by Anna Zaires
And I try . . . but the senseless violence of her death eats at me. Julian was right—I didn’t know what real hatred was before. I didn’t know what it was like to want to hurt someone, to crave their death. Now I do. If I could go back in time and kill the terrorist who murdered Beth so brutally, I would do it in a heartbeat. It’s not enough for me that he died in that explosion. I wish I had been the one to end his life.
My parents insist that I see a therapist. To pacify them, I go a few times. It doesn’t help. I’m not ready to bare my heart and soul to a stranger, and our sessions end up being a waste of time and money. I’m not in the right frame of mind to receive therapy—my loss is too fresh, my emotions too raw.
I start painting again, but I can’t do the same sunny landscapes as before. My art is darker now, more chaotic. I paint the explosion over and over again, trying to get it out of my mind, and every time it comes out a little different, a little more abstract. I paint Julian’s face, too. I do it from memory, and it bothers me that I can’t quite capture the devastating perfection of his features. No matter how much I try, I can’t seem to get it right.
All of my friends are away at college, so for the first couple of weeks, I only speak to them on the phone and via Skype. They don’t quite know how to act around me, and I don’t blame them. I try to keep our conversations light, focusing mostly on what’s been happening in their lives since our graduation, but I know they feel strange talking about boyfriend troubles and exams to someone they see as a victim of a horrible crime. They look at me with pity and disturbing curiosity in their eyes, and I can’t bring myself to talk to them about my experience on the island.
Still, when Leah comes home from the University of Michigan, we get together to hang out. After a few hugs, most of the initial awkwardness dissipates, and she’s again the same girl who was my best friend all through middle school and beyond.
“I like your place,” she says, walking around my studio and examining the paintings I have hanging on the walls. “That’s some pretty cool art you’ve got there. Where did you get these from?”
“I painted them,” I tell her, pulling on my boots. We’re going out to a local Italian restaurant for dinner. I’m dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a black top, and it feels just like old times.
“You did?” Leah gives me an astonished look. “Since when do you paint?”
“It’s a recent development,” I say, grabbing my trench coat. It’s already fall, and it’s starting to get chilly. I had gotten used to the tropical climate of the island, and even sixty degrees feels cold to me.
“Well, shit, Nora, this is really good stuff,” she says, coming up to one of the explosion paintings to take a closer look. Those are the only ones I have up—my Julian portraits are private. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Thanks.” I grin at her. “Ready to go?”
* * *
We have a great dinner. Leah tells me about going to college at Michigan and about Jason, her new boyfriend. I listen attentively, and we joke about boys and their inexplicable need to do keg stands.
“When are you applying to college?” she asks when we’re mid-way through dessert. “You were going to go local at first. Are you still planning to do that?”
I nod. “Yes, I think I’m going to apply for the spring semester.” Although I can now afford to go to any university, I have no desire to change my plans. The money sitting in my bank account doesn’t seem quite real to me, and I’m strangely reluctant to spend it.
“That’s awesome,” Leah says, grinning. She seems a little hyper, like she’s overly excited about something.
I soon learn what that something is.
“Hey, Nora,” a familiar voice says behind me, just as we’re getting ready to pay our bill.
I jump up, startled. Turning, I stare at Jake—the boy I had been on the date with that fateful night when Julian took me.
The boy Julian had hurt to keep me in line.
He looks almost the same: shaggy sun-streaked hair, warm brown eyes, a great build. Only the expression on his face is different. It’s drawn and tense, and the wariness in his gaze is like a kick to my stomach.
“Jake . . .” I feel like I’m confronting a ghost. “I didn’t know you were in town. I thought you were away at Michigan—”
And then I realize the truth. Turning, I look accusingly at Leah, who gives me a huge smile in response. “I hope you don’t mind, Nora,” she says brightly. “I told Jake I was coming to see you this weekend, and he asked to join me. I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about that, given everything—” her face reddens a bit, “—so I just mentioned that we’d be here tonight.”
I blink, my palms beginning to sweat. Leah doesn’t know about the beating Jake received because of me. That little tidbit is something I disclosed only to the FBI. She’s probably afraid that seeing Jake might bring back painful memories of my abduction, but she can’t possibly guess at the nauseating swirl of guilt and anxiety I feel right now.
Jake knows I’m responsible for the assault, however. I can see it in the way he looks at me.
I force myself to smile. “Of course I don’t mind,” I lie smoothly. “Please, have a seat. Let’s get some coffee.” I motion toward the seat on the other side of our booth and sit down myself. “How have you been?”
He smiles back at me, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners in the way I found endearing once. He’s still one of the cutest guys I’ve ever met, but I no longer feel any attraction to him. The crush I had on him before pales in comparison to my all-consuming Julian obsession—to the dark and desperate craving that makes me toss and turn at night.
When I can’t sleep, I often think about the things Julian and I used to do together—the things he made me do . . . the things he trained me to want. In the dark of the night, I masturbate to forbidden fantasies. Fantasies of exquisite pain and forced pleasure, of violence and lust. I ache with the need to be taken and used, hurt and possessed. I long for Julian—the man who awakened this side of me.
