Vigilante

by Jessica Gadziala

  It was right in that second, gone before I could fully appreciate the depth of it, that this strange vigilante, almost robotic guy showed me what was underneath.

  And what was underneath was a well of hurt so deep that it made what I was feeling seem positively uplifting by comparison.

  I didn't know the man.

  I doubted he would want me too.

  But regardless of all of that, I had the almost overwhelming urge to know what made him how he was.

  Why?

  I had no idea.

  Maybe it was as simple as the fact that he knew all my darkness now, and I wanted things to be more even.

  Though, a part of me thought that perhaps it was more than that, that maybe this enigmatic loner intrigued me now that I finally understood his motivations.

  "Don't pity me, doll face."

  "I'm not pitying you," I shot back immediately, shaking my head. That was as far from the truth as possible.

  "What then?"

  "I don't know. It's... curiosity, I guess," I admitted, shrugging, trying to seem casual.

  "About me?" he asked, smirking, and it did wonderful things to his dark eyes. "I'm figuring that if you were able to track me down, that you already did a fair amount of research." His smile went wicked then, making the skin beside his eyes crinkle up slightly. "Tell me, did you come across all that fanfic erotica written about me?"

  So, I had a tendency not to blush, but show discomfort somehow in my features. I wasn't sure exactly what the combination of changes were, but everyone I had ever met could read right into me when I was embarrassed.

  And, seeing as I had not only come across, but read said erotica extensively, I was freaking embarrassed as hell.

  I hadn't meant to read it, I swear!

  But I saw it on some site called "Luce's Lovers" and I thought there might be information about his whereabouts. There wasn't, but there was a section for writing which I had opened in case it seemed like one of the writers had met Luce personally and could, therefore, point me in a direction if I was looking for him.

  Then I started reading.

  This woman, whoever she was, actually got pretty close description-wise to how Luce actually looked. Except she made him heavily tattooed and green-eyed. Personally, I preferred the real Luce. I was always a sucker for brown eyes. But aside from the slightly inaccurate physical description of him, yeah, she, well, she wrote a convincing anti-hero. Those sex scenes, too, yeah, they were, um, realistic.

  Oh crap.

  I shouldn't have been thinking about them right then.

  Because a bright, vivid image of one of those detailed scenes flashed in front of me. But instead of the green-eyed, tattooed fictional version of Luce taking the lead, it was the real-life, flesh-and-bone version instead. Bending me over a sink in his killing room, hands clutching my breasts, fingers tweaking my nipples, hard cock pressing against my ass. And then...

  "I'll take that as a yes," Luce's voice cut into the scene in my mind, pulling me backward out of it so fast I'd swear I got whiplash.

  Holy shit.

  Holy shit.

  That did not just happen.

  I did not just have a vivid sexual fantasy about the man who had planned to kill my father. A man I had been holding as a prisoner.

  And I totally did not have that fantasy whilst standing in front of said man who happened to be the most freakishly observant person I had ever met in my life, and likely picked up on how my breathing went uneven, my skin flushed, my eyes hooded.

  "Don't be embarrassed," he went on, his voice sounding closer. As I forced my head up, I realized that was because he had silently closed the distance between us, and was standing in the small space of the opened doorway with me.

  "I'm not embarrassed," I insisted, trying to pull myself together, knowing I was failing epically seeing as there was a dull, but insistent, throbbing sensation of need between my thighs.

  "No?" he asked, head tipping to the side slightly. "Then explain this," he said, running a finger across my cheek that felt heated. "And this," he went on, his finger gliding upward to stroke near my eye that did feel heavy-lidded. "And this," he continued, his finger moving lower, brushing over my lower lip. Hand to God, that motion sent a shiver through my system. And it was not a subtle one. No, it was one that shook my entire body. One that Luce not only saw, but felt. "Thought so," he said, voice deep. His eyes seemed deeper as well suddenly, something I couldn't quite peg for what it was until what happened next, well, happened.

