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It's almost too easy, getting a man so closed off and secretive to open up to him.
A little compliment here and there, some stroking of his ego, and the words are spilling out like a geyser from his mouth.
What's difficult is hiding the grimace that keeps threatening to break through the plastered on, reassuring smile on his own features.
"You're the only person I've ever told any of this," John says, voice gentle, almost frightened. He shifts a little closer to Mack on the hard, grimy cot of the bunker, not able to bring his eyes to look at him fully, like a dog scared that it's about to be told off. "Do you think..."
Mack's neck tilts, fighting his own urge to shrink away from his captor. He watches John's shoulders rise and fall, a deep sigh leaving his body, like he's been struggling with the weight of everything for so long. You'd almost feel sorry for him if it weren't the weight of his own unforgivable crimes.
John's dark eyes are shining under the orange glow of the fluorescent light hanging above them both, wet with a glaze of tears that won't fall. (Mack isn't even sure the man is capable of crying.) He almost looks human. Almost.
"Do you think I'm evil?"
Yes. Jesus Christ on the cross, yes.
"I..." Mack swallows, dry tongue darting across his lower lip. His gaze shifts around the bunker, this dark, damp, enclosed space. He has to get out. He wants to get out. He looks at John once more, shifts as much as he can on his bad leg, their thighs brushing as he leans closer to him. "I think you're a bloke who got himself in a situation beyond his control."
There's a tremor in John's body at the words, goosebumps pricking the back of his arms, lips parting, anticipation.
Mack's IV connected hand creeps slowly to John's knee, his cheeks twitching as he forces himself to smile in a way that appears genuine. His stomach churns when he does so, fingers squeezing John's knee, meeting his gaze again.
"You're a good man, John. I see that now. I'd have done the same if I were you."
Sorry, Nate. Sorry, everyone.
John's breath shakes as he grins, a soft noise leaving his throat, giddy at Mack's words of affirmation.
Christ, the man is insane.
"Thank you," John's chin wobbles ever so gently, though his cheeks remain bone dry.
x
Mack realises quickly that he can't speed through this. He'll have to bide his time. Put on the act some more. He remembers watching a movie once about Stockholm Syndrome. Charity had said it was something they made up for telly, that no one would really fall for their captor.
He can pretend.
"Aaron's getting suspicious," John admits, a week or so later.
Mack's on solid food now, a new supply of antibiotics in his system. John had straight up told him that he'd gotten the medicine from the Emmerdale GP Surgery, staged a break in, framing some kid April knew called Dylan.
Despicable, but it's what's clearing the infection in Mack's blood.
"I'm scared he's gonna find out. That he'll leave me."
"Well..." Mack nods, running a hand through his freshly washed hair. John had also provided him with a bucket and soap and water, a fresh change of clothes, though the clothes are a little tight, what with them being John's. All the amenities a man kept chained in a bunker could need. "You'll have to manage to keep him sweet, won't you? You're capable of that. Turn on some of your charm."
The words are sarcastic in Mack's brain, and they almost come out as so, but he manages to swallow down the sheer distaste he has for the man sitting besides him and make them come out as sounding somewhat genuine.
John's eyes shimmer with that glint he gets whenever Mack compliments him. There's a pattern there. What with the hero-complex stuff. The man loves to be praised.
Mack's lips curl into a smile, and John actually chuckles. The sound is so foreign that it almost makes him jump, the way John's eyes crease at the corners, teeth bared, dimples in his cheeks. Uncannily human.
"I don't think it's as easy as that," John says, eyes casting about the bunker. He'd cleaned it up a bit, got rid of some of the dust, and brought Mack an unsoiled pillow and blanket instead of an old sheet. Almost like he was actually taking care of him. "If he ever finds out what I've done... he won't understand."
Mack watches as John puts his head in his hands, exhaling through his fingers, shoulders sinking. He isn't sure if this will work.
It could anger John, to compare himself to Aaron, who is presumably worth more to John than the man he has locked up in a bunker.
"Unlike me," is what he says, a suggestive lilt to his tone, brows raising slightly.
John lifts his head, neck turning to look at Mack, his own face set into that ever blank frown of his. Confusion, maybe? Mack finds him so hard to read.
"Well, you..." John swallows, sitting up, back straight. "Do you, though? I don't think you can. Understand me. Not truly."
