"Shhh, Annabel. Take it easy, sweetheart. I'm not gonna hurt you."
Instead of easing her fears, the words seemed to inflame her terror. She shrieked and kicked, flailing with her fists, as her voice--now hauntingly young--cried for her mother.
"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! Help me! He's hurting me!"
Nausea twisted his stomach like a knife blade through the belly button. What had he triggered? A word echoed in his mind: flashback. He grabbed for it and held it close from the undeniable ugly reality of this moment. The mindfuck had turned critically bad. She needed aftercare, and he was the only one here to give it. A splash of purple on the edge of his vision caught his attention. The blanket. He levered himself up to grab it from the floor and froze.
Scars many years old crisscrossed her back. Her screams and cries continued, while everything inside him turned glacial. It all came together: the cries for Mommy; body scars; the jingle of the belt buckle. Some fucker had tortured Annabel as a child. And judging by the amount of scars and the heartbroken sobbing, she'd cried for help from a mother who hadn't bothered.
His goal had been to fuck with her, yes; a bit of payback for trashing his brother, but he'd accidentally flipped a mental switch in her soul--one he'd would never have touched, even if he'd known of its existence.
"Shit."
"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! Make him stop! Please make him stop!"
He yanked the purple blanket off the chair and tucked it around her. Another shriek filled the air. It was apparent she was fighting to keep the blanket away from her face. Christ, what had that fucker put her through?
Left with no options at hand, he heaved himself into a sitting position and pulled her into his lap. His leg pulsed with lightning bright stabs of agony. She fought and spat. He rocked and murmured soft words.
They sat like that for long moments. Annabel's terror eventually leveled off into soul-shattering sobs that seemed to go on forever. Thankfully, they did not.
She found her way back to herself. "Take your hands off me."
He doubted she realized how determinedly she cuddled inside his embrace. Nor, he guessed, was she aware how she clung to the arm he'd slung across her chest. Or the way she buried her nose against his neck...or the shudder in her voice.
But he heard it. A wave of protectiveness swamped him. "You know I can't do that yet."
Another hiss. A tightening of her hands around his arm as she snarled, "The hell you can't. Now hands off, fucker."
Sweet little kitten, he thought, hissing and snarling all the while clenching security. How could anyone leave such a sweet thing to fend for herself? He wanted to find the abusive fuck and rip off his head. He wanted to find the indifferent "Mommy," slap her back to reality, and demand an explanation for ignoring the ongoing damage to her daughter's vulnerable young body. That sort of vile inhumanity was never unnoticed, just ignored. What words would she use to excuse a lack of action?
But since he couldn't do either of those things at the moment, he did the next best thing. He buried his nose in her hair and kissed the top of her head. "Relax, gorgeous," he said in low, calming tones. "The scene went bad, that's all. You were never in any danger."
"Oh, really?" she scorned.
"A mindfuck. Nothing more than that. Payback for screwing my brother so badly," he explained. "Nothing else, I swear."
She sat for a moment, shivering in his embrace, most likely in thought, then gave him her opinion of his character. "You're a dick."
He couldn't argue, "Yes."
"You violated trust and protocol."
He couldn't argue that either. It was possible his long stretch of BDSM abstinence had resulted in some over-exuberance. Possible? Really, dude? "I never meant for our play date to end up like this."
"A play date isn't a non-consensual mindfuck."
"I messed up."
"Get your hands off me."
"Annabel, you'll bolt. We both know this. You're not safe to drive."
"I'll stay here until I am. Just...just stop touching me."
She sounded like she meant it this time. Reluctantly, he loosened his grip. She broke out of his arms and scuttled across the room. The purple blanket fluttered around her like a downed bird's wings. The sight summoned an excruciating sadness. He'd done this. He'd downed the beautiful bird.
Way to fucking go, Marine.
He watched as she grabbed up his fallen T-shirt and tossed it over the belt. Clearly, she didn't even want to see it. In fact, his own internal warning system had sent up an alert multiple times. Arrogant fuck he was, he'd blown it off.
