Captured

by Jasinda Wilder

  I give him the address, and we chat for a moment, but it becomes clear he has to go tend to his daughter. I say goodbye, hang up, and think about the next step.

  That night Reagan is just out of the shower, towel clutched loosely to her chest, another around her hair. She sits on the bed, pulls the towel off her head, lets the other one drop to the floor. She brushes out her hair, and I watch quietly for several minutes.

  “So, I was thinking about the farm.” I trace the line of her shoulder, down her arm.

  She stills, sets the brush down, and holds the towel over her boobs. Probably for the best, because it’s impossible to concentrate on anything with those lush tits visible. “Yeah?”

  “What if you sold it?”

  She sags, puts her face in her hands. “I’ve thought about that so many times, Derek. I just don’t know if I can. It’s all that’s left of—of Tom’s family. And what would I do? This is all I’ve ever known.”

  “I’m not sure I see much else by way of options, Ree. I think maybe you have to. For you. For Tommy. This isn’t…your place. It’s all you’ve ever known, sort of by default. But it’s never been what you wanted.”

  “No. You’re right about that.” She breathes in a sigh. Rubs her face. “But then what? What do we do?”

  “We start over. For us.”

  “For us.” She repeats the words. Nods. “I need time to think about it, Derek.”

  “Think about it. We’d figure something out.”

  “Okay.” And then she’s brushing her hair again, but the towel slips, and so does my ability to resist.

  I’ve still got my leg on, so I slip off the bed. I stand with my back to the wall, the side of the bed in front of me. She’s facing away, cross-legged, naked, long blonde hair cascading damp around her shoulders, brush sliding through it over and over and over. I lean forward, wrap my arm around her middle. Pull her backward.

  “Derek, hey! I’m in the middle of—” she starts to protest, then looks back at me over her shoulder. Sees me, sees the hardened evidence of my desire. “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.” I keep pulling her, but now she’s got her knees under her, letting me pull her.

  I bring her to me. Her feet touch the floor. She stands up, back to my front. I plaster her against me. She turns her head and finds my mouth with hers. I’m using the wall for balance and letting my hands roam as our mouths move. My heart soars, love for this incredible woman welling up inside me. She deserves more than this. More than endless chores and backbreaking work. And I’m going to give it to her. Give her more…of everything.

  For now, though, all I can think of is her, wanting her, needing her. Showing her how much I need her.

  My fingers slip between her thighs, finding her wet and waiting. Her lips fall away from mine as I touch her, finding her rhythm. Slow, gentle, but steadily building. She starts to moan, grinding against my hand. I tweak her nipples, cup her breasts. Let her ride my fingers, bring her to gasping completion. And while she’s writhing and moaning, I take a handful of her hair, push her down so she’s bent over the bed. I take my cock in my hand, find her damp shuddering core with my fingers, and guide myself in. Legs wide, balanced, I slide in, slide home. And she just moans, cries my name, and pushes back into me, taking me, taking all of me and giving back all of herself.

  I hold her waist, keep her moving, show her my rhythm. She sinks back into me, turns her head to look at me, eyes wide and glazed with bliss, mouth falling open. When we’re moving, I palm her ass, smooth and gentle, and circle my hand around and around the perfect globes. And then I pull out slow, plunge in hard, and smack her taut, plump, perfect ass cheek at the same time.

  Reagan bites the blanket to muffle her scream, and then lays her face against the bed. “God, god…damn, Derek. Do that again.”

  So I do it again. Pull out slow, caress her sweet ass, the other side this time, give her a few teasing flutters of my hips, and then, without warning, slam in deep and spank her. I feel myself jerk and twitch. It’s hypnotizing, watching her ass quiver as I smack it. I spank her again, plowing deep into her. And she takes it, cries out, loves it.

  When she feels me come, she does, too. And god, I love that more than anything, knowing she can’t help but come with me.

  Finished, she crawls away from me onto the bed, and looks back, expectant, waiting for me to follow. I climb up, and she pushes me down, takes off my prosthetic, and massages the stump. Lays her head on my shoulder.

  “I’ll find a way to take care of you, Ree,” I whisper to her as we settle in for sleep.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Will you do that again? The spanking thing?”