"Maybe not," Mack reasons, head tilting to and fro from side to side. He flexes his wrist around its restraints, inching closer on the cot, the smell of lavender soap filling John's nostrils. The soap John had brought to him. He bumps his shoulder against John's in a mimic of friendly display, or perhaps, even something more. It's all playacting. Get him on his side. "But you've told me things you've never told him, haven't you? Do you think he'd react the same way?"
John's brows knit together, his gaze dragging across Mack's face in a way that makes Mack's stomach twist in knots. John meets his eye again, a glint in the darkness, lips parting as he speaks, low. "He's my husband. He loves me."
"And I'm your mate," Mack lies, jaw clenching ever so slightly as he smiles. "I know more about you than anyone."
John cocks his head back, frown deepening, like he's just been jolted by some invisible shock of electricity. He rises to his feet, on edge. "What are you doing? Is this some sort of game?"
Shit. Mack swallows. Panic rising in his gut. He shakes his head, looking down at the floor, shrinking in on himself. Small. He has to appear small. Timid. Placid. Shy?
"No! No, I just..." he tightens his fingers around the chain holding him down, teeth catching his bottom lip. Act. He has to act fast. "If I tell you the truth, you'll hate me."
John's confusion and anger softens at the words, at the sight of Mack, so vulnerable.
Maybe it's working.
"I don't... tell me what exactly?" John asks, curiosity piqued.
Mack looks up at him, eyes shining wet, almost pathetically so.
John visibly reacts, nostrils flaring.
Good.
"You know when you said about me being jealous of you and Aaron," Mack explains, voice gentle. "Well, I wasn't jealous because of some matey-friendship reason, or because I was overprotective of Aaron, or whatever. It's because I..."
He really does not want to say it. John's looking at him like he wants to eat him. It makes Mack sick to his back teeth.
"You made me have all these... feelings," Mack exhales, shifting back in the cot, arms folding over himself, his biceps exposed now that John had removed that hoodie from him, leaving him in a clean, grey t-shirt. Peacocking. "And I got angry. And jealous. But not of you. Of Aaron. And he's my mate, so I couldn't. I didn't want to see him with you. Because I..."
John's head tilts back, mouth parting, practically salivating.
Mack wants the ground to swallow him whole.
"I wanted you."
John breathes, loud, almost shuddering, his fingers digging into his pockets, unsure of how to respond to the admission.
"You're not..." John shakes his head, second questioning Mack, his own reaction. "You're not gay. You're married to Charity."
"No," Mack shakes his head, thinking on his feet. "I'm not gay. And I am married to Charity, who if you recall, isn't gay either. Or straight."
John's furrowed brow raises, realisation dawning.
Mack nods as if to say: 'Do you get it now?', but he doesn't speak.
John panics, hands coming out of his pockets, cheeks darkening, clearly rustled by the confession. He moves to grab his satchel, shaking his head. "I can't... I have to go. Aaron will be wondering where I am."
"John, please," Mack says, grimacing at having to beg for his captor to listen to him. "Please, I'm sorry. I just. I needed you to know. Aaron doesn't... he doesn't know you. Not like I do."
He knows these words could just anger John, make him lash out at him. How dare he insult Aaron's commitment to him. Their perfect, perfect, loving, absolutely boringly beige marriage. A man that doesn't know he's married to an absolute psycho.
John stops at the door for just a moment, clutching his satchel, back turned to Mack.
At least he leaves the light on when he leaves this time. At least the air smells cleaner. At least Mack is no longer covered in filth. Hopefully John will come back. He needs to get out of there.
x
There's a bruise on John's face. Fresh.
He brings Mack another microwavable meal. Spaghetti bolognese.
It's been a couple of days.
"What happened?" Mack asks, knowing not to bring up their previous conversation. He pokes at the lukewarm spaghetti in the tray, feigning concern in his tone. He's mostly worried that maybe Aaron is hurt.
"My brother happened," John exhales. He looks away from Mack. He's sat on a folding chair opposite him, not on the cot beside him like before. "He tried to kiss Aaron. I walked in on them."
Mack nods, unsure of what to say. He's got that knowledge still, that Aaron had already betrayed John a couple of weeks back. Maybe he can use it to his advantage.
"I don't think he loves me anymore," John admits, without even being prompted. His dark eyes are wet again, a stray tear actually falling down his bruised cheek.
Mack's breath catches in his throat. This could work.
