Vanquish

by Pam Godwin

  The phone dinged with a new text. will u keep the lights on this time?

  An onslaught of trembling tightened her muscles. If she said Yes, it would be a new low in her desperation. If she said No, she would lose the one person she had to depend on.

  Is this the man you want the lights on with?

  Unbidden, Dr. Michael's words filled her mind with another man, one with a seductive smile and a perfect scar.

  With visions of a sleeping Amber teasing the surface of his mind, Van pushed the key into the deadbolt on her front door. The key he'd swiped from her kitchen drawer the prior night after he'd sneaked back in.

  He’d tried to stay away, but it was a compulsion. Coming to this neighborhood. Watching Liv. And now, he had an even more compelling motive to stop by.

  Strange how Amber hadn't moved the drape on the door and checked the lock before her alcohol-induced haze. He knew this because he'd used that unlocked door to slip back in after she'd passed out. Apparently, the agoraphobia thing had a stronger hold on her than the OCD. If not the agoraphobia, then it had to have been him knocking the little compulsive-order-checker off her game.

  Whatever the reason, it worked in his favor. He'd crept back in after she'd passed out, locked it behind him, and quickly located a house key.

  His pulse thrummed a calming tempo as he closed the front door soundlessly behind him. Just like the night before, he'd listened through her windows with the mics and ear buds, tracking her movements and waiting for her breathing to fall into an even rhythm of sleep.

  A grin stretched his lips as he recalled her slurred monologues. She'd been wildly entertaining. Even more satisfying was knowing he had driven her to drink. Because let’s be honest, she was entirely too uptight to drink for no good reason. So when he'd found her snoring with a bottle of mixto tucked beneath her arm, he'd left tracks in the carpet just to mess with her little hungover mind.

  Tonight, she'd fallen asleep sober. Tonight, he would be more cautious. Besides, he was only there to run reconnaissance and return the key—now that he had his own copy.

  He wore his quiet-soled sneakers, which dampened his footfalls as he crept through the house. In the kitchen, he placed the key in the kitchen drawer, rotating it to lie exactly how he'd found it.

  He entered the hall, his path illuminated by the lamp in her bedroom. There was a chance she might've woken in the short time that had passed since he left her window, but it was worth the risk. He needed to see her, to attach her tangible body to the fantasies he'd been envisioning all day.

  A sudden realization halted him midway down the hall. He'd taken the same backyard stroll that night he'd taken every night for the past six months, yet he hadn't even considered setting up the mics on Liv's windows. He pushed a gloved hand through his hair and stared at the light from her bedroom, watching for a flicker of movement.

  Amber was a conundrum of distraction. In one night, she'd managed to divert his obsession from Liv. For the first time in eight years, he'd woken without the burning need to beat and fuck his former slave. But Liv was a crucial component in obtaining his daughter. Monitoring her conversations with the slaves she'd released would eventually reveal if Liv had any cartel or FBI connections and if she could use them to stop him in his pursuit of his daughter.

  Heavy pressure pushed against his chest. He fumbled through the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a toothpick, certain he should walk away from Amber and utterly perplexed by the fact he wouldn't.

  He'd spent the past ten hours investigating the fascinating beauty queen on the Internet. He was already in too deep, his focus unwaveringly set on the outcome. Especially when he reached her bedroom and took in the view.

  Long, blond hair spread out in waves around her head. She lay on her side, facing the door, her tiny hands curled beneath her chin. A thin sheet draped the curves of her thigh and hip, stopping just below her bare shoulder. Christ almighty, was that firm ass accessibly bare beneath the sheet? Would her cunt feel as tight as the rest of her?

  His mouth dried, and he licked his lips around the toothpick. There were more important things to investigate before he could even think about taking her, namely Zachary Kaufman.

  He couldn't, he shouldn't, but he approached her anyway. Despite the blood rushing to his dick, he lengthened his gait, patiently and carefully, as to not disturb too many carpet fibers.

  Three long strides brought him to her side. His arm moved before his brain could argue, his finger hooking the edge of the sheet between her tits and moving it down, down, slowly, until her pinkish-brown nipples appeared.