He wanted to punch a wall. He wanted to punch somebody. He wanted to punch himself. "Look, honey--"
Her face twisted with such ferocity he broke off what he was about to say.
"Don't ever call me that."
He racked his memory in an effort to remember if he'd used the endearment before, but came up empty. He'd prodded more painful associations? Shit. "Okay."
Since he was batting a thousand today, he struggled to find something to say that would ease the situation but came up empty. So he decided to shut up.
And that's how it went for a while, she watching him with wary eyes--deservedly, he admitted--while he watched her and counted the seconds between her bouts of the shakes. Relief eased his muscles when he saw the episodes slow and her breathing ease. He couldn't determine the color of her skin due to the crap on her face, but the shadows eased from her eyes.
The shock was clearing from her system. She would be okay.
You're one lucky fucker, Roberson.
Her voice broke into the quiet. "I'd like something to drink."
Zach's gaze found the empty iced tea glass under the desk. A bold stain on the gray carpet warned him that he'd be investing in a carpet cleaning soon; otherwise, Seth would kick his ass. In retrospect, he deserved an ass kicking. He could bet she was dehydrated. It had been a stressful--he checked his watch--couple of hours,
"I'm not sure you're safe to be by yourself yet."
Her eyes flashed. She tossed her head, sending the rumpled ebony mane flying. Her chin lifted and firmed. "I'll be fine."
"If I get you a drink, you'll stay here? I'm not convinced you're safe to drive."
"I will."
She lied. She planned to make a break for it. That truth was in her eyes and, most worrying, she might hurt herself or others on the way home. Aftercare for such a catastrophic play date would normally be longer, during which time they would touch and bond and bring her back to a world of trust and comfort.
There was nothing normal about this situation. Fuck.
Still, there was little he could do other than push himself to his feet and limp to the kitchen. His leg gave him hell the entire distance, but he didn't stop. He reveled in it, a sort of masochistic implementation of the self-loathing he felt.
He pulled another glass from the cupboard and filled it with the sports drink he'd picked up. She'd need the electrolytes. Or not, he concluded when he heard the front door slam. A glimpse into the front room showed the absence of her tote. The journey back into the bedroom revealed the absence of Annabel.
He bent to retrieve the fallen glass and his attention was caught by something interesting.
His T-shirt. It was gone.
* * * *
JoBeth held Annabel as she bawled. It occurred to her that this repeat performance of shattered trust was as unwelcome now as it had been six months ago. The only thing different was her clothing. Now she wore leather instead of slave silks. There was also the strange appearance of a man's T-shirt Annabel wouldn't release.
Shattered trust and betrayal had been the story of Annabel's life from childhood on. Only now, the nearby enemy had a name: Jeremy. The things she dreamed of doing to that lying piece of--
"I did nothing to deserve this," Annabel sobbed, breaking into her vengeful thoughts.
Her fist thumped repeatedly onto the blankets that wrapped her in a comforting cocoon.
JoBeth didn't ask for details since past experience had shown those details would only infuriate her. For now, it was Annabel who mattered. She rocked her, stroking her hair and crooning, "I know, baby," over and over. Her compassion and unqualified support wasn't much, but it was all she had to offer.
"Payback," Annabel mumbled, just before she finally fell into an exhausted sleep.
Her hands did not unclench from the soft cotton of the T-shirt. JoBeth didn't bother to try to remove it. Annabel was determined to keep it close, for whatever reason. Instead, she stayed by her friend's side as night arrived to paint shadows across the walls.
And plotted some payback of her own.
Chapter 7
Late afternoon the next day, Zach sat in a nearby bar-cum-burger joint and brooded. On the plate before him lay a cooling, half-consumed Rueben and a batch of sweet potato fries. Near his wrist sat a warming, half-empty glass of beer.
Portland had a thing for microbreweries. Locally brewed beer was the specialty at this place, which is why he frequented it. Today, though, he occupied himself with pushing random fries through the pool of ranch dressing on his plate.