The man who is now dead.
Pushing that excruciating thought aside, I focus on what Jake is telling me.
“—couldn’t go into that park for months,” he says, and I realize that he’s talking about his experience after my abduction. “Every time I did, I thought about you and where you might be . . . The police said it was like you vanished off the face of the planet—”
I listen to him, shame and self-loathing coiling deep inside my chest. How can I feel this way about a man who did such a terrible thing and hurt so many people in the process? How sick am I to love someone capable of such evil? Julian was not a tortured, misunderstood hero forced to do bad things by circumstances beyond his control. He was a monster, pure and simple.
A monster that I miss with every fiber of my being.
“I’m so sorry, Nora,” Jake says, distracting me from my self-flagellation. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you that night—”
“Wait . . . What?” I stare at him in disbelief. “Are you crazy? Do you know what you were up against? There’s no way you could’ve done anything—”
“I should’ve still tried.” Jake’s voice is heavy with guilt. “I should’ve done something, anything . . .”
I reach out across the table, impulsively covering his hand with my own. “No,” I say firmly. “You’re in no way to blame for this.” I can see Leah out of the corner of my eye; she’s twiddling with her phone and trying to pretend she’s not here. I ignore her. I need to convince Jake that he didn’t screw up, to help him move past this.
His skin is warm under my fingers, and I can feel the vibrating tension within him. “Jake,” I say softly, holding his gaze, “nobody could’ve prevented this. Nobody. Julian has—had—the kind of resources that would make a SWAT team jealous. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine. You got dragged into this because of me, and I am truly sorry.” I’m apologizing for more than that night in the park, and he knows it.
/> “No, Nora,” he says quietly, his brown eyes filled with shadows. “You’re right. It’s his fault, not ours.” And I realize that he’s offering me absolution, too—that he also wants to free me from my guilt.
I smile and squeeze his hand, silently accepting his forgiveness.
I wish I could forgive myself so easily, but I can’t.
Because even now, as I sit there holding Jake’s hand, I can’t stop loving Julian.
No matter what he had done.
Chapter 26
“You know, I think he’s still really into you,” Leah says as she drives me home. “I’m surprised he didn’t ask you out right then and there.”
“Ask me out? Jake?” I give her an incredulous stare. “I’m the last girl he’d want to date.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” she says thoughtfully. “You guys might’ve only been on one date, but he was seriously depressed when you disappeared. And the way he was looking at you tonight . . .”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Leah, please, that’s just crazy. Jake and I have a complex history. He wanted closure tonight, that’s all.” The idea of dating Jake—of dating anyone—feels strange and foreign. In my mind, I still belong to Julian, and the thought of letting another man touch me makes me inexplicably anxious.
“Yeah, closure, right.” Leah’s voice is dripping with sarcasm. “The entire evening he was staring at you like you’re the hottest thing he’s ever seen. It’s not closure he wants from you, I guarantee that.”
“Oh, come on—”
“No, seriously,” Leah says, glancing at me as she stops at a stoplight. “You should go out with him. He’s a great guy, and I know you liked him before . . .”
I look at her, and the urge to make her understand wars with my deep-seated need to protect myself. “Leah, that was before,” I say slowly, deciding to disclose some of the truth. “I’m not the same person now. I can’t date a guy like Jake . . . not after Julian.”
She falls silent, turning her attention back to the road as the light changes to green.
When she stops in front of my apartment building, she turns toward me. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “That was stupid and inconsiderate of me. You seem so okay that I forgot for a moment . . .” She swallows, tears glistening in her eyes. “If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here for you—you know that, right?”
I nod, giving her a smile. I’m lucky to have a friend like her, and someday soon, I may take her up on her offer. But not yet—not while I feel so raw and shredded inside.
* * *
The next few weeks crawl by at a snail’s pace. I exist moment to moment, taking it one day at a time. Every morning, I write out a list of tasks that I want to accomplish that day and diligently adhere to it, no matter how much I may want to crawl under my bed covers and never come out.
Most of the time, my lists include mundane activities, such as eating, running, going to work, doing grocery shopping, and calling my parents. Occasionally, I add more ambitious projects as well, such as applying to college for the spring semester—which I do, as I told Leah I would.
I also sign up for shooting lessons. To my surprise, I turn out to be pretty good at handling a gun. My instructor says I’m a natural, and I start doing research on what I need to do to acquire a firearms license in Illinois. I also tackle self-defense classes and start learning a few basic moves to protect myself. I will never be able to win against someone like Julian and the men who took me and Beth, but knowing how to shoot and fight makes me feel better, more in control of my life.
Between all those new activities, my work, and my art, I’m too busy to socialize, which suits me just fine. I’m not in the mood to make new friends, and all of my old ones are away.
Jake and Leah are both back at Michigan. He pings me on Facebook, and we chat a few times. He doesn’t ask me out, though.
I’m glad. Even if he wasn’t going to college three-and-a-half hours away, it would never work out between us. Jake is smart enough to realize that nothing good could ever come out of getting involved with someone like me—someone who, for all intents and purposes, is still Julian’s captive.