  He snapped his gaping jaw shut and inhaled quietly through his nose. Fucking breathtaking. She certainly hadn't struck him as the kind of woman to sleep naked. Amber was a little hidden world of seductive surprises.

  Her eyes shifted behind her lids but remained closed, her dark lashes fanning over her delicate cheekbones. Jesus, she was a heavy sleeper. He glanced at the bedside table and spotted a bottle of sleeping pills.

  He squatted, chin level with the mattress, and lowered the sheet to the flat expanse of her belly. Little dips and cut edges defined her feminine abs, framed by the soft curves of her hip, waist, and tits. He leaned in, his knees loose and growing weak. Just a few more seconds of looking, then he'd finish what he came to do.

  Her breasts were huge, round, and definitely not real. The faded scars beneath her nipples confirmed his suspicion. Maybe implants had given her an edge in her modeling career, but she wouldn't have needed them. Her natural attributes were enough to make him come in his pants, her raw beauty superior to every woman he'd ever laid eyes on.

  Schooling his breaths, he slipped the sheet past her shaved mound and clamped his teeth on the toothpick. His heart swooshed in his ears, and his body heated.

  Her thighs were pressed together, giving him a tiny peek of her cleft. He angled his head, his face and fingers hovering over her shadowed pussy. The sweet scent of oranges and flowers bathed his nose. Fuck, he wanted to shove his fingers inside as much as he wanted to roll her over and bury his cock in her soul.

  With a great amount of willpower, he returned the sheet and stood. Soon, Amber Rosenfeld.

  Stepping back on the tracks he'd left on the way in, he balanced awkwardly and brushed up the smashed carpet with curled fingers as he crept backward toward the door.

  Two more days. Until Zachary Kaufman's scheduled visit. Until she was all his.

  On his way to the kitchen, he stopped in the bathroom and checked the medicine cabinet, the drawers, and under the sink. The sight of the condoms made his blood boil.

  The toiletries were grouped in fours, labels aligned. Not a pill bottle in sight.

  His research on agoraphobia had come up with a plethora of anti-depressants to numb the disorder, but the recommendation for treatment was consistent. She needed exposure.

  He breathed deeply, letting loose a smile. Yeah, he'd expose her, all right.

  The prior night, he'd verified she didn't have a landline phone. Now, he found her cell on the charger in the kitchen, and worked the stylus from the case with a gloved finger. A couple taps showed there had been no calls or texts since he'd checked the night before. In fact, the log's six-month history only showed two contacts. One was a Dr. Emery Michaels, whom she hadn't spoken with in five days.

  The other was Zachary. His last text—will u keep the lights on this time?—induced the same bloodthirsty, muscle-tightening reaction he'd had the first time he saw it. His vision blurred and the phone case groaned in his clenched fist. He set it down and strode to the front door with determined steps.

  By this time tomorrow, he would be quite intimate with the fuck digger.

  The next night, Van drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in the Saddler's Tool Company parking lot, listening to “Stay Wide Awake” by Eminem and waiting for Zachary McToolLess to leave work.

  His jaw ached from clenching, and his muscles were stiff from his shoulders to his ass. Where the fuck wa
s his target? The store had closed a fucking hour ago.

  He squinted through the dark empty lot and reached for the camera on the seat beside him. Flipping through the photos, he paused on the shots he'd snapped at the schoolyard that morning. Long brown hair, angelic face, and a glowing smile, Livana looked so much like Liv it made his chest hurt. But as he studied a close-up of her features, he recognized his own thick eyelashes fringing her brown eyes and the exact shape of his lips outlining her grin. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back.

  Now seven-years-old, she was safe and cared for by Mr. E's widow, the woman who had raised her. But nothing compared to a father's love and protection. He'd never had that, and he'd be damned if his daughter grew up without it. She needed him as much as he needed her, but she was ferociously guarded by Liv and her circle of freed slaves. He knew Liv would never allow him even a brief encounter. Unless he could convince her.