  His hand slid across my cheek, whispering over the column of my neck, then curling around the back of it. Gentle. It was all so gentle. That is until he yanked me forward, sending me colliding into his chest as he kept my head angled up by slipping his fingers into my hair and pulling.

  And his lips crashed down on mine.

  The shock of it sent a jolt through my body.

  But the shock was replaced by something else entirely, something deeper, something clawing, needy, indescribable. It worked its way up from the base of my spine and slowly flowed outward, slipped into my very veins, warmed me in a way I wasn't sure I had ever experienced before.

  So without thinking how warped it was, without questioning my sanity in doing so, my hands moved up and curled into his upper arms, holding his body close as my breasts pressed harder into his chest, as my hips lined up to his.

  His teeth nipped my lower lip, dragging a ragged groan from me as they slid apart and his tongue moved inside to claim mine, his hand tightening in my hair. His other arm moved around my lower back, holding me ever-more tightly to him as his tongue raided, owned, then retreated, allowing his lips to sear into mine again.

  My heart was a desperate pounding in my chest.

  The pulsing between my thighs became almost overwhelming, an acutely painful unsatisfied need that had my hips pressing harder into his, feeling the outline of his cock, and there seemed to be an immediate hollowness within that needed fulfillment.

  In response to it, there was a wholly uncontrollable whimpering noise from deep within my chest that pushed out from between my lips, making an equally needy-sounding growl rumble through Luce's chest.

  I was sure the torment would come to an end, that his hand would slide between us and work me with his fingers until the pain became pleasure that became something else entirely.

  But that wasn't what happened.

  One moment, he was kissing me like the war was over.

  The next, his lips tore from mine, his hands loosened their hold so I went back on my flat feet, and his forehead pressed into mine.

  "Fuck," he huffed, somewhat out of breath.

  It was the first time I really got to be so close to him without thoughts of sticking poisonous needles in him clouding my senses with a sulfur-scented, bone-deep hatred.

  He smelled good.

  I couldn't quite peg what it was, but it was outdoorsy, woodsy, a hint of pine, and dirt, and fresh air.

  It shouldn't have been, but absolutely was, one of the most intoxicating things I had ever smelled on a man before.

  Then he was no longer pressing his forehead to mine. His hand was no longer in my hair. His arm was no longer a reassuring anchor around my back.

  One second, he was almost fully supporting me.

  The next, he was a full foot away, watching me with those dark eyes, but there was a shutter down over them, making it impossible to read anything in their depths.

  There was a pause, him seeming lost in his own thoughts. And me, well, I didn't seem capable of speech as I tried to shut down the live wire known as desire coursing through my system.

  Then he nodded at me, shrugged, and declared, "Well, this has been a lovely detention. I am going to head out."

  Of all the things he could have said, yeah, that was maybe what I would have anticipated the least.

  "What?" I asked, my breath a husky imitation of itself.

  "I have some sick bastard to look into. I got contacted about him right
before you abducted me. Need to finish that job. Thank you for your hospitality," he added, moving toward the steps, then pausing at the bottom one. "Oh, and if you want to know who is trying to kill you, come find me."

  With that, and not so much as a glance backward, he was tearing up the stairs.

  Before I could even make it to the bottom one, I could hear the door to the outside slamming.

  He was gone.

  And I hadn't gotten the chance to tell him that the 'sick bastard' he was looking for was actually me. See, I never did track him down myself. But I tracked down someone who was a bit loose with their cell phone locking and was in contact with Luce. I cloned his phone, and had all the information I needed to page him, then created a robotic phone voice to tell him about a fictional serial killer who targeted girls.

  But that wasn't what had my heart flying up into my throat.

  Oh, no.

  What the hell did he mean someone was trying to kill me?

  SIX

  Luce

  Well then.

  That was an unexpected turn of events.

  Here I had been thinking someone was going to be carving up little pieces of my flesh and feeding it to their dogs, and I got off with a little flower poison.