  I laugh. “Babe, you have no idea.”

  “Good.” She smiles, a secret smile of bliss. “And you’ll love me forever?” She’s looking at me, levered up over me, hair tickling my shoulder.

  No laughter now. “Longer than forever.”

  She lies down, nuzzles into my chest. “Then we sell.” A moment passes, her breathing evening out. “I trust you.”

  That’s heavy, the weight of her trust. She’s going into this blind, willing to sell the only home she’s known for her whole adult life, and follow me, go with me.

  Only issue is, I’ve only got some half-formed ideas as to where we’re going and what we’ll do. But I won’t let her down. I promised.

  But there’s one more step to my plan before we go anywhere.

  * * *

  Hunter and Rania arrive, and it’s so damned good to see them. They brought their little kids—two daughters aged five years and four months. Rania and Reagan bond instantly, like freaking Krazy Glue. They take off together and leave the kids with Hunter and me, which is really, really fucking weird. Hunter and I, two fucked-up ex-Marines, bouncing babies and playing dolls and trucks. We’re sitting on the floor, my fake-leg prosthetic extended out to one side, Hunter and Rania’s little baby, Emma, sitting beside it, slobbering on the flesh-colored plastic. The women have been gone for an hour; Reagan’s showing Rania the horses. Hunter finally pulls Emma off my leg and shows her the blocks.

  “So, what’s up, D? Why’d you bring me down here?”

  “What? Just visiting my ass isn’t reason enough?” I joke.

  “Watch your language around the kids, dude. Their age, they repeat everything.” He glances at me. “And you know what I meant. You wouldn’t come right out and ask for help unless it was legit.”

  I breathe out. “All right, fine. Look. I want to propose to Reagan. But I got no idea how. So I need a ring, and an idea.” I stack the wooden blocks, not looking at Hunter.

  “Damn, dude. You’re serious?” Hunter rolls Emma to her stomach, and she lifts her head up off the floor, grinning proudly at her accomplishment. “Shoot. Okay, well, let’s make a plan.”

  The women come back eventually, laughing, Rania’s hand through Reagan’s arm. We barbecue. Hot dogs and hamburgers and beer, Tommy and Maida—Hunter’s and Rania’s five-year-old daughter—running wild through the front yard, screaming, laughing, chasing Hank’s old blue Heeler, Baker, who somehow got out and came to play. I’m at the grill turning the hot dogs and holding Emma on my hip. It feels weird, but not in a bad way. Never thought I’d hold a kid this way, on my hip like I’ve done it a million times. She’s got Cubby, who stays in my pocket all the time now, and she’s gnawing on his head, looking up at me, head wobbling on her neck. She just had a bottle of milk, or formula, I guess they call it, made from water and some powder. She’s got it on her chin, along with slobber.

  “Babababa—BABABA.” She hits me on the chest with Cubby.

  “Baba, huh?” I glance at her. “You think so?”

  “Bababa. Ba.” And then her eyes go vacant, her mouth falls open, and she grunts.

  A wet, ripping sound fills the air, along with a stench worse than death.

  “Oh.” I feel my stomach revolt. “Oh my god. Holy shit, Emma.” I toss the tongs on the table and bri
ng Emma to Rania, who is barely restraining her laughter.

  “No. I think you do this.” She lifts her beer. “I am busy. See?”

  I turn to Hunter, who leaps up from his seat on the porch steps. “The dogs are burning. Better turn ’em.” He grabs the tongs and starts rolling the hot dogs, unnecessarily. “That one is all you, bro.”

  Last resort. “Reagan. Here, babe,” I say, trying to hand Emma over.

  She just shakes her head and stands up. I feel relief soar through me. Combat? Bring it on. Shitty diapers? Hell no. But instead of taking Emma from me, she walks past me to Hunter and Rania’s car, grabs a satchel of some kind out of the back seat.

  She hands it to me. “Go get ’em, soldier.”

  “Marine,” I correct her in a mutter. The bag dangles from my hand, and I balance Emma on my hip, probably smearing shit all over me. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Hunter chokes on his laughter. “Change her, man. It’s not hard. Gross, but not hard.”

