When I learned that Naomi might be here, I entertained the idea that she was the hacker. Naomi’s smarter than half the continent. Running a deep web ring would be something she could do in her sleep. But she’s so smart that I have to believe she would have found some way to contact me. I’ve never used an alias, wanting the word to get around that Daniel Hays was looking for his sister. But she’s never once sent me an email or a text or even a smoke signal.
Letting Regan stay the night with me isn’t going to delay my hunt because I’m in desperate need of sleep. Maybe she’s embarrassed about how she looks in her tiny coat and even tinier bikini. I’ll take her back to my temporary residence and fix her up. We’ll both sleep, and in the morning she’ll be begging me to return her to the U.S. diplomats. I can keep my hands off of her.
“Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana,” I tell the driver to take us to an address down by the beach. He gives me a quick nod and we take off again. The trip from the embassy takes less than fifteen minutes and it’s a beautiful drive along the Guanabara Bay. The pavement and the high rise hotels give way and for a few minutes we drive along the bay, where sea waters pelt the rocks. In the distance, Sugarloaf Mountain rises like a stone torpedo.
Regan has her face glued to the window. “What is that?” she asks, pointing to the mountain.
“It’s Sugarloaf Mountain. When the Portuguese were transporting sugar from Brazil to Europe, they’d press the sugar cane into these cone shaped molds called sugarloaves, and one day, I guess, someone said, ‘hey that bump in the sky looks like a sugarloaf.’ The Portuguese name is Pão de Açúcar.” I found myself leaning close to her, almost whispering the native name in her ear. Another Portuguese phrase comes to mind. Eu quero te abraçar agora. I want to touch you.
I force myself back against the seat. The taxi drivers smirks at me.
“A mulher e a sardinha querem-se da mais pequenina,” he mutters merrily. He’s lucky he’s driving and that Regan doesn’t speak Portuguese.
“What’d he say?”
“That the cable cars are packed like sardines,” I lie. He really said that women and sardines should always be small, which I guess is a reference to Regan’s tight ass he saw waving in his mirror, but I’m not telling her that. Trying to distract her, I point to the wires running from the mainland to the mountain. “There’s the cars that take you to the top of Sugarloaf.”
“Huh.”
I can’t tell if she’s intrigued or whether she can’t wait to get the hell out of here. I’m guessing the latter. I have the taxi driver pull over on the corner. He doesn’t need to know where we are staying. I wish it were Carnivale because Regan in her spangly bikini wouldn’t look out of place during the festival. But as it is, she’s going to draw attention in her black socks secured by zip ties, the thin tan jacket covering the swimsuit. Nothing to do but brazen it out.
“There’s no hotel here,” she notes with worry. The buildings along Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana are nothing like the favela. Here we are on level ground and it looks like any other metropolitan area near a beach. Touristy and a tiny bit rundown. Rather than hotels, I always stay in these apartments, which are run by individuals who are trying to avoid government regulations and extra taxes. These folks aren’t running to spill to anyone who their guests are. Pay them in cash and they are even more thrilled to pretend like the place stood empty for the entire time you were there.
“Walk like you own the place,” I mutter under my breath as I lead her past two large apartment complexes and down an alley to a three story thin building that houses three flats. Mine is the top one.
Regan sucks it all up and walks like a queen, head held high as if black socks, no shoes, and jackets are all the rage. If anyone is looking it’s because she’s fucking amazing. Can I hope that my sister will be like this? For so long I’ve worried that when I found her she’d be a shell, addicted to drugs, strung out, and barely functioning. But Regan’s nothing like that. She’s mouthy and straight backed and clear eyed. I like her, more than I should.
No one says anything to us and we’re inside the one bedroom flat before much more time passes.
“You live here?” She wanders in and looks around. It’s a tiny place. One tiny kitchen, one living room with a partial view of the Bay, and one tiny bedroom with one queen sized bed. She skitters away from the bedroom.