"Oh, John..." he says, voice soft as he puts the tray down on the small camping table next to the cot. He shifts, moving to the end of the bed. He can move his ankle a little better now. "I'm sure he does. Robert, I mean, he's bad news. I should know."
John wipes at his face with the back of his hand, and meets Mack's gaze. "I love him, Mackenzie. I love him so much."
"I know you do," Mack exhales, trying to sound half jealous. He's not sure if it comes across. "And I know he loves you, and he's my mate, but... he doesn't appreciate you. You've done so much. For him. For everyone. Stuff he doesn't even know about."
John's lips purse into a small pout, the most genuine emotion that Mack has ever seen on the usually stoic man's face.
If he knew it was this easy to get him to take off that mask, he would have tried months ago.
"Do you think so?" John asks, sounding like a child asking their parents for an answer to an impossible question.
Mack swallows. He nods. This might not work, but it's worth a shot. He leans back, hand patting the cot beside him. "John, come here."
John actually complies, like a dog being instructed. Mack almost finds it exciting. What the fuck?
The cot doesn't have much give to it, but it sinks slightly as John sits down besides him, shoulders hunched, neck bowed, hands linked together.
"No, like this," Mack's lips curl into a smile, wrapping his unchained arm around John's shoulders, pulling him closer.
He's warm. Solid. Smells like firewood and cologne. Smells somewhat reminiscent of Aaron. Mack inhales, pressing his temple to John's, eyes sliding shut.
John's stiff form melts almost instantly, like all the tension he's been carrying in his bones comes out as he sinks against Mack, fingers reaching out to cling to his t-shirt, holding his bare, warm biceps.
Mack could get his arm around his neck, choke him out, watch the breath leave his body, but then he'd be trapped, still chained here to this cot and with a fresh corpse rotting at his feet.
"Were you telling the truth?" John asks, fingertips pressing to Mack's cheek, leaning back to look at him. His shark's gaze almost looks human again.
Mack's heart beats a little faster in his chest. Fear. Disgust. Something else.
"About what?" Mack whispers, breath warm enough to be felt by John. He's been providing him with toothpaste at least, though he had just eaten. John doesn't seem to care, eyes dragging to Mack's lips.
"About this..." John's thumb hooks under Mack's jaw as he surges forward, mouths crushing together.
Mack makes a noise into the sudden press of John's lips, the scratch of his beard against his skin, the way his fingers curl into the material of his t-shirt.
Shit. This was too fast. Too quick. Mack wasn't ready.
He has to give into it. It's the only way out.
Think of your escape. Think of Charity. Or Aaron. Aaron, probably. The beard.
John kisses him like he hasn't kissed anyone in years, hungry and hard, thumb digging into his cheek.
Mack's been called out for a a lot of things in his life, but he's never had any complaints about sex, so he gives back just as good as he's given, mouth opening up, his free hand gripping onto John's shoulder, pushing under the material of his hoodie.
"Tell me," John gasps, pulling back from Mack's mouth, both hands gripping his face, eyes wild as they look down at him. "Tell me again. What you said the other day."
Mack can't actually remember much. He'd been on autopilot, saying whatever he could to try to get out of there. He swallows, hand sliding down John's shoulder, hooking around his ribs, his hoodie half pulled off his torso.
He can't deny that John is an attractive man, slim but with a strength to him, what his time in the army and on the field.
He wonders how many people John had held in his arms as they'd passed out in them. He'd been one of them himself. How many of them had survived?
Mack shudders at the thought, but it's mistaken for arousal.
"I was jealous..." Mack says, voice low, rough as he moves to kiss John again, anything so he doesn't have to keep speaking and lying. John tugs his head back, thumbnails digging into the angle of Mack's jawline. Mack exhales. "I was jealous of Aaron. He had you, and I wanted you. I still want you."
John looks as if he may burst with joy, eyes shining, grinning in that uncanny way again, a robot wearing a man's face.
Mack doesn't expect the leg hooked over his hip, the hands pressed to his chest, the weight of John's body as he presses down against him, pushing him to the cot.
"Thank you," John breathes into the heat of Mack's mouth, kissing him again, trailing hungry wet presses across his cheek and jaw, against his throat.
Mack's adam's apple bobs beneath the graze of John's teeth, his wrist flexing against the chain above his head, eyes sliding shut as he gasps.
John's hips are rocking down against his own, the hard weight of his cock straining against his trousers, pressed against Mack's thigh.