  Ten minutes later, a pickup appeared from behind the building and took off in the opposite direction. It was the same truck he'd seen parked in Amber's driveway while scoping Liv's house.

  His heart rate elevated. He threw the Mustang in drive and followed at an unassuming distance. Fifteen miles brought them into the heart of Austin's entertainment district, surrounded by historic buildings, old-fashioned neon signs, and live music.

  Was her fucktoy headed for a bar? If so, he'd soon have a new drinking buddy.

  Monday night traffic was predictably sparse. Zachary parked beside a little bar off Sixth Street called Cyanide and went inside with a prissy little hop in his step.

  Okay, maybe he'd imagined the hop, but fuck if he couldn't see how Amber let that skinny rodent put his dick in her. He pressed a fist against the burning sensation in his chest and parked in a nearby lot. When his blood pressure cooled to normal, he locked up and strolled to the bar.

  The sky was dark, but the interior of Cyanide was darker. Soft electronic beats and a thin crowd set a casual ambiance. He wove around the high-tops and winked at a gaggle of college girls who openly stared at him with we're-dumb-and-in-heat googley eyes.

  Van's white button-down shirt opened at the collar, and his crisp, dark jeans rode low on his hips. Not his usual attire, but he was dressed to kill.

  He found his target straddling a stool at the bar and chugging a domestic beer—alone. He approached, thumped the counter, and nodded at the silver-haired bartender. “Three shots of tequila. Neat, not chilled.”

  When the old geezer reached for Jose Cuervo, he growled. “No, man. I said tequila.” Fucking Americans. “If it doesn't say one-hundred percent agave, it's not tequila.” He scanned the top shelf and pointed at the bottle of Real Gusto. “That one.”

  As the bartender poured the shots, Van grabbed a stool two down from Zachary without acknowledging him. A few minutes later, he splashed the first shot down his gullet, relishing the smooth, complex flavor. Then he leaned back and waited.

  It didn't take five minutes before the first bitch approached Van.

  “Hey, there.” She cocked a round hip against his knee. “The girls and I voted.” She flicked her claws at a table of giddy women in the corner. “You are by and far the sexiest man in three counties.” Her gaze landed on the scar on his cheek and skittered away.

  When her eyes returned—they always did—he made a show of checking her out, from the fake-baked tits to the sparkled heels, and moved his leg away from her hip. “Not interested, honey.”

  She huffed. “You're no fun.”

  He held his mouth in a flat line of no-fun and didn't blink.

  She picked at a plastic fingernail, lingering two seconds too long, and strode away.

  Five women and five rejections later, the cock stuffer beside him finally spoke. “You...uh...gay or something?”

  Van threw back the second shot to smother the raging words burning up his throat. Fucking twat. Yeah, he fucked men. For his one-night delights, all he required was a submissive body and a clean hole. So what? He also made dolls with the same hands he fingered assholes with. If any of that made him gay, then he'd take it up the ass all the way to hell.

  No, that wasn't true. He hadn't endured it that way since he left the ghetto. Now that he was free of his mother's drug-dealing bottom-feeders, he was the one who did the fucking.

  Tilting his head, he looked directly at Zachary for the first time. Those twinkling, beady blue eyes made him want to gouge them out and pop them between his curled fingers. “Just want the right girl, man.” The girl Zachary Kaufman would never fuck again.

  The beady eyes blinked. “Damn, dude. All those women you turned down seemed pretty fucking right to me.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I want a gorgeous girl with spirit, know what I mean? Quick wit, blond hair, brown eyes, big tits, and lots of personality.” He rubbed a finger on the counter, delivering the spiel with a monotone, down-on-his-luck kind of vibe. “You know, someone...unusual. Special. With crazy little quirks and stuff.”

  A laugh choked in Zachary's throat, and he shook his head. “Boy, do I have a special girl with quirks.”

  Bastard didn't have shit. He covered his scowl with the third shot, slammed it down, and tempered his tone. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. She's got my damned head reeling nonstop. It's messed up, but I keep going back for more.”

  Motherfuck, he didn't want to hear this, but he needed to know the depth of Zachary's attachment. Killing him would be gratifying. And messy. But that wasn't his style. Manipulating him was the smart play.

