Vanquish

by Pam Godwin

  Where was her anxiety for straight lines? Her impulse to tackle the mess?

  She dropped her head back against the dresser and closed her eyes. She couldn't think about that right now. Something else was pressing against her brain.

  He lived thirty minutes from that restaurant. If she knew which restaurant it was, she could narrow her search for the cabin. She jumped to her feet and strode toward the wall that faced Liv and Joshua's house, pressing her cheek against it. Maybe Van had given them his address? At the very least, they knew the restaurant.

  And so her harrowing journey to their house began. By the end of that first night, she was able to peer out of every window without losing control of her breathing.

  By day five, she started keeping her front door open, letting in bugs and sunshine and the gawking of neighbors in passing cars. She sat on the threshold, trembling and gasping, but she didn't pass out.

  On day nineteen, her ass hit the bench on the front porch for the first time in two years. She'd stumbled into it, actually, in a breathless fall of exhausted, quivering muscles. She might've clapped her hands if they weren't squeezing the weathered slats in a death grip.

  But she did manage a smile, the first smile to touch her lips since the night they'd left for the restaurant. God, he'd looked so handsome in his suit. He'd been so nervous and...turned on by her.

  Her heart pinched, and her smile wobbled away. She missed him, deeply and painfully. His absence was a constant wrench of every breath as if her lungs could never quite fill without him.

  She uncurled a hand and raised the hem of her old t-shirt, wiping the humidity and sweat from her face. He would've been proud of her. Fuck that. She was proud of herself.

  “I'm sitting on his bench,” she announced to the coverage of bushes, the sunlight soaking into her damp hair. She ran her fingers over the wood, hoping to absorb some part of him that might still be there.

  She glanced at the closed-up windows on Liv's house and nodded. She'd get there.

  That night, she lay on top of the covers in bed, nude and as content as she could be without him beside her. As she fantasized about his heat sliding over her skin and his tongue controlling her mouth, her hands roamed her body.

  Her house might've been a mess, but she'd maintained her daily regimen of cardio and strength training, and that effort flexed sensually in the hard hillocks of her ass and firm flesh on her hips. Her muscles and curves felt beautiful beneath her fingertips. And so did her pussy.

  She stroked her fingers down her mound and between her folds as her thoughts filled with silver eyes, a thick cock, and seductive lips. The deep, reverberating voice in her head commanded she fuck herself. So she did, with urgent, wanton thrusts of her fingers. When his voice told her to come, she shouted his name to the ceiling.

  There was a good chance she'd never find him, that she'd never be able to show him how far she'd come. But as the next two weeks passed, she protected her new self-esteem, nurturing it with every little progressive step. She refused to even consider puking. She made trips to the mailbox, reconnected with Dr. Michaels, and reinstated her leathercraft business, adding leather dolls to her list of merchandise.

  She hadn't worked up to leaving the yard yet, but as the weeks passed, conquering the agoraphobia became more about self-reliance and less about finding Van.

  Still, night after night, she sat on the bench and waited for him.

  She'd always thought it would take a tragic event to rip down the walls of her phobia: her house catching fire, terminal cancer, abduction and rape. Yet, on day seventy-six, something unexpected finally propelled her over the property line and onto Liv's porch.

  Love guided her shaky legs beneath the luminance of the moon. She loved herself enough to raise a sweat-soaked fist and knock on the door. And she loved him enough to smooth her breathing when a gorgeous brunette poked her head through the crack.

  A pink scar, just like Van's, twitched on Liv's cheek as she tilted her head. “Yes?”

  She curled her fingers in the fabric of her shorts, relaxed them at her sides, and lifted her eyes. “I...I...uh...” Her voice quivered, and the air thinned. “I live next door. I'm—” She wheezed with burning lungs, and Liv's emotionless expression didn't help her nerves. “Sorry. I'm a bit panicky.”

  A car motored down the street behind her, and she jumped. Jesus, get a grip. “I'm...I was Van Quiso's...” What was she? Slave? Girlfriend? Lover?