Mack's free hand grabs a handful of John's hair, anything to ground him, his body still, laying there, letting John do what he wants to him.
He hates that his body reacts, his own cock stirring from the friction and the wet heat of John's mouth, the scratch of his stubble against the meat where his neck meets his shoulder. The bandage is off now, a stitched up scar on his pec. John's lips brush over it, gentler than he'd treated the rest of him, almost affectionate.
Mack's stomach churns, bile rising to the back of his throat.
"It's so good," John whimpers, craning to kiss Mack again, getting the corner of his mouth at first, still rutting against him like a dog in heat.
Mack's fingers grip a little tighter around the curls in his fist. He could pull them hard, try to ram John's skull into the concrete wall, but like he said, he can't go far with a corpse and no key for the chain holding him.
"Nobody," John continues, almost babbling, overexcited, like a little kid. It's disgusting. "Nobody knows what I've done. But you. You know me. Do you like me, Mack?"
What an utterly pathetic and frankly absurd question.
Freak.
Mack nods, eyes opening to meet John's as he looks down at him, cradling Mack's face in his hands, pupils blown, making desperate little noises as he rocks against him.
"Yes," Mack practically grits his teeth when he says it. He doesn't know how John doesn't notice.
Maybe he's that delusional.
Mack grunts when John's cock grinds against his own, through the layers of fabric covering them both.
John gasps, pressing his face into the crook of Mack's neck, sweaty and hot even in the cold, dank air.
"I like you," John groans, hand moving from Mack's face, sliding between their torsos.
Mack lets out a whimper. Fear. Panic. It sounds no different to arousal to John. Mack bites his tongue.
John's fingers are hot, calloused as they drag down Mack's happy trail, curling around the base of his cock. It's undeniable that the man has skilled hands. Comes with being a medic, Mack supposes.
Mack hits his own head back against the cot, like he can somehow knock himself out if he tries hard enough.
John doesn't notice. Instead, he shifts his trousers down and gets a grip of his own cock, lines him and Mack up, curls a hand around both of them and lets out another deep groan.
"If I knew back then," John exhales, craning to kiss Mack again, Mack's lips tight for a moment, before opening up to his tongue.
For a minute maybe Mack can pretend that he's not in some disgusting bunker, getting off with his captor, and is in Aaron's flat or something, getting wanked off by him instead, or even John in a scenario where he's not a complete psychopath.
"Maybe things would be different," John continues, pulling back, thumb, slick with pre-come from his own leaking cock, swirling around the throbbing head of Mack's.
Mack lets out a genuine moan at the feeling, one that catches him off guard, blood rushing to his ears.
Shit. He's really in it now.
"Maybe," Mack lies, fingertips digging into the crown of John's skull. He can feel the scar there that Robert had left with a wrench. Now that's a bloke who'd had the right idea.
"I'm sorry, Mack," John says, eyes almost pleading, wet and shining as they look up at Mack, lashes dark, cheeks flushed pink. He's a mess. An absolute mess of a pathetic and horrific human being. Mack's cock twitches something fierce in John's grip.
"It's okay..." Mack grunts, forcing a half-smile. "Just keep going. You're so good at this."
John whimpers, nose bumping against Mack's chest, sweat slick hair against his face.
"Yeah, that's it," Mack continues. He hadn't meant to sound so enthusiastic, but there's no denying his words. Even if John is a complete and utter freak. Mack hates it so much, but he really is so good at this. "Christ, you're amazing. I've wanted this for so long, you have no idea."
John is practically vibrating against him. He really does get off to it. The praise. The attention. No wonder why he does what he does if this is how it gets him.
Mack would almost understand it if he had the same lack of morals and empathy.
It's John who comes first, moaning into the damp heat of Mack's chest, spilling out across Mack's cock and his own knuckles.
Mack's toes curl at the sticky heat, jaw clenching, half disgusted and half aroused. It's sickening. How all of this is making him feel. He should want to kill him. He does want to kill him. He should kill him. Once he gets out of there.
John's tongue is in his mouth again, invasive, hot, Mack gags against it.
It takes a good few more pumps of John's come-slick hand to send Mack over the edge, grunting into John's mouth, coming against John's softening cock and hand, no doubt their clothing.
"Thank you," John says it again, and Mack wants to throw up.
John presses his cheek to Mack's chest, exhaling, body going limp, embracing him like he's his lover and not a murderer holding him captive.
