In Control (6 page)

Her words put to rest any worries she had any actual fears. She'd put up a hard boundary. He'd be a titanic asshole to cross it, not to mention guilty as hell for breaking the law. Sex, however, wasn't his plan.
Let the mindfuck continue.

"I don't have the slightest desire to fuck a skinny rail like you. You've got the body of a thirteen-year-old boy. I'm into women."

Her body tightened, as if taking a blow. She froze beneath his hands. He blinked, startled by the effect of his words. She'd been hurt. Guilt rolled through him. He clenched his jaw and reminded himself to remember his brother.

"Then let me go." Her voice was flat, wintry, and neutral.

"Not just yet. There's a little thing called payback."

"You're crazy," she shouted, the ice in her voice thawing beneath the renewed fire of her temper. "I don't owe you anything."

"You owe my brother."

"What?"

"You trashed him, his wallet, and self-respect. You owe him some pain. I'm here to collect."

She howled. He couldn't describe the sound she made any other way. She struggled to get free. His weight on her back and his hand-to-hand combat skills made ensure the contest was over within moments, with Zach the victor.

"I didn't do anything to his money," she spat out.

"Right," he said. "That's why he's broke."

For the second time in a matter of minutes, she stilled beneath his hands. The hairs along the back of his neck stirred again.

"Jeremy's broke?"

His bark of cruel laughter cracked through the room. "Don't play the innocent. You got into his bank account and robbed him blind."

"I did no such thing. He gave me the cards. I stole nothing."

"Lies."

It's true, damn it," she countered.

"And his self-esteem?"

She kicked her feet, a fruitless effort, but he gave her kudos for not giving up. She was a fighter. He admired that in a person.

"His problem, not mine. Maybe if he wasn't such a coward and a liar--"

His hand on the back of her head pushed her face into the carpet, muffling her words. He swallowed his urge to do more. Jeremy may not be the best of people, true, but Zach wouldn't sit by and let the little bitch piss on his name.

"Enough." He growled the warning.

"It's true," she mumbled through the plush carpet around her mouth.

His temper slipped his control. He reined it back with an effort. "Don't insult my brother again." He forced the words from between his teeth. "He's three times the person you are."

"Three times the weight--hey!" She squealed the protest as he yanked up her shirt to bare her back to him. "Fucker, let me go."

His cock was a pillar of stone in his sweats. Not for the mindfuck, but for the reality of having a spirited ex-slave fighting his control.
Oh, yeah.
He'd have her back on her knees in no time.
Ooh-rah
!

"Time to pay up."

He reached for the writing desk where the tools lay. Her renewed struggles forced him onto his damaged leg. The immediate pain felt like a gunshot and threw him off balance so his hand knocked against some of the items. A number of soft thumps informed him some had landed on the carpet. The rattle of the metal buckle told him the wide belt he'd discovered earlier was among them.

A scream ripped the air, startling in its terror and rage-filled defiance. Everything in his body went taut and tight. Memories stormed him. Cries of that type happened when an IED exploded and separated a man from his legs or his arms...or his guts. Her voice rose with the same haunting petition he'd heard on the battlefield far too many times before.

"No-o-o! Please, no!"

Fear splintered down his spine as she twisted and fought with enough force he thought she might come to actual harm. He pressed his weight closer against her body in hopes of stilling her before she broke something.

"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.

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
!