  Those dark eyes turned to stone. “What the fuck did he do?” Liv opened the door all the way and stepped toward her.

  Her muscles heated, and her own eyes hardened. And she didn’t step back. “He loved me enough to shove me out the door.” Oh fuck. Awkward. She glanced over her shoulder, cringing at the open space of the shadowed street. “Can I come in?”

  Ten minutes later, she sat in a brown leather armchair with a mug of coffee in her trembling hands. Liv and Joshua perched on the couch across from her, Joshua's arm wrapped around Liv's shoulders. No doubt they assumed the worst about Van, and her need to rectify that spilled the words from her mouth.

  They listened without comment or expression as she told them her story. The agoraphobia and OCD, the reason Van was on her porch, the abduction and rape, the dolls and the restaurant, his forceful attempts to overpower her disorders, his longing to have a relationship with his daughter, and his final unselfish act. The how and why he shoved her out the door. On the surface, the events were horrific and unsavory, but she spoke of them with a passion that made her eyes burn, her chest swell, and her lips curve upward. “I love him.”

  “I see that.” Liv reclined against the couch back, her denim-clad legs crossed at the knee and hands folded in her lap. “Stockholm Syndrome is an intense—”

  “I have an addictive personality, Miss Reed.” She set down the mug and faced the woman head on. “If you want to psychoanalyze me, please consider all of my syndromes. As well as your own capture-bonding relationship.” She flicked her eyes at a grinning Joshua.

  A smile bent Liv's otherwise unreadable expression. “Touché.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “He healed me in a way none of my therapists had been able to do. He freed me.”

  Liv hummed, and the soft, reverberating note sent an exquisite chill through the air. “And you want me to allow him contact with Livana?”

  She nodded. “I also want you to help me find him. The restaurant you named only limits my search to...oh, the greater Austin area.”

  “He'll find you. He's nothing if not dedicated to his stalk—” Liv smiled. “Pursuits.”

  She left Liv's house with a yearning to believe her. Hell, he wouldn't have to look far.

  For the next two months, she waited right on that bench. She'd trimmed the bushes so he wouldn't miss her if he drove by. So she wouldn't miss him.

  Often, she lie down on the wood slats and fell asleep under the canopy of stars. During the day, she expanded her business and paid her bills. She kept a routine, but it was flexible. One time, she even took a cab to the grocery store. A panic attack cut her shopping trip short, but she'd managed to get herself home without assistance.

  She didn't subscribe hope, but she refused to let herself slip by without a constant goal to work toward. Sitting on that bench, night after night, was a full-on confrontation with her fears. For an agoraphobe, that kind of courage was hard to come by. She collected her courage from every tiny advancement she made in her recovery, saving it up and making herself stronger.

  If he never came back for her, she knew she was brave enough to continue alone.

  Not a second went by when Van didn't question the choice he made that night. Every window, every speck of dust, even the bedside lamp was a painful reminder of what he'd given up. The most agonizing choices were the right ones, but acknowledging it didn't make it any less agonizing.

  Six months had passed since he'd kissed her drug-slackened lips in a torturous goodbye. He didn't just miss her lips, but goddammit, he missed them so
fucking much.

  He missed the sound of her knuckles cracking, her little gasps of panic, and her constant bratty comebacks. He missed working out with her in the mornings and making love to her in the afternoon. He missed feeding her and whipping her and studying all the quirky nuances that made her blush and scowl and throw her head back with laughter. And he missed her in his bed, the firm curves of her body all tucked up against him.

  The silence of the cabin was excruciating without her. Even the simple act of breathing was met with a hollow echo that left everything cold and empty.

  Like most nights, he drove aimlessly up and down the streets of Austin, heading anywhere except back to the lonely cabin. The leather doll she'd made was a permanent passenger on the seat beside him, a reminder to not show up at her house and demand she come back. He held no doubts in her ability to recover. The doll beside him was a symbol of her strength. And he’d made her weaker. As long as he didn't interfere, she would find her tenacity again.

