by Pam Godwin
Click. Click. Click.
Van's lungs expanded to their fullest with each deep, satisfied breath. Damn straight, he was smug. Not only did he restrain himself from gutting the guy, but also he did Amber a favor. She might not have cared who Zachary was fucking—especially given her willingness to fuck him a couple days ago—but he'd read agoraphobics didn't just cling to their homes. They attached themselves to people, too. At the moment, there was only one person she could've been attached to.
Zachary pushed the girl onto her back across the truck's seat. Without bothering to close the door, he proceeded to eat her face then her cunt beneath the glow of the streetlight.
After a few more clicks, Van set the camera down and lit a cigarette. Tomorrow, Amber wouldn't have a choice when she cut ties with Zachary Kaufman. But he needed her to be convincing when she did it.
Ordering groceries online was a Tuesday morning task, an item to check off a list. But as Amber squinted at her online bank account balance, she knew her routine was about to change. A tic twitched in her eyelid. Everything her sanity depended on required electricity or water. The vacuum, treadmill, shower, laundry, online groups...
She tucked her hands beneath her armpits and hugged herself, burrowing into the couch as the weight of her situation pushed air from her chest.
This fear was different from what she was used to. When she'd stepped outside, the paralysis, suffocation, and loss of body control was a physical, heart-rate-in-the-red-zone kind of fear. But the horror of losing her connectedness—to her house, her schedule, her courier and lover—made her feel breathless, empty, and lost, like a non-person.
Who would she be without order and routine? If not a beauty contestant or a neat freak, then what? A hollow husk in a padded room like her mother?
But the most tangible threat was losing her house. Foreclosure meant she would have to leave. She'd have to go outside. She'd rather die.
She closed the laptop. She didn't need groceries anyway. There would be no cooking and no refrigeration when the electricity shut off. The city had already turned off her water service that morning.
The clocks on the wall told her she had fifteen minutes before Zach's arrival. He would ship all her packages and, in a few days, she'd receive her payments and get the utilities back on. Until next month.
She stared at nothing for a long moment, searching inside herself for an answer, a reaction, something, but all she found was the absence of value and meaning.
She set her phone and laptop on the coffee table, lining them up in right-angles, and trudged toward the hall to prepare for Zach. As she reached the bedroom doorway, the hairs on her nape lifted. She paused. Something felt...off.
A click echoed from the front room, followed by a creak in the floor. A shriek crawled up her throat, and she snapped her mouth shut, listening without breathing, heart thundering. Was someone in the house? How was that possible?
A few silent seconds passed as she trembled in a gridlock of clenched muscles and stifled breaths. She should've heard a crash if someone had broken in. She gripped the doorframe to her room, her legs shaking to run, her brain telling her not to make a sound.
The stillness of the house gathered around her, squeezing her chest and slowly, maddeningly, dispersing with her exhale. Was she paranoid now? Fabricating new horrors in her head?
Then she heard it. The soft rasp of socked feet on hardwood, approaching, gaining speed. Time seemed to slam to a halt as her body moved to escape and her eyes swung over her shoulder.
A man stood in the mouth of the hall, with broad shoulders, a baseball cap, a scar on his cheek, and a gun in his hand.
Why was Van in her house, pointing a gun? The shock of it rendered her speechless.
“You won't run.” His voice was soft and casual, exactly the way she remembered it. But his outstretched arm aimed the gun at her head, a gloved finger beside the trigger. A tablet dangled in his other gloved hand, and her phone was wedged beneath the buckle of his jeans.
She stood half-in, half-out of the bedroom, her blood pressure rising with every second that passed. Ten feet separated them. How good was his aim? If she ducked into the room, she could escape through the window. Outside. OhGodohGodohGod. She couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe.
“I'll shoot through your door before you make it to the window.” His lips slid into a terrifying smile. “And we both know you'll have a panic attack the moment you lift the shade.”
Hard to argue, but the fact that he knew what crippled her surged anger through her veins, heating her skin and garbling her words. “What do you want?”
“We'll get to that. Stand in the center of the hall with your arms at your sides.”