“Rent,” I answer. I open the door to the bathroom that contains a shower and a normal sized toilet. Some things can’t be small for me. I point to my one extra set of towels provided by the owner of the house. “Feel free to clean up.”
She nods and disappears. The water runs for a long time. So long that I’m able to shrug off my jacket, pull out my guns, discard my shoes. During the time the water is running nonstop and steam is starting to seep out from underneath the bathroom door, I’m trying to keep busy, to drum out the image of Regan completely naked inside the shower, running her hands down her gorgeous body, over the firm breasts she pressed against me earlier, and down between her legs. I’m cleaning a second gun by the time she pokes her head out the door. I’m surprised we had that much hot water.
“What?” I ask her, and it comes out more sharply than I intend because I need to turn off my desire for her. Her head inches back so all I can see are her eyes between the frame and the edge of the doorway. It’s not her fault I’m a dick with no self control. “Sorry.” Standing up, I gesture toward her. “Need anything?”
“You got more than this towel for me?” she asks.
Okay, I should’ve thought of that. “Sure.” Inside the bedroom I rifle through my pack. I have a few white dress shirts, beater tanks, dress slacks and cotton pants. I pull out a beater tank and a dress shirt. It’ll hang down to her thighs. Maybe later I can run outside and get her something from one of the shops along the beach. They’ll have at least a sundress.
“This is all I got.” I hand her the things, making sure I don’t look at her. When she takes them from me, her hand brushes mine, and that tentative accidental contact sends an electrical current down my spine. Stiffening, I quickly snatch my hand away, but this only causes her to seem offended. I barely withdraw my fingers fast enough to avoid getting a crush injury when she slams the door shut.
In the kitchen, I heat up some sauce while putting water to boil. I like to eat in if I can. You’re never more vulnerable than when you’re eating, shitting, and sleeping. Or been kept in sexual slavery for two months. I pause. No, Regan’s not vulnerable. That’s what makes her so attractive. In the months I’ve been searching for my sister, I’ve seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of girls and none of them has been able to walk out with pride and fire like Regan Porter. The thing that draws me to her isn’t just her looks, it’s her attitude. I admire her. She’s a rarity. And I decide then and there I’m going to do everything possible to make sure she’s returned safely to the bosom of her family because sometimes the good guys have to win one in order for there to be enough fight left in the white hats.
I’ve got the food plated and ready for her when she finally opens the door. Her long blonde hair is turbaned in a towel and the white shirt hangs open over the beater. I think I can see the shadow of more intimate places, and I force my gaze up to her face.
She looks speculatively at me, as if she’s a customer at the butcher’s shop, counting and weighing what kind of cut of meat I am. I’m the part you leave behind, honey. I’m old, chewy, and about as tasty as a leather shoe.
“Come eat.” I gesture to the table, shoving aside my gun parts. My primary weapon is a Ruger SR45 and it’s the one I cleaned first. I’ve got it lying on a chair next to the table. Easy to grab and shoot if necessary.
“Milk?” she asks, with raised eyebrows. “Are we five?”
“No. I’m twenty-seven, but I still need it.” I pull out a chair for her and she sits down. I wonder if she’s wearing underwear and curse mentally. Of course not; I didn’t give her any. “Do you need anything, ah, downstairs?”
French bread? Is that a special term for a woman’s pussy? I gape at her, and she flushes under my scrutiny. It takes a superhuman effort on my part not to allow my gaze to drop to her chest to follow that rush of blood and see how much of her body turns rosy.
With her eyes cast downward, she gestures toward the food. “Sorry I asked. This is fine. I don’t need any bread.”
Oops. I guess maybe she took downstairs to mean me literally going downstairs to find more food. I try to be more direct. “I meant, do you need any underwear? I forgot to give you some. I don’t have boxers. I’m more of a briefs man myself.” When I wore any. This causes Regan to turn beet red.
“No I’m fine.” she shifts uncomfortably on the chair, which tells me she’s not fine at all. I don’t want to leave her by herself, but I need to get her some clothes.