  He turned onto a dark, narrow street. Austin didn't have ghettos, and certainly nothing as decrepit as his childhood shacks, but there were pockets that bristled with crime and broken families.

  Up ahead, a small silhouette moved on the side of the road, bobbing and darting beneath the canopy of an abandoned gas station. He slowed the Mustang, motoring closer, the street empty and unlit. He turned into the lot, and the headlights flashed over the tiny features of a five- or six-year-old girl sitting against the concrete wall, legs curled against her chest.

  Where was her mother? There was no one around, and she was way too young to be out alone at eleven o'clock at night. Hell, he'd spotted a prostitute just two blocks back.

  He stopped the car and opened the door to the sound of her soft sniffles. Approaching her cautiously, he asked, “Are you lost?”

  She hugged her legs and shook her head.

  With a hand on his hip, the other rubbing the back of his neck, he looked around. Apartment buildings, dark commercial properties, and empty parking lots lined the street. “Where's your mom?”

  She pointed at the apartment tower down the road and sniveled.

  “What's your name?”

  “Leslie,” she mumbled.

  He crouched at her side. “Leslie, how about you head home? It's not safe out here.”

  Tears burst from her throat as she shuffled away from him.

  Fuck. He crossed his arms around his knees to keep from going to her. Last thing he needed was someone accusing him of being a pedophile. “Go home, Leslie.”

  She shook her head in hard, jerky movements, the whites of her eyes glassy and wet in the headlights.

  His skin tightened, and nausea hit his stomach. He knew that look, one bred of abuse and neglect. He forced himself back to the car and sat there for endless minutes, staring straight ahead, his eyes watering. What could he do?

  He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. He'd gone through such a long period of feeling nothing, refusing to allow his miserable past to morph into a selfish need to run back to Amber. But his heart was growing frailer by the minute. He fucking needed her.

  But he couldn’t just leave this little girl. If she were Livana, he’d remove her from her toxic home.

  Kidnapping.

  Okay, not an option. He snagged the doll and returned to the girl, dropping on one knee before her. “Whatever it is, Leslie, it's not your fault.” What else had he wanted to hear at her age? “It's okay to be scared. Your mother loves you.”

  Jesus, he sounded like an asshole. But when he handed her the doll, she hugged it to her chest. Then she sighed.

  It was a tiny thing, that sigh of happiness, but from it breathed a rush of wind that liberated him. He could return to Amber, not as a stalker and rapist but as an honest man. She could love him back or reject him because she deserved to make that choice. The choice he’d wanted so desperately as a child.

  He climbed into the car and made an anonymous phone call. Then he moved the Mustang down the street and kept an eye on her. Fifteen minutes later, red and blue lights flashed around the corner. The police wouldn’t always be there for her, but maybe they would help her tonight.

  He didn't look in the rear-view mirror as he pulled away. Amber was forward, Livana was forward, and that was where he needed to be.

  As he made the twenty-minute drive to her porch, his anxiety rose to a level Amber would've been all too familiar with. What if she'd taken another lover? Another deliveryman? What if Livana had moved elsewhere? Christ, he should've kept an eye on them.

  With a churning stomach, he passed the side street he usually parked on. A few seconds later, he pulled into Amber's driveway and turned off the car.

  Something moved on the porch. A stray cat? No, a person-sized shadow, sitting right there. He strained his eyes through the dark, waiting for them to adjust. Dark hair, wide eyes...Amber? Face frozen in...Panic? Confusion? Shock?

  He fumbled for the door handle, catching it on the second pass. His legs shook as he rounded the front bumper, his eyes glued on the woman rising from the bench.

  Sliding the hood off his head, he quickened his gait, his heart slamming into his throat. She's on the porch. Outside. And she's not flipping her shit?

  Fuck him, she did it. A smile stretched across his face. Of course, she fucking did.

  She leapt off the porch and ran toward him, her legs flexing in tiny black shorts, her gorgeous tits stretching her t-shirt.