Mack can't quite catch his breath, the weight of it all pushing down on him. It has to be worth it. He has to get out.
His fingers drag through John's curls, a subconcious motion, like he doesn't realise he's doing it. His palm stills on the crook of his neck, eyes staring up at the metal above him.
John hums, content, happy.
He doesn't deserve that.
x
John doesn't let him out, but he does clean him up, gives him a fresh pair of joggers and boxers.
"What are you gonna do now?" Mack asks, forcing his gaze to stay on John's lips. He has to make this convincing, afterall. Bat his eyelashes a little. Demure, or whatever. He'd thought the seduction would have been enough.
John looks to the door, sighing, then back to Mack's face. He reaches out, touching a hand to Mack's cheek, his eyes shining again, "Do you love me?"
Mack almost laughs. What the fuck?!
"What?" Mack breathes out, caught off guard.
John frowns.
Wrong answer. Shit.
"I mean... I just didn't expect you to ask that," Mack clarifies. He reaches out his free hand, grabs John's wrist, brings his palm back to his cheek. "Yeah. Yeah, John. I think so. I think I might."
John's eyes soften.
He's so fucking weird.
"Can you say it?"
Mack wants to scream.
"I... I love you," he forces his mouth into a smile.
x
John hasn't got his wedding ring on. He's giddy, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Mack has never seen him like this before. He's almost manic.
He's been visiting sporadically for days, informing him of how he's trying to figure out how to break up with Aaron.
Mack keeps telling him that he'll be there for him, that they can run away to Scotland together, start a new life away from everyone.
It almost sounds nice. Sometimes Mack forgets who he's speaking to.
Maybe in another life. The words ring in Mack's head.
John takes the cuff off of his wrist, and Mack's fingers clench into a fist, arm a little numb from being restrained for so long.
He could strike him now. Overpower him. Take him out, but John's the only one with the passcode to the door, and there's nothing in there to get him out of there. Mack has to wait. Bide his time.
John looks up at him with such a warmth in his eyes that it's somehow more unsettling than the blank nothing he's used to. Maybe there is a soul in there somewhere.
Maybe Mack could gaslight himself into believing in Stockholm Syndrome. It's a funny thought.
John's kisses are even starting to feel somewhat nice, the warmth of his bare torso pressed up against him in the cot. It's so much nicer in there now. Clean.
Mack's ankle is still dodgy, but John does physiotherapy with him, hands on his calves, hands that slide up his legs and grip his thighs as he pushes Mack against the metal wall, capturing his mouth in another kiss.
It's been days. Weeks, maybe. Mack doesn't even know.
John actually sleeps over one night, head against Mack's chest, gently breathing.
Mack thinks about wrapping his hands around his throat. Again, no passcode to the door. No escape.
John begs him to fuck him, and Mack feels sick to his stomach at the thought.
"I'll be so good for you," John hums, voice low in Mack's ear.
Mack's fingers flex around John's hips. He knows the freckles on his skin at this point. The scars from his time off playing soldier. There's a tan line where his wedding ring used to be as he splays a hand against Mack's chest.
He doesn't want to do it. He hates it. Playing this game. Letting this sick degenerate get what he wants from him.
Mack's never actually fucked a bloke before. Blowjobs and handjobs, sure, but never the full shebang as it were. He never thought his first shag with a bloke would be with the freak of a monster who killed one of his best mates. It's sick.
What's more sick is that Mack actually groans when he enters John, feeling the tight heat of him enveloping his cock.
John makes such weird noises. Mack had expected him to be silent, like the robot man that he is, but he does these guttural low moans and digs his heels into the meat of Mack's lower back.
"I love you," John moans as he looks up at Mack, arms hooked around his shoulders, his own hard cock twitching with every thrust.
Mack's fingers grip tighter in the flesh of John's hips, freckles and bones, blood hot beneath the skin, human. A human being.
"I love you, too," Mack grunts, hand pressing hard enough to bruise, snapping his hips against John's arse.
John kisses the scar on his chest and Mack comes so hard he sees stars.
x
It's been four months. Four months of nothing but those cold, metal walls. Colder now that they're deep into Autumn. Mack feels like he may have lost his mind at this point.
John comes to him, two dufflebags in hand and a beanie on his head. It's the same one Mack had been wearing when John had chased him through the woods and shot him.
"Is it time?" Mack swallows, rising to his feet.
"Yeah," John nods, pulling a coat out of one of the bags and throwing it to Mack. He smiles, a glimmer in his eyes. Almost human.