A shadow fell over his table and he looked up.
Seth had arrived, a waitress following. He waved away the proffered menu, but did order a drink.
"Not hungry?" Zach asked.
"I'll wait. The girl is cooking something called 'stewpot haggis' for dinner."
He cast through his memory and came up blank. "What?"
"An Americanized version of a traditional Scots meal."
"Is it good?"
"I'll have that answer after I try it."
The waitress returned to deposit a cola with ice on the table. She left with a five-dollar bill and Seth's, "Keep the change."
Zach watched Seth set aside the unused straw and take long drink from the glass. Summer in Portland was a bit muggy, he realized, although it was nothing compared to Afghanistan where the days were often-- Get to it, Roberson. But it wasn't easy to confess a failure. The words sat on his tongue like the stomach-churning taste of the Madagascar hissing cockroach he'd been forced to eat during the Survival Evasion Resistance Escape training he'd-- Fuck!
Seth came to his rescue. He set his glass on the table and fixed him with a cold, steady regard. "I got a voice mail last night from Annabel's roommate. She didn't sound pleased."
Since he'd obviously already been briefed, Zach didn't try to sugarcoat it. "I fucked up."
"That was the impression I got after hearing both messages."
Yeah, he'd called Seth. In retrospect, that seemed a bitch move, but he'd spent the last six years looking to ranking men for guidance. Seth came across as an experienced man, especially regarding this civilian BDSM life. He also appeared to know something about Jeremy and Annabel. He needed guidance--that much was clear--but didn't quite know how to ask for it.
"You want to talk about it."
Seth phrased the words as a statement not a question. Zach heaved a sigh and pushed away his plate of food, then wrapped his hand around the base of his glass of beer. He didn't drink from it. Rather, he pulled it close and stared into the amber depths as shame twisted through him.
"The mindfuck went bad."
"Never a good outcome. Spit it out."
He followed orders and narrated the story from the moment she'd finally called to the moment she'd bolted out the front door. Seth listened without interruption until Zach wound down. Silence fell between them, amplifying the drone of voices and the clatter of dishes inside the bar's kitchen. At last, Seth spoke.
"Did she piss on my carpet?"
"What? No."
"She usually pisses at the sound of a belt buckle when she feels trapped."
"Jesus--"
"I found out the hard way. I was in charge of her introductory training. Like you, I slammed into that trigger." Seth paused to drink again from his cola. "She has a high pain tolerance, but can't take the sound of a belt buckle."
Zach swallowed against the wave of nausea. "Because of her childhood?"
"No doubt," said Seth. "She told you?"
"I saw the scars. She cried for her mom. I had no idea." The excuse soured on his tongue, but it was all he had. "No idea."
Seth swirled the ice in his glass and looked thoughtful. "She may not know herself. Not entirely. It's why I never again used a belt on her."
"Not even that night?"
Explanation wasn't necessary.
"Never again," Seth repeated with cold emphasis.
And here Zach had been, ready to rattle the thing in her ear to get a reaction. It was only pure chance he'd been stopped from doing just that. Chance, maybe Fate, had saved his ass...and saved her from him. Hell, he'd made it out of the desert, from under a killing mountain of supplies, to--what? Torture an American citizen with his dick-headed arrogance?
The conversation, as well as his thoughts, had become uncomfortable. Time to lighten the mood. "But a chair leg is okay?"
Seth's mouth twitched. "A two-by-four actually."
"The fuck?" Zach yelped.
Seth laughed, leaving him to realize he'd been punked. His laughter joined the other man's. His waitress approached their table, a check folder in one hand and a carryout container in the other.
He accepted both and tended to matters before returning his attention to Seth. "She claimed innocence to the crime of stealing his money. She seemed honestly surprised Jeremy was broke. Of course, his story says different."
"Hmm," said Seth.
"You once mentioned questions surrounding the financial submission."
"Aye."