  Thank fuck no one else knew about that shit; I would never have lived that down.

  Flower poison.

  Jesus.

  To be perfectly honest, I never thought she would believe the truth. Most people didn't. It didn't matter how much evidence was staring them in the face, they just shut down and believed what they wanted to believe.

  That explained politics in our country, to be honest.

  But, no, Evangeline Cruz, was not someone who was so set in her opinions that she couldn't see past them. It was such a rare quality anymore that I truly hadn't even factored it in as a possibility.

  She had come down those stairs shattered. There was no other way to describe it. She looked absolutely wrecked. Her face was tear-streaked; her eyes were bloodshot; she looked pale.

  I was so fucking jaded to all that shit, all that evil. Finding a rapist, a child molester, a serial killer, that was just my everyday norm. I had to troll through the shittiest of sites on the dark web. I had to see women being brutalized, children being violated, people begging for their lives uselessly. I was so desensitized to it all that I forgot what shock felt like, if I ever had the ability to feel it at all.

  But it was clear that the one image she found, one I had found a while back as well, one that, to me, was almost PG compared to all the other depravity I was usually surrounded by, completely shattered her.

  I hardly ever had the luxury of feeling love toward a parent. Not because I didn't have a parent that I should have loved, but because they never did anything worthy of love.

  So I couldn't relate to her loss. I couldn't understand how his sins laid at her feet made her feel like they were hers to pick up. I couldn't understand her guilt for being safe from rape while her father was a rapist. I couldn't fathom why that would feel like a betrayal.

  But she felt his sins, she felt guilt, and she absolutely felt betrayal.

  I didn't have to understand to be able to sympathize, to feel something inside at the sight of a broken woman. I wasn't a fucking automaton. My knee-jerk reaction was to reach for her. My desire was to try to wipe all of that away. I didn't know her. I shouldn't have cared, not when I rarely cared for anyone, but I did. I cared. Maybe it was as simple as my honesty was what tore her world apart.

  But, in my opinion, the pain of the truth would always be better than the bliss of ignorance.

  Judging by her reaction, Evan felt the same way.

  Then damn if she didn't go all heated at the memory of my fanfic porn. I mean, not that I blamed her. That shit was a lot sexier than I realized it could be. I finally understood why romance outsold every other genre. I was hard as a fucking rock reading it. And if that got the pussy all lubed up like it got my cock hard, yeah, women could just go right ahead and rev up those engines for their men to test drive when they got home from work. Fucking nothing wrong with that.

  But seeing that look on her face, that heaviness in her eyes, that flush to her skin, that unevenness of her breathing, yeah, it did something to me. I didn't often think, let alone act, with my dick. There was simply no stopping it. Maybe it was the emotionally charged moment, or the fact that I found her ability to take me down and plan my imprisonment sexy as all fuck, or maybe it was a simple reaction to her desire.

  Whatever it was, there was no fighting it.

  Even if I had wanted to, that is.

  As it was, there wasn't a single part of me that wanted to hold back. I had a feeling getting my hands on her would be something new, something heady.

  I wasn't wrong.

  It was just a minute, just a fucking kiss, but there was this pull inside, this strange sensation of it unwinding from its tight coil in my chest and moving outward, trying to tie into a similar string in her chest.

  That shit, yeah, that was utterly fucked up.

  That was what eventually pulled me away when everything within me was begging me to lower her down on that cold floor and bury inside her sweet pussy, to give her a memory of this day that was not pain and betrayal and heartbreak.

  But that couldn't be.

  I had to get out of there.

  I flew up those stairs, then out the first door I came to which put me into what seemed to be the side yard of a classic 1960's ranch-style house with off-white siding and a small amount of brickwork out front beneath the bay window. It was the center house in a four-house cul-de-sac, the sound of a train coming from a few streets behind.

  If we were still in Navesink Bank, I could find my way once I got to the train station. Even if we weren't still in Navesink Bank, the train would get me where I needed to be. I turned out of the cul-de-sac, swearing I caught sight of her standing in the bay window watching me as I quickly pulled up my hood and disappeared.