  “My god, you men.” Rania sounds disgusted. Fakes a deep voice, thick with sarcasm. “‘It’s so groooooss, Rania. I am going to puke, Rania. You do it, Rania.’ Or, no, my favorite one. ‘How can such a little baby make such big messes, Rania?’” She laughs. “It is only poop. You think, with all you big tough men have done in your lives, that a little bit of shit would not bother you. But you act so silly about it.”

  Affronted, I toss the bag to the grass. I get down and lay Emma on her back in front of me. “Fine. Jesus. It can’t be THAT bad, right, baby girl?”

  Emma coos and babbles, kicks her feet. I find the snaps of her little one-piece shirt thing and undo them. Rolling the garment up lets the smell waft up to me.

  “You cannot change her on the grass!” Rania says, indignant. “There are bugs! Use the pad under her.”

  So I find the change pad. Unfold it, slide it beneath the baby. Try to breathe through my mouth rather than my nose. I unfasten the tape holding the diaper closed and pull it away.

  “Oh god. I’m gonna be sick.” I’ve never in my life seen anything like it. A sea of tan goo, speckled liberally with what looks like seeds of some kind. What the hell? How does this substance even come out of a human? “Is this normal? Is she, like, sick or something?”

  Rania, Hunter, and Reagan all just laugh. So now I’ve got an open diaper, shit from Satan’s own asshole assaulting my nostrils, and…no clue what to do next.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “Wipe her ass, man!” Hunter’s advice.

  “Wipe down, from the top to bottom.” This is from Rania.

  “Wipe with what?”

  “With the…wipes?” Hunter snickers, gesturing at the bag with the tongs. “In the diaper bag, dude. White package. Says ‘Pampers’ on it.”

  I hold on to Emma’s ankles, which are kicking wildly, except the diaper bag is on the other side of me, so I have to reach over my body, grab the bag, set it on the other side. By now Emma is wriggling and twisting, and she’s got the khaki-colored poop all over her butt and it’s dripping everywhere.

  Everyone is laughing hysterically.

  “I don’t think I can do this.” I try to hold the squirming child in place, but it’s like trying to wrestle an alligator one-handed.

  “Sure you can.” Hunter comes over, standing near me. “You’re a grown-ass man, D. She’s a four-month-old baby girl.”

  I finally find the package of wipes, get it open with one hand, and manage to pull a wipe free. But six of them come out all strung together. I try snapping my wrist, and the bag of wipes goes flying.

  Rania is laughing so hard she has to put her beer down, and Reagan is covering her mouth with her hand, watching me with humor shining in her eyes.

  “Baby, you can do this.” She speaks from behind her hand, clearly trying not to laugh. “Just look at it as practice.”

  Hunter’s head snaps up. “Wait. What do you mean, practice?”

  Rania gives her husband an incredulous look. “For the baby? That they are having?” She points at Reagan, who turns sideways and pulls her T-shirt taut against her gently rounded belly. “You cannot mean you didn’t notice?”

  Hunter glares at me. “How did you not tell me this, you asshole?”

  Maida, a tall, brown-haired girl with Hunter’s eyes and the Arabic cast of Rania’s features, tugs on Hunter’s shirt. “Daddy. Daddy.”

  “What, stinker?” He glances down at her.

  “You can’t say ‘asshole.’ Mama said. ’Member? Now you gotta give me a dollar, ’cause I’ll just say ‘asshole’ at school and then I’ll get in trouble, and it’ll be your fault for teaching me bad words. Like ‘asshole.’”

  Hunter stares down at his daughter, struggling between laughter and sternness. Laughter is clearly winning. “Maida. You just said ‘asshole,’ like, four times.”

  “Three, Daddy. Three is not as many as four.”

  “That’s right, baby. Good job.”

  “Now gimme my dollar. And don’t say ‘asshole’ anymore.”

  “MAIDA. Stop saying it!”

  “I’m not saying it. I’m telling YOU not to say it.”

  “But you’re still saying it—”

  “Hunter,” Rania cuts in. “Stop arguing with your daughter. Maida—” And here, Rania spews a rapid string of Arabic.

  Maida hangs her head. “Yes, Mama. Sorry, Daddy.”

  Apparently their daughter is bilingual.