The audacious command made her skin crawl. Worse, she hadn't finished dressing because she didn't want to wrinkle her dress for Zach. The only clothing she wore were white lacy panties and a midriff cami. “Let me grab a robe.” And something sharp to stab him with.
“I won't repeat myself.” The eerie calm in his voice crept through the narrow space, stealing the strength from her knees. Not a hint of humor surfaced in the rigid lines of his face. He wasn't fucking around.
Maybe he wouldn't shoot her, but he knew about the agoraphobia. If she angered him, would he force her outside?
She shifted into the hall, fighting to keep her hands at her sides as the intensity of his gaze raked her legs, her panties, and lingered on her nipples pressing against the cotton.
He met her eyes. “You have three seconds to tell me how you greet Zachary Kaufman at the door.”
The blood drained from her cheeks, and a shiver raced over her spine. “What are you—?”
“Two seconds.”
“I don't—”
“One second.”
“I unlock the door and wait in the bedroom,” she said in a rushed breath. “Please, don't hurt him.” Even if she wasn't emotionally attached to Zach, she didn't want to see him harmed.
He prowled toward her with the gun leveled at her chest. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and her neck strained with tension, but she kept her chin up and eyes full of fuck you.
A foot away, he stopped and pressed the barrel of the gun against her breastbone, his eyes fixed on her breasts. The cold metal slid down the center of her chest, taking the thin cotton with it, until the neckline reached her nipples. He leaned in, his timbre low and authoritative. “Walk into your room and sit on the bed.”
Her body quivered against that voice, itching to obey. But the glow of his silver eyes rooted her to the floor, chilling her with the ferocity that hardened their depths.
She looked away, clenching her hands at her sides and popping the finger joints with her thumbs.
“Now!” he shouted.
She jumped, gasping for air and stumbling toward the room. He followed her in, and when she sat on the bed, he shoved the tablet under her nose.
She didn't look at it, couldn't drag her eyes from the man who towered over her. Thick, dark energy hummed around him, and he oozed malicious, predatory power from his pores. Not wild or manic, not throwing fists or flinging spit. It was calculating, in control, warning her.
With her arms wrapped around her chest and hips, she glared into his eyes, shivering against their sharp animalistic beauty. Maybe if she said his name, it would remind him he was human. “Van, are you going to make me go outside?”
The only thing that moved was his lips. “Look at the screen and swipe through the photos.”
Maybe he'd lied about his name. She glanced down, and her brow furrowed as she took in the image. It showed Zach in a parking lot with his hand beneath a brunette's skirt. She blinked rapidly, startled, confused, and shook her head. “How did you—”
“Flip to the next one.”
Her mind raced as she swiped the screen with a numb finger. The girl was on her back in the truck with Zach's shaggy head between her spread thighs.
Nausea twisted her stomach as she swiped again. Same scene, same girl, Zach's hips now wedged betwe
en her legs, his pants stretched beneath his bare ass. Amber's body temperature skyrocketed, and her chest tightened. What did this mean to Van? Why would he show her this? “How do you know him?”
“I met this guy in a bar on Sixth Street last night. He told me he was fucking a whack job named Amber on Tuesdays and Fridays, and he wanted to stick his dick in a real woman.”
Her hands locked into fists. He could've been making that up.
He tucked the tablet beneath his arm. “With the lights on.”
Her stomach dropped, and an ache swelled, angry and painful, around her heart. “So you thought you'd...what? Enlighten me? While waving a fucking gun?” It was too much, too many surprises coming at her too damned fast. “Well, guess what? I am a whack job, and he can fuck whom he wants. Why do you care?”
His pupils flared, swallowing the silver rims of his eyes. “He's due at noon? Yes or no.”
Son of a bitch. “No. Twelve-o-four.”
He glanced at the side table, and she followed his gaze. 11:58 glowed on the clock.
No way did he just happen upon Zach at a bar after he just happened upon her porch. She gritted her teeth. “How long have you been watching my house?” And how the hell did he get in? “Oh my God. You stole my key? You arrogant, thieving dickhead!”