  Van bounced his eyebrows, and his insides twisted with nausea. “She hot?”

  A smile took hold of Zachary's face, toothy and weasel-like. “Tits out to here.” He cupped the air in front of him as if juggling watermelons like a goddamned retard. “Pretty face. Tight little pussy.”

  Van's vision clouded in red, the blood in his veins boiling to burst. Zachary was a dead man. He slapped a hand on the counter. “Another shot, and hurry the fuck up, old man.”

  The tool on the stool must have mistaken his rage for excitement. He let out an ear-splitting cackle. “Thing is, dude, she's got serious issues. Talk about quirks. I don't think she leaves the house much. She won't let me fuck her with the lights on. Been doing her for six months. Always at her place. I still haven't seen her naked.”

  Six months and the ass didn't know she was agoraphobic. The shot slid in front of Van, and he tossed it back, swallowing down images of Zachary doing her. His stomach hardened, and his breaths pushed out so fast and coarse. No way would he be able to speak without roaring.

  Goddammit, he could handle this conversation. This was his fucking forte. Control and coercion without physical force. Hell, he'd spent weeks drinking with the drug-dealing slime who'd lived with Kate, the last girl he'd taken for Mr. E. Her brothers might've protected her virginity, but their drunken, wagging tongues had lost her in the end. He liked to think he'd saved that girl, seeing how he'd freed her from her brothers' crack-house and Liv had freed her from Mr. E's trafficking.

  Zachary nursed his beer, all quiet and thoughtful, as he pushed his hair away from his puckered eyebrows. When he opened his mouth, he seemed to be talking to himself. “I have to go to her house at a set time on the same days. Thirty seconds early or late, and she freaks the fuck out.” He swiped at his hair. “But there I am, syncing my clocks to hers and showing up right on time.”

  This wasn't like the other captures. Amber wasn't going to a slave buyer. She was...unique and fascinatingly crazy. And she was his. Hell, he'd take her even if the sole purpose was to make sure she wasn't Zachary's—which it wasn't. But the moron didn't deserve her. Of course, neither did he.

  He set the empty shot glass down and plucked a toothpick from a container on the bar. He'd only killed two people in his life. Shooting the wife of Liv's rapist had just been a means to torture the monster before killing him, too.

  Zachary wasn't a rapist. He was just a ball-less queef in the fucking way.

  He shifted to face
the queef. “She the only pussy you're banging?

  “Yeah, why?”

  He thrust his chin at a flock of ladies who had just walked in. “Want to stick your dick in a real woman? With the lights on?”

  Zachary's dark eyebrows rose beneath the falling strands of his hair. “Seriously?”

  What a cunt. “Follow my lead.” He pivoted on the stool toward the women and let his thighs fall subtly apart, knowing the stretch in his jeans cupped his junk just right. He leaned his elbows on the bar top behind him and gnawed on the toothpick.

  Four pairs of eyes looked his way. He blanked his expression in a portrait of indifference, his eyes roaming the group as a whole with little commitment.

  Like a pack of hungry Chihuahuas, they scampered as one in his direction. A stagger of Hi's came next, followed by flushed cheeks, cleared throats, and smoldering stares.

  Time to put them out of their misery. “I'm gay.”

  A chorus of whiny Oooooh's blubbered out.

  He chuckled. “I know the feeling. This guy here” —he squeezed Zachary's neck, probably with more force than was necessary— “turned me down. I saw his cock in the men's room. Un-fucking-real, ladies. Have fun with it.” He dropped a wad of cash on the counter, patted Zachary on the back, and gamboled to the door.

  He moved the Mustang a few parking spots down from Zachary's truck and set up his camera. Forty-five minutes later, the two-timing prick strolled out of the bar with one of the girls under his arm and his tongue down her throat. Took the fucker long enough to snag a girl.

  Camera raised, Van clicked away from his shadowed position in the Mustang. Zachary pressed her against the passenger door of the truck, one hand fumbling for his keys, the other shoved up her skirt.