  He held out his arms to catch her, his pulse racing in anticipation to hold her body, to kiss her lips—

  Her hand landed across his face in a stinging slap. “Six months, Van Quiso.” She smacked him again, her eyes blazing. “One hundred and eighty-three fucking days!”

  Her tiny fists went crazy, raining down on his torso in pummeling strikes. She got in some bruising punches, but dammit, he couldn't stop grinning. God, he missed her feistiness.

  When she lowered her arms and gazed up at him, her beautiful makeup-free face softened beneath the glow of the streetlight. “You came.”

  Christ, he wanted to kiss her. “You waited.”

  She raised a finger, pointing at the bench. “Right there. One hundred and sixty-four nights.”

  His heart squeezed. With pain. With pleasure. “What did you do the other nineteen nights?”

  Her lips slid into a foxy grin. “I made little Van voodoo dolls and stabbed them with toothpicks.” Her smile fell. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  The worry pulling at her expression made him sick to his stomach. He cupped her face and guided her mouth to his, just close enough to kiss. “There's only been you, Amber.” He brushed their lips. “If we're not counting my hand.”

  He captured her mouth, or maybe she took his, but their tongues met with equal hunger, lips mashing through drugging licks. When he tilted his head and demanded deeper entry, she surrendered, melting against him with her fingers in his hair.

  His kiss grew punishing, urgent and rough, his hands more so. He found her tits, pinching them hard enough to make her yelp. He sucked on her upper lip, his cock throbbing against his zipper, as he caressed her firm cheeks beneath the shorts. Jesus, he'd missed her ass, and he was going to fuck her right there on the driveway if they didn't move inside.

  When he pulled back, she slipped out of his arms. Walking backwards, hips swaying, she gave him a playful smile. “So you haven't had sex in six months?”

  He stalked after her. “No, baby. What about you?”

  She shook her head—thank Christ—then took off toward the front door, vanishing inside the house. He trailed her, his blood pumping from his heart to his dick, his jeans a painful constriction.

  A quick scan through the front room gave him a sense of how much had changed, like the single clock on the wall and the way the pillows were strewn across the couch. There was no clutter, no dirt he could see, but the house didn't have the same severity it once had. Perhaps it was the addition of color. A red throw blanket, an orange rug, and a yellow
vase in the corner.

  He found her in the kitchen, her eyes glimmering right before she slipped out the back door. What was she up to?

  Another thing he'd missed were her endless surprises.

  He stepped into the backyard, the woodsy smell of hickory scenting his inhales as he prowled toward her. She waited beneath a tall lattice trellis that adhered to the house.

  He reached above her head and yanked on it. “This is new.”

  Lifting her lids, she peered up at him. “When I put it together, I fantasized about you tying me to it, taking my ass with your belt. Then with your cock.”

  His nostrils flared with a deep, joyful breath, and he kissed her mouth, passionately, letting her feel what her words did to him. “I regret that it's been six months since I've told you I love you.” He brushed his tongue inside her lower lip. “I love you. And I will whip and fuck your ass against this trellis when we move it to the cabin.”

  The release of her breath wisped over his lips. She gripped her shirt and yanked it over her head. “I missed the way you make love to my mouth.”

  What the hell was she doing? Oh shit, there went her shorts. He gripped himself through the jeans and tried to restrain himself. He should scan their surroundings, check for gawking neighbors, but he couldn’t drag his eyes from her, too afraid if he looked away, she’d disappear.

  She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her panties. “I missed the warm, wet feel of that first slide of your tongue against mine, the way you tease and pull back. Mmmm. Then you take over with your big, manly confidence and control. I miss that, Van.”

  Her panties slid to her ankles, and she leaned against the trellis passively, submissively, awaiting his command.

  His arousal fed so greedily on her submission, there wasn't a chance in hell he could stop this. A glance at Liv's house validated his position was in eyeshot of her back door. Fuck it.

  He released the zipper on his jeans, and his already excited cock jumped as he shoved his pants and briefs to his knees. “Still on the pill?”

  She nodded, her smoldering gaze fixed on his cock, making him impossibly harder.