“Eat. I’ll be right back,” I say and turn toward the door.
“No,” she jumps up, her hip catching the table and knocking it over. Sauce, noodles, and milk go flying. “Oh shit!” she cries, and then suddenly the warrior princess breaks down. She crumples to the floor and begins to sob, huge wracking cries that sound like she’s being torn apart. My promise to not touch her until she gives me permission dissolves like sugar in water and before I know it, I’ve scooped her up in my arms and am carrying her over to the sofa. I try to set her down but she clings to me, and I take that as consent of an unspoken kind.
Settling into the corner, I hold her body as she trembles and quakes against me. There’s a storm inside of her, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take to die down, but as I cradle her in my lap I realize that the world could burn up and I wouldn’t let her go. Not at this moment. Not until she doesn’t need me anymore because I can’t remember the last time I felt this good. Maybe I never have.
Five
Regan
I’VE TOTALLY LOST MY SHIT.
I thought I was holding together pretty well. That I’d buried everything so deep inside that nothing could affect me anymore. Guess I was wrong because the longer things seem normal, the more frayed my nerves get.
Daniel has taken me to a nice apartment. Not great by American standards, but cleaner than the brothel and private. It’s only me and him, and I immediately think he’s going to pounce on me as soon as we get inside. That’s okay; I’m ready for that and I’m fine with having sex with this man as long as it gets me to safety. Pleasing one man in bed would be child’s play after what I’ve been through.
But Daniel is . . . nice. He lets me shower in his bathroom and gives me clean clothes to wear. Nothing slutty, just clothes of his own. It’s clear that he wasn’t intending to bring me back with him, which lends credence to his story about taking me to the embassy. This man, this nice man, meant what he said. He was really going to drop me off at the embassy and go on with his life. He wasn’t going to use me for sex even if he was attracted to me.
And this confuses me. My new reality is that men want a quick fuck. I don’t know how to deal with people that are nice for the sake of being nice. Not anymore. I dress in the clothes he’s given me and sit down to eat the food he’s made. And I’m bitchy. I can’t help it. Hiding behind a shitty attitude is all I’ve got anymore.
But he’s trying to make me comfortable. He’s not looking at my body, even though it’s clearly outlined in the thin undershirt I’m wearing without a bra or panties underneath. He’s even made me dinner and poured a glass of milk. And he starts to leave to get me clothing. Or bread. Something.
“Eat. I’ll be right back,” he says.
My mind flips out. I’m being abandoned again. I want to scream, but I jerk to my feet instead, and spill everything. My plate shatters at my feet, and it looks like I feel, all broken and piecemeal.
And I lose my shit.
I start crying uncontrollably. Everything feels like it’s crashing on me at once. Tonight I escaped the brothel, but now the embassy is lost to me. Freedom was so close and yanked away again. And this man is trying to be nice to me, but he wants to fuck me. I don’t know what to think anymore.
So I sob.
Like a hero in some fairy tale, Daniel grabs me in his arms and carries me to the couch. This only makes me cry harder because if he threw me down and started fucking me, I’d expect that. I’d know how to handle that. But he’s petting my hair and whispering soothing things to me.
And I. Cannot. Deal.
Great, wracking sobs escape my body. My hands curl in his shirt and I lean against him, crying my heart out. I’m so scared and lost. And even though this man is holding me, I feel completely and utterly alone.
“Sweetheart, don’t cry,” he murmurs as he strokes my hair. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll take you back to the embassy in the morning, and you’ll be on a plane home in a few days. I promise.”
His mention of the embassy only makes me cry harder. If I go there, Mr. Freeze will find me. He’ll check my teeth, order me “gentled” for a bit longer, and when I’m totally broken . . . what then? I have visions of him sculpting me into the perfect woman he wants…and then, I don’t know, pulling my skin off and wearing it as a hood. He might want a blowjob from a pretty slave girl, but I no longer have optimism as a fall back.