I dream of him almost every night. Like an incubus, my former captor comes to me in the dark, when I’m at my most vulnerable. He invades my mind as ruthlessly as he once took my body. When I’m not reliving his death, my dreams are disturbingly sexual. I dream of his mouth, his cock, his hands. They’re everywhere, all over me, inside me. I dream of his terrifyingly beautiful smile, of the way he used to hold and caress me.
Of the way he used to torture me until I forgot everything and lost myself in him.
I dream of him . . . and wake up wet and throbbing, my body empty and aching for his possession. Like an addict going through a withdrawal, I am desperate for a fix, for something to take the edge off my need.
I am not ready to date, but my body doesn’t care about that—and finally, I decide to give in.
Dressing up, I grab my old fake ID and head to a local bar.
* * *
The men swarm around me like flies. It’s easy, so fucking easy. A girl alone in a bar—that’s all the encouragement they need. Like wolves scenting prey, they sense my desperation, my desire for something more than a cold, lonely bed tonight.
I let one of them buy me drinks. A shot of vodka, then one of tequila . . . By the time he asks me if I want to leave, everything around me is fuzzy. Nodding, I let him lead me to his car.
He’s a good-looking man in his thirties, with sandy hair and blue-grey eyes. Not particularly tall, but reasonably well built. He’s an attorney, he tells me as he drives us to a nearby motel.
I close my eyes as he continues talking. I don’t care who he is or what he does. I just want him to fuck me, to fill that gaping void inside. To take away the chill that has seeped deep into my bones.
He rents a room at the front desk, and we go upstairs. When we get into the room, he takes off my coat and begins to kiss me. I can taste beer and a hint of tacos on his tongue. He presses me to him, his hands hot and eager as they begin to explore my body—and suddenly, I can’t take it anymore.
“Stop.” I shove him away as hard as I can. Taken by surprise, he stumbles back a couple of steps.
“What the fuck—” He gapes at me, mouth open in disbelief.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, grabbing my coat. “It’s not you, I promise.”
And before he can say a word, I run out of the room.
Catching a taxi, I go home, sick from the alcohol and utterly miserable. There is no fix for my addiction, no way to quench my thirst.
Even drunk, I can’t bear another man’s touch.
Chapter 27
It starts off as another erotic dream.
Strong, hard hands slide up my naked body, callused palms scratching my skin as he squeezes my breasts, his thumbs rubbing against my peaked, sensitive nipples. I arch against him, feeling the warmth of his skin, the heavy weight of his powerful body pressing me into the mattress. His muscular legs force my thighs apart, and his erection prods at my sex, the broad head sliding between the soft folds and exerting light pressure on my clit.
I moan, rubbing against him, my inner muscles clenching with the need to take him deep inside. I’m soaking wet and panting, and my hands grasp his tight, muscular ass, trying to force him in, to get him to fuck me.
He laughs, the sound a low, seductive rumble in his chest, and his big hands grasp my wrists, pinning them above my head. “Miss me, my pet?” he murmurs in my ear, his hot breath sending erotic chills down the side of my body.
My pet? Julian never talks in my dreams—
I gasp, my eyes popping open . . . and in the dim early morning light, I see him.
Julian.
Naked and aroused, he’s sprawled on top of me, holding me down on my bed. His dark hair is cut shorter than before, and his magnificent face is taut with lust, his eyes glittering like blue jewels.
I freez
e, staring up at him, my heart thudding heavily in my ribcage. For a moment, I think that I’m still dreaming—that my mind is playing cruel tricks on me. My vision dims, blurs, and I realize that I literally stopped breathing for a moment, that the shock has driven all air out of my lungs.
I inhale sharply, still frozen in place, and he lowers his head, his mouth descending on mine. His tongue slips between my parted lips, invading me, and the hauntingly familiar taste of him makes my head spin.
There is no longer any doubt in my mind.
It’s really Julian—he’s as alive and vital as ever.
Fury, sharp and sudden, spikes through me. He’s alive—he’s been alive all along! The entire time while I mourned him, while I tried to mend my shattered soul, he’s been alive and well, undoubtedly laughing at my pathetic attempts to get on with my life.
I bite his lip, hard, filled with the savage need to hurt him—to rip his flesh as he ripped apart my heart. The coppery tang of blood fills my mouth, and he jerks back with a curse, his eyes darkening with anger.
I’m not afraid, however. Not anymore. “Let me go,” I hiss furiously, struggling against his hold. “You fucking asshole! You bastard! You were never dead! You were never fucking dead . . .” To my complete humiliation, the last phrase escapes as a choked sob, my voice breaking at the end.
His jaw tightens as he stares at me, the sensuous perfection of his lips marred by the bloody mark from my teeth. He holds me effortlessly, his hard cock poised at the soft entrance to my body. Enraged, I twist to the side, trying to bite him again, and he transfers my wrists into his left palm, restraining me with one hand while grabbing my hair with the other. Now I can’t move at all; all I can do is glare at him, tears of rage and bitter frustration burning my eyes.
Unexpectedly, his expression softens. “Looks like my little kitten grew some claws,” he murmurs, his voice filled with dark amusement. “I think I like it.”