“Be careful, Amber.” His icy glare raised bumps over her skin. “Cover yourself up.” He waved a hand at the closet. “You have thirty seconds.”
Of all the women in Austin, why her? If he knew her schedule, maybe he'd figured out Zach was the only person who would notice if she disappeared. Hell, he had her phone. If he'd looked at the log, he'd know she talked to no one, had no one.
She strode to the closet, trying like hell to keep her shaking arms over her thinly-covered boobs. “What are you going to do to him?”
“If you ask another question, I'll kill him, slow and messy, all over your carpet.”
Her mind played out that scenario in Technicolor, and her thoughts degraded to a sick, selfish place where her disorder bred and thrived. The damage to her carpet would be permanent, a constant reminder, and she couldn't afford to replace it.
“If you convincingly chase him away, I'll let him live.” He glared at her, his lips pressed in a line. “And I do mean convincingly. The fucker better walk out of here without a doubt in his mind he'll never see you again. I just gave you the ammo to do it. Use it. Fifteen seconds.”
She dressed in a hurried daze, fumbling on jeans and tugging a t-shirt over the cami. This wasn't happening. If she chased Zach away, how long would it be before someone found her body? Or worse, found her house empty?
Would he try to kidnap her? Her skin grew clammy, and a tremor shook her legs. “I can't go outside. You'll have to shoot me first.” Either way, she wouldn't survive.
“I'll be right in here.” He stalked to the closet and gripped the door, with the gun trained on her. “If you fuck this up, if Zachary shows a hint of suspicion, I'll shoot him. Sit on the bed.”
How had she not seen this coming when she met him? She'd let this man into her house, for fucksake. Such a stupid, stupid girl. She deserved this. She wiped at the copious sweat clinging to her face and arms, her ramping heart rate thrashing pinpricks through her head.
Breathing deeply, over and over, she sat on the bed and prepared to drive away the only person she had in her life.
Van faded within the shadow of the closet, leaving the door open a sliver, with a line of sight directly on her.
Six huge breaths later, the rumble of Zach's truck sounded in the driveway. Her heart hammered so painfully, she wanted to double over from the agony of it. She could do this. Her odds of surviving sucked, but she could save Zach.
The front door opened and rattled shut. Van must've left it unlocked, already knowing her routine. Knowing too much. She didn't dare look at the closet door for fear she'd unravel into a worthless blob of panic.
Footsteps pounded down the hall, and Zach's tall, thin frame appeared in the doorway. Images of him with that girl girded her spine, even as a lump clogged her throat. It wasn't jealousy. It was the strangling reminder that she hadn't been good enough.
He smiled. “Jeans today? Didn't know you owned a pair.”
This was going to hurt. She swallowed. Just do it quick. “We're done, Zach. No more deliveries. No more sex.” Her voice wobbled, dammit.
He narrowed his eyes and pushed a hand through his chin-length hair, gripping it at the back of his head. “What...what do you mean?”
She drew a deep breath and sat taller. “I saw you last night.”
He flinched, and his arm flopped to his side. Then he squared his shoulders and started toward her.
“No. Stay where you are.” Get him out of there. Get him safe. She hardened her eyes and her voice. “I said we're done.”
“How—” His eyes widened. “You left the house?”
Dammit, of course not. But he wasn't as perceptive as the prick in the closet. “I saw you with a girl at a bar on Sixth Street. I want you gone. Don't call. Don't come by. I'm taking my business elsewhere.”
“Hey, no. Just wait a second.” His eyes pleaded, and he swiped a hand over his face. “I can explain.”
When he started forward again, she held up a palm. “Don't come any closer.” Sweet God, the tension in the room made it impossible to breathe. “If you try to contact me, I'll file a restraining order.” I'm saving your life. “Now, leave.”
“Jesus, a restraining order? On what grounds?” His voice was thready, and his shoulders slumped. “Amber, she meant nothing. It was a mistake.”