My hands slide around Daniel and I hug him as he strokes my back. It occurs to me that I’m practically in his lap. I want to pull away and take another shower, but a different thought flickers in my mind; this time, when I press my cheek against his neck, it’s to hide the fact that my tears are drying up.
Daniel has weapons.
I move my hands to his waist, still weeping and sniffing, and delicately try to feel for his gun. There’s one taken apart on the table nearby, but Daniel seems like the type that would have one at the ready at all times. He must have another one on him. It’s become my goal to find it.
So I sniffle and burrow against him, noticing the tent rising at the front of his pants. He’s trying to be comforting, but his body is responding all the same. I pretend not to notice it, even as I let my breast brush against his chest. “I’m sorry,” I say in a wobbly voice. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He gives a brief chuckle. “You kidding me?” His fingers stroke my damp cheek and I do my best not to recoil from his touch. All touches seem to lead to rough, horrible sex lately. “You’ve been through hell and came out the other side. I think you’re allowed a cry-fest. Try not to slobber on me too much.”
I like Daniel’s humor. A watery laugh escapes my throat, even as my hand grazes something hard tucked into his belt that can only be a gun. Yes!
Before I can grab it from him, though, his hand covers mine, preventing me. “Cry all you want, sweetheart, but the weapons stay with me.”
I jerk away from him, wiping my eyes. The time for cuddling is past. “You have to give me credit for trying.”
Daniel laughs again and shakes his head in admiration. “I do.” He gets to his feet, adjusts himself surreptitiously, and then gestures at the kitchen. “I’ll clean that up, and then I’ll head out and grab you a change of clothes…”
“No!” I yelp again, and I grab at his trousers. The old panic returns, and I don’t care that I’m clinging to the front of his pants and my mouth is pretty much level with his crotch. I look up at him, pleading. “Don’t leave. I don’t want to be left. I don’t need new clothes. These are fine.” Shit. I’m babbling, but I can’t help myself. “Give me a pair of pants and I’ll be fine. I promise.”
He stares down at me for a long moment, and then scrubs a hand over his face and nods. “Okay. You can borrow some of my stuff and we’ll go in the morning. Together.”
Relief courses through me. “Yes. That sounds good. Thank you.”
Even though I protest, Daniel won’t let me help him clean up in the kitchen. Instead, he gets me another plate of food and another glass of milk, and makes me sit on the sofa and eat every bite while he sweeps up glass and mops the floor. He c
hats the entire time, too. It’s clear Daniel doesn’t like silence much. He talks about the weather, and how different food is here in Brazil, and the upcoming World Cup. They’re harmless, simple topics—like a conversation you might have with a cab driver. I listen but don’t offer additional commentary. I haven’t seen most of Brazil, after all. I’ve been chained in a whorehouse.
But I like to hear talking other than “open your mouth, slut,” so I appreciate it. His normal conversation makes me feel a little more normal, too.
When I yawn and curl up on the end of the sofa, all food eaten, he pauses and comes to my side. “Come on. Time for bed.”
I stiffen but get to my feet. Here it is. Here’s where I have to pay to earn my keep. “I’m ready.”
We head to the bedroom, and the pasta I ate feels like lead in my stomach. I can do this. I can.
Daniel moves ahead of me and pulls down the blankets on one side of the bed. “The windows are nailed shut, so I wouldn’t recommend escaping through them. Plus, this neighborhood is kind of shit. Again, wouldn’t recommend escape.”
He offers me a pillow and I clutch it to my chest, waiting. Is this for my knees? So I don’t get more bruises while I service him? “All right.”
Then he walks past me, back to the door of the bedroom. “I’ll be in the living room. If you get scared or need anything, you shout. Okay?”
And then he closes the door.
He doesn’t want sex with me after all. At least, not tonight. He’s giving me this bedroom. I’m shocked . . . and then my mind starts racing. I can push the bed against the door and barricade myself in. Or there’s a heavy, scratched-up bureau against one wall that I could use to barricade the door if the bed is too bulky. I can wall myself into this room and be completely, utterly safe.
Last Breath Page 5