pole, puffing on a cigarette and hoping that someone would actually show up.

A new car had pulled up, a green van. He’d never seen this car in his life and honestly thought vans had gone out of style years ago. This should have stopped him from going to the window. But it didn’t. He needed the money.

    “Hey, beautiful,” the man inside crooned as he rolled down the window. Peter would have cringed if he was not on the job. Most of the men he saw weren’t ugly, or really breathtaking by any means. But this man was murder. His hair was clearly falling out in some places, but he could not be older than 30. His nose had been broken more than once, and his black tie was just as crooked.

    “How much?” the man asked.
    “How much have you got?”
    “Get in and see.”

That was normal talk for getting picked up, and Peter wasn’t worried. He stepped around the car, psyching himself up for a closed-eye fuck, and opened the door. What he saw was what worried him. The man was holding a gun in his lap with one hand, pointed directly at him.
    
    “Well? Aren’t you getting in?”
    “That’s...” Peter couldn’t even finish his sentence. He chewed on his lip. He just wants a fuck. He’s just desperate for it, that’s all. Nothing more. And then he’ll let you leave. You can go home, even if you don’t get money. This is why you don’t come out on Fridays. The weirdos come out on Fridays.

Peter nodded his head and sat down in the passenger seat, taking a second before he was able to force himself to close the door. The man put his car into gear without waiting for Peter to even put his seatbelt on.

    “I don’t do house calls,” Peter said meekly, biting on the corner of his lip as he looked over at the man.
    “Oh, you’ll do this one,” the man responded, not taking his eyes off of the road or his hands off of his gun. “You’ll do this one, or I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”