  Ten minutes later, I saw the very familiar Navesink Bank train station. Taking a deep breath, knowing my walk was about to be long as fuck and it was late as hell, I just got a move on.

  I had some shit to deal with at home.

  First, the sick bastard I had mentioned earlier.

  Second, I wanted to prove I was right about her, about her parentage. Alejandro Cruz may have been her father in the way of him raising her, but he wasn't in her veins, in her blood. No fucking way. Too much just didn't add up.

  When I had the information, I would send it to her.

  Send.

  In the mail.

  Because being close to her apparently made me lose my ever-loving mind.

  "You look like shit," a voice said to my side, making me look over to find none other than Detective Lloyd of the NBPD leaning against his car outside of She's Bean Around.

  Considering it was closed, that was weird.

  I turned, seeing Jazzy moving around, rapidly trying to put things to rights, everything about the usually confident and carefree woman seeming just a tad frazzled and frantic. Like she was in a rush. A rush to... "No fucking way. You and Jazz?" I asked, shaking my head. And, judging by the way his face went all stoney, I was right. I usually was. "Damn. Try to deserve her, man," I said, shaking my head as Jazz cut the lights and practically ran out the door, barely remembering to turn back and lock it.

  "Oh, Luce," she said, jerking backward, eyes going huge, like she was caught red-handed or something.

  "Interesting choice of bedmates, doll face," I said with a tired smirk. Good for her. She deserved a good man. And Lloyd, while technically someone who could haul me in for a life sentence at any given time, was a good man.

  "You look like shit," she said, smile teasing.

  "So I hear. Rough night."

  "Aw, what's the matter, L? Get kicked out of some woman's bed?"

  "Right," I smiled. "Like any woman would want to kick me out of bed. Have fun, you two. Remember, the only good sex
is safe sex."

  "Leave," Jazzy said, big-eyeing me in a way that said I better cover my balls the next time I saw her, or she might be sporting them as earrings.

  "Catch you around," I called, waving over my shoulder at them as I made my way to the edge of the town, then up the tall ass hill that I cursed seven ways to fucking Sunday and then twice more for good measure. My sleep-weary limbs were screaming by the time I made it to my door, still half-open from where I must have fallen into it when Evan knocked me out and dosed me.

  Christ, even that thought send a rush of desire through my system, making my cock harden against my jeans painfully.

  Then, because once the floodgates were opened, they could not be closed again, I went ahead and tortured myself with the idea that maybe she was still just as affected. Maybe she would take her pretty ass back to her bedroom, pull open her laptop, and go find some of that literary porn that had gotten her all hot and bothered before. Maybe she would strip out of her clothes, finding them itchy and suffocating on her body, painful to her hardened nipples. Maybe she wouldn't be able to stop her hand from sliding down her stomach and under her panties, stroking up her slick slit, and finding her swollen, throbbing clit, rubbing it until the emptiness inside was too much to bear, then shoving her fingers deep inside, raking over her G-spot until she came.

  "Fuck," I growled, having to reach down to unfasten my jeans, finding the pressure painful.

  My thumb brushed over the head of my cock, making me let out a hiss, knowing there was no going back.

  I reached inside my boxer briefs, freeing my cock, stroking it hard and fast, imagining those dark eyes of hers looking up at me from her knees with need before sucking me deep.

  "Fuck," I growled, coming harder than I had in months. Hell, years.

  I dragged my tired ass to the bathroom, showering off the day, then falling into bed, figuring I would fall into an exhausted sleep.

  But that wasn't what happened.

  And that wasn't exactly rare.

  Nighttime tended to bring up the memories. No matter how deeply I buried them, they always clawed their way up to the surface. They always taunted me with their special type of horrors. Some nights, I could force them back where they came from. Then I could catch a few blissful hours if the nightmares stayed at bay.