The hairs along the nape of his neck shivered. This time, Zach didn't ignore the warning. "Tell me what happened."
Seth took another pull from his cola, his attention seeming to be riveted on the ice in the glass that tumbled as he raised and lowered it. Zach waited, watching as Seth worked through something in his mind. Just when he was about to give up, when it seemed Seth wouldn't say anything more, he did.
"I'll tell you the relevant portion."
So Zach relaxed in the booth and let Seth recount the events of six months ago. He repaid the other man's courtesy and didn't interrupt--until the Seth said something that sent him reeling. He jerked, knocking his beer an inch or two away from him, and shook his head.
"What?" It was too goddamned unbelievable. There must be some mistake.
Seth pushed a napkin in his direction and nodded at the table. Zach looked down and saw a pool of beer beside his glass. Automatically, he dragged the napkin through the spill, not really caring about the beer on the table.
"We can't be talking about the same guy..."
Seth offered a half-smile. "I didn't see it coming either."
"You're saying my brother recorded the beating on his cell phone while jacking off?"
Implacable, unmoving, and completely neutral, Seth replied, "Yes, that's what I said."
He shook his head again, but the realities refused to settle. Everything he knew about Jeremy, a lifetime of knowing this man, was shattered. It didn't make sense. His brain refused to accept it.
"Jeremy? A sadist? I..." Zach stalled out.
Seth resumed his story. "It was clear the girl had slipped elsewhere. It was time to stop. Your brother continued to ignore her cries. I turned and found him rubbing one off, the cell phone in his other hand. Recording."
The dryness in his mouth alerted him to the fact his jaw was hanging open. He closed his mouth.
"That was when I concluded Annabel wasn't safe there and stopped everything. When I left, I took her with me. I checked on her, of course. JoBeth indicated she was fine and didn't need a dick-headed jackass"--his fingers made quotation marks in the air as he emphasized the words--"for anything. I haven't seen one hair on her head until I pointed her out to you last week."
Zach sat, somewhat frozen, in the booth for long minutes as his mind raged through the situation. In the end, there was only one conclusi
on to be drawn. He exhaled a long breath and passed a hand over his face. "She tries to recover from a bad experience and meets up with me, who fucks her up more."
"That appears to be the sequence of events."
Annoyance pricked at Seth's too-casual tone. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me?"
"About what she chooses to keep private?"
"I'd have appreciated knowing. I wouldn't have brought out the belt."
"I'm supposed to betray her secrets on the off chance you rattle a belt during your non-consensual mindfuck?" Seth shook his head and drank from the rapidly emptying soda glass. "Don't use me as an excuse."
He wasn't. Well, not intentionally. "Any port in a storm."
"Not this one, devil dog."
Fucker. But Zach couldn't blame him. If the boot were on the other foot, he wouldn't be accepting blame either. This was his. All of it. Zach was man enough to admit that. Regardless, there was another chunk of information he lacked. "Tell me about the apparently consensual financial submission."
Seth took a long drink, emptying the glass, and set it aside. He stared at it for a heartbeat before he glanced across the table and drilled Zach with a cool glance. "I was there to retrieve credit cards from her. Word was that she'd gained access to his bank accounts to his detriment. She refused to give them up. Said, 'Make me.'"
"You showed up to help my brother? Thank you." He gave a curt nod since he doubted Jeremy would have returned the favor. He'd always had an overweight sense of entitlement, which went well with his overweight belly.
"I showed up because she got mouthy with me. Jeremy's problems are his own."
"Ah." He didn't flinch from the brutal line in the sand. The accusation of sadism didn't sit well with him either. Stay on common ground, Roberson. "I can see that happening. She's spirited, no mistake."
"Aye," said Seth, who then resumed his story. "As I drove her from Jeremy's house, I asked again for the cards. She pulled them from the big-ass bag of hers and threw them at me. My job was done. I had the cards, but..." He hesitated, his eyes flickering over the adjoining tables before returning to Zach's. "There was no honor. The cards were in her name."
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