“I'll tell them you raped me.” She cringed inwardly, her insides threatening to heave. “I still have your semen on my sheets. They'll believe me.” If Zach knew her at all, he'd call her out on her cleanliness. But he'd never paid attention to her neurosis, which was what she'd liked most about him. She rose and thrust a finger in the vicinity of the front door. “Get. The fuck. Out.”
His jaw clenched, and his blue eyes turned to glass, losing focus. He nodded a few times, staring at the floor. Then he smacked a hand against the door, knocking it into the wall. “Crazy bitch.” He turned and stomped down the hall. A moment later, the front door slammed.
The truck rumbled through the walls then faded into the distance. Gone. She was officially on her own. And her packages weren't mailed. She released a ragged breath, her eyes burning with tears she refused to shed. She sniffed and looked at the closet door. God help her. It would open any second now.
When he emerged, she met his eyes and spat out her words. “Convincing enough for you?”
“Watch your fucking tone.” He strode past her to the doorway and glared down the hall. “I should've killed him for calling you a bitch.”
Sudden warmth hit at the core of her. The sentiment touched a needy, vulnerable piece of her psyche she refused to examine. He confused her, and maybe that was part of his game. “So you can break into houses and threaten people's lives, but name calling is a crime?”
“Yes.” His pale gray eyes, so contemplative and unnervingly focused on her, made her feel more exposed than a dozen pageant walks before a hundred judges. He de-cocked the gun and tucked it in the waistband at his back. “You can run, but there's nowhere to go but outside. If you don't follow my orders, I'll restrain you...outside.”
She shook her head in denial and clutched her throat. What he suggested was the worst possible outcome, unless... “Are you going to cut me up in little pieces?”
A cold smile tipped his lips as he chuckled. Then his expression sobered. “Walk to the kitchen.”
Fucking psychopath. He stood right in the doorway, taking up the whole damned hall. At over six feet tall with a muscled body cut from stone, he could squash her without breaking a sweat. She didn't want to go near him. He was terrifying. But being forced outside was worse. She straightened her back and headed toward him.
As she slid by, his arm caught her waist and yanked her back against his chest. Sh
e slapped at his hand, bucking against him, and his arm clenched tighter. His erection jabbed against her backside, his breath hot at her ear. “Fighting and squirming only turns me on. Don't stop.”
She immediately stilled. God, he wasn't lying. His dick was undeniably more pronounced against her back. Feeling him like that, so close, so huge and hard, rushed heat between her legs and prickles over her skin. Why, oh why was she responding this way? She hated and wanted it, and mother of all fucks, she couldn't have been more completely and totally out of her mind.
She drew a ragged breath. Think, think, think. But his intention blatantly rubbed against her, scattering her thoughts. “You're going to rape me, aren't you?”
His torso moved up and down with his breath. “I thought you wanted to be fuck buddies. Don't make it weird.”
“What? Oh no. Nononononono. I'm not offering now!” Her voice shrilled, and her elbows rammed into his ribs. “This is me saying ‘No’.”
Restraining her with an arm around her chest, he pulled off a glove with his teeth and shoved his hand down the front of her jeans, beneath her panties. She gasped and tried to reach for the gun at his back. The glove dropped to the floor as he kept his back twisted away and the brace of his massive arm effectively immobilizing her movements.
The fingers in her jeans descended with strength and determination. They slid over her mound, between her lips, reaching, curling, and oh God, fucking her. He pressed his palm over her pussy, his fingers hooking inside her. The grip yanked her back, grinding her ass against his erection.
Her inner muscles pulsated around the invasion, clenching and shameless. She wanted to cry, knowing how wet she was, humiliated that he was swirling through the depraved evidence of her frail mind and touching her in a place she never wanted anyone to see.
“Please.” She squeezed her thighs together, tried to angle her hips away from his fingers. “Please, I don't want this.”
He thrust harder and twisted his fingers inside her. “Your cunt disagrees.” Without warning, he yanked his hand from her pants and shoved his fingers in her mouth, pressing down on her tongue and jaw. The tang of her arousal mixed with her saliva as he angled her jaw with his hand, forcing her cheek against his chest and shoving his face into hers.