  I’ve gotten most of the poop off Emma’s bottom during this exchange, but it’s taken a good dozen wipes. I move her legs around and lift her butt off the pad, making sure I didn’t miss any. Oops, there’s a big smear of it, halfway up her back. Once she’s finally clean, I stick a diaper under Emma. Except now I can’t figure out which way it goes. There’s the tape, so maybe….

  “It’s upside down, D.” Hunter spins his finger. “Turn it around. Tape goes by her back.” I get the diaper fastened around the squirming little poo-monster, but Hunter makes a sound. “Nope. Too loose. It’ll just come off, or the sh—the poop—will leak out the sides. Tighten it up a little. There ya go. The tape usually goes right up to the pictures.”

  I snap the buttons in place and hold Emma up triumphantly. “Bam. BAM. Say what now?”

  “Now throw the diaper away.” Hunter tapes it closed to itself in a practiced move, hands it to me. “Good job. You changed your first diaper. Did better than I did my first time. Learned the hard way what happens when you don’t put a diaper on an infant tightly enough.”

  I bring the diaper inside, toss it in the trash can. Hunter is behind me. “You probably want to wash your hands.” He’s silent for several beats. “So Reagan is pregnant?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that why you’re thinking about proposing?”

  “Partly. Not entirely.” I take longer than I need to at the sink.

  “I want you to be happy, man. You’ve been through some serious shit, and I know how hard it can be to assimilate. It just seems like this all happened really fast, you know? I don’t want you to rush into anything.”

  “It did happen fast. My head spins sometimes, thinking about it.” I dry my hands and lean back against the sink. “I sometimes wonder if I have any clue what I’m getting myself into, you know? Like, I’m honestly worried it’s all too much, too fast. I mean, shit, you know how I used to be. A different girl every weekend. Sometimes more than one in a weekend—”

  “And sometimes more than one at a time.”

  “Yeah, that, too.” I laugh, then let out a sigh. “And now suddenly I’m gonna be a father, and I’m thinking about proposing? How did I get here?” I drop my voice to a whisper. “And…will I be able to handle it?”

  “Little late for that, bro. No choice but to handle it now.” He grabs my shoulders and shakes me, hard. “Listen, Derek. You got this. You got this. Do you love her?”

  “Yeah. Shit, yeah, I really do. I wouldn’t know what to do without her.”

  “Then you’ll be fine.”
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  “I don’t know. Sometimes I think it won’t be fine. I’ll fuck it up. The shit that goes on in my head—”

  Hunter grabs another pair of beers from the fridge. “You are more than the sum of your experiences, Derek. When I first got home with Rania, I was having all these dreams, all sorts of nasty shit. It didn’t hit right away, though. I thought I was cool, I thought everything was fine. But after a few months, shit started to get gnarly. I’d get angry for no reason. Snap at Rania. Started some fights with guys on the road crew. Finally, my boss cornered me after work one day. He took me out for drinks. He was in Desert Storm. Army, but he’s a solid guy despite that. Told me I had to get my shit together. Hooked me up with the lady who helped him work his bullshit out. And that’s the first thing she told me that really stuck with me: You are more than the sum of your experiences. I had to chew on it for a while, but what it means to me is that I’m not just a veteran. Not just a Marine.” He hands me a beer, and we clink and drink. “I’m not just the poor fucker who went through all that shit in Iraq, you know? That doesn’t define me. It happened. It has had some serious and lasting effects on me, obviously. Can’t escape that. But it’s not who I am. I had Rania depending on me. I had to work it out. So I did. Wasn’t easy, still isn’t. But you deal. You have to deal. For her, you have to.”

  “But I—”

  He’s not done. Cuts in over me. “You were a POW. That happened. You’ve seen and done some ugly shit. That happened. You lost your leg. That happened.” He stabs my chest with a finger. “I can’t fix your shit in one conversation, Derek. No one can. You gotta start somewhere, though. Shit happened. Bad shit, granted. But the question is, are you gonna puss out and let it own you? Or are you gonna man up and be what Reagan needs you to be? Reagan, and that baby of yours you didn’t tell me about.”

  “I guess I thought you’d figure it out on your own.”

  “Shoulda told me, dumbass.”