Almost, but not quite.
Mack's stomach twists.
His blood rushes to his ears. This is it. His escape. Freedom.
He can get out of there and shop John to the police and tell everyone. Aaron. Robert. Charity. The whole village. They'll all know what he did.
A monster.
John moves towards him and Mack almost flinches, eyes wide as they watch John zip up his coat for him.
Affection. Genuine affection.
Mack isn't even sure he'd ever seen John act that way with Aaron. They'd always seemed so cold. Uninterested.
Mack almost feels guilty for what he's going to do.
John leans up, pressing a soft kiss to Mack's cheek.
Mack's eyes slide shut for a fraction of a moment, fingers flexing at his sides.
His eyes stick to John's back as he grabs the dufflebags, hands one to Mack before heading for the door.
Mack's legs feel weak as he follows him, nerves on edge. He'd wanted this for so long. To be free.
The cold air smacks him in the face, almost takes the breath from his lungs, pain shooting through his ribcage. It's quiet, the Summer birds long gone, just the crunch of dry leaves under his boots and the sound of John's voice, welcoming him to the world again.
As his eyes adjust to the low sun, Mack glances around, looking for his opportunity. A rock, maybe? But that'd kill him. Maybe he can get him in the ankles. Incapacitate him the same way John did to him.
Sirens. Loud. Blasting.
Mack's heart almost bursts out of his chest, stomach dropping.
Police. Shouting.
Mack doesn't hear what John is saying, only that he's being restrained, an officer grabbing him by the arms, tackling him to the floor of the woods.
He stands, routed to the spot, terrified to move, watching with wide eyes as police surround them both.
John looks up at him, shouts his name, and Mack drops the duffle in his hands, holds his hands up.
"Please, help me," Mack's heart is in his ears as a paramedic and officer run to him, the paramedic looking rather confused as they look up at him, probably wondering why a kidnapped man is in such a presentable state.
"Mackenzie Boyd?" the officer enquires, and Mack nods.
John is hauled away. Mack only catches a glimpse of him before he's shoved into the back of a police van.
x
He's free.
Charity peppers kisses all over his face, pulls him into her arms.
She's got a bump now.
Even Aaron hugs him, tells him he's sorry, that he wishes he'd seen what John was like sooner.
It's him and Paddy that had gotten the evidence needed to take down John. Something about the helpline.
Robert should be gloating, but he's so tired that he can't bring himself to be. He's practically attached to Aaron's side.
Mack should be relieved. He should be happy. His ankle never healed properly. The police are asking him tons of questions. He answers them. Denies some.
No, I didn't have a romantic or sexual relationship with John Sugden.
He kidnapped me.
I'm straight.
He's deluded.
He tried to kill me.
The trial is going to be so long.
Mack feels he should be more exhausted than he is. He is tired. He hobbles on his ankle. He needs pins put in eventually.
But mostly he feels... conflicted. He doesn't know how to feel. What to say. He's in limbo.
Apparently that's normal for after being kidnapped. You get so used to the place you're held that being out feels strange. A form of agoraphobia in a way.
Only, he didn't feel that when Chloe's old man kidnapped him. Granted, that was for a shorter period of time.
He hates John. He hates him for what he did to him. For what he did to Nate. For what he did to everyone. For what he made Mack resort to doing for freedom.
"I hope he rots," Mack says, chugging down the remnants of his beer.
Cain tips his whiskey glass to him.
Mack finds himself in the men's room, spewing his guts up.
x
"You lied to me," John's face is stoic again, that same old face Mack remembers, the one that had chased him through the woods, that had terrorised the village in disguise for well over a year. "You also lied to the police."
"Well, that makes two of us, doesn't it?" Mack exhales, sitting across from John at the visiting table. He shouldn't be here. He should be at home, with his family. His friends.
"I may fake a lot of things, Mack," John says, jaw clenching as he leans across the table. Mack leans back, swallows. "But there's some things you can't fake."
Mack rises to his feet, fists clenched at his sides, chair and table rattling. He spits, "You got everything you deserve. I hope they throw the book at you."
John doesn't say anything, his shark gaze dragging down Mack's torso and body, back up to his face again.
Shame. Dirty. Corrupted.
Mack leaves, skin itching hot.
Forget. He has to forget about it. Push it away.
It'll be alright.
Things will be normal once more.
Another lie.