His Captive

by Zahra Girard

  I get home and I open the fridge and take out a half-finished bottle of really cheap red wine that I’d thrown in there last night, hoping the cold would dampen the awful flavor.

  I take a sip. It kinda worked. Well enough, anyway.

  Why can’t I find a spark with a nice guy?

  Why is it every one of them I meet just seem so… bland?

  It’s like they all slip ambien in my drinks while I’m not looking. Halfway through my dinner dates, I’m looking forward to being home. Alone.

  Maybe I should get a cat. Or twelve. An intimidating number of cats. So many cats that Karen will just give up on pushing this whole dating thing.

  I flip on the TV to something mindless, settle on my couch, and start going through my mail.

  It’s the usual stuff. Bills, some updated copies of my contract with my publisher, a flyer to a pizza place along with some coupons for a 2-for-1 pepperoni pizza special. And a glossy postcard.

  On the front of a postcard is a picture of a dozen insanely-busty women frolicking by the ocean. Across the top, it says “Los Angeles: Come for the sunshine, stay for the scenery.”

  I flip the postcard front to back a couple times. Except for that picture and a ten-digit number written on the back of it, the thing is blank.

  It’s weird.

  I keep looking at it, while a bunch of strangers share a house on a TV show and argue with each other over about which dance club to go to.

  I don’t know anyone in Los Angeles. And I certainly don’t know anyone that would send me what’s pretty much a blank postcard. There are no illiterates in my family. And the only pervy person who would send a postcard like this is my great-uncle Albert, but he lives in Oklahoma and no one talks to him.

  Plus, people in my family also have way better handwriting than this. Even Albert. This looks like a blind person attacked the postcard with a pen.

  Two glasses in, and I’m still fixated on the card.

  Is the writing a code? Is it a prank? Do I have a long-lost relative, with dementia and a fixation on gigantic breasts, living somewhere in Los Angeles?

  I take out my laptop and start to google the number.

  As soon as I put the first three digits in, it starts showing search results.

  The first three numbers are the Santa Monica area code.

  Who would send me a random phone number?

  Whatever. I’m kinda drunk and in the mood to find out.

  I dial it.

  It rings.

  And rings.

  And rings.

  And then, beep.

  Then, silence.

  Not dial-tone silence, just a silent dead-air sound like I’m being recorded.

  “What the fuck,” I whisper, staring at my phone.

  Then, I realize the call’s still open and whatever spooky machine is recording me just heard me curse.

  I hang up.

  It’s probably nothing, but the idea of being recorded makes me feel self-conscious.

  I google the rest of the number.

  Not much comes up.

  Most of them are just caller ID websites that offer to look up the number if I’m wiling to trust them with my credit card information. Which I want to do, except the ads for phone sex services and penis pills that hang out in banners atop their websites put me off a bit.

  I keep scrolling. I find one website that doesn’t advertise ‘Sexy MILFS in my neighborhood’.

  “Ok, here goes nothing,” I murmur.

  It takes me a couple tries to get my credit card info typed in correctly. Yeah, I’m a bit drunk.

  I hit ‘send’ and the little icon spins and it takes a while and, in my fuzzy mind, I’m starting to think this might be a mistake and I’ll probably have to call the credit card company in the morning and get the card canceled.

  Then, it blinks.

  A name pops up on the screen.

  Oh, for fucks sake. Really?

  I go to one of those travel websites and buy the first tickets available for Los Angeles.

  I call the number back. It rings for an interminably long time and then gets to the beep.

  “I seriously can’t believe you. Anyways, I’ll be there tomorrow morning. Flight 5776 from Boston. See you then, Jameson Teeling.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Evelyn

  I wake up hungover. Really, really hungover.

  Last night, I finished more than one bottle of wine. I kept waffling between “should I” or “shouldn’t I” when it came to actually going through with this crazy idea.

  In the end, I’m going through with it.

  I need to know if it’s him.

  I mean, it has to be him. But still, if I didn’t get on this plane, I might never know. I’d spend my whole life questioning.

  I’ve done enough of that these last few months.

  All I’ve got with me is a small carry-on with a few essentials and a few changes of clothes.

  I tell myself this is just a quick trip, just to find out what the story is behind that postcard. It becomes a mantra that I say over and over the whole flight, whenever I feel myself slipping into doubt.

  I just need to know.

  We land.

  I shove my way through the slowpokes clogging the aisles. More than a couple shoot me shade and side-eye, but I don’t hardly notice.

  LAX is a nightmare of a maze, full of people trundling along with overstuffed luggage and those little dolly-carts stacked impossibly high with suitcases. I whisk through the corridors and step out into the arrivals area.

  A sea of people is waiting for me. Vast and swirling, a thousand men and women circulating all around.

  But I see only one.

  Him.

  Jacket, slacks, a shirt unbuttoned just the right amount.

  Unf.

  I’ve missed him. I’ve missed the way he can make me fill with just a look.

  Someone shoves right into me from behind and I realize I’m standing still, staring, right in the middle of everything.

  But, he sees me.

  He’s smiling right at me.

  That’s the only thing that matters.

  Oh my God, I can’t believe this is really happening. Did I really fly across the country because of a post card with big-busted women on it?

  Everything comes rushing back, every bit of emotion, excitement, every bit of lust and love, everything I thought I’d put aside.

  He’s here.

  I’m here.

  This is real.

  Elbowing people aside, I fight my way towards him.

  He watches me the whole time, that same crooked half-smile on his face.

  I’m standing right in front of him, now. Looking up into his shimmering green eyes.

  “It’s good to see you, lass,” he says, his accent lilting just the way I remember.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Connor,” I say.

  He shakes his head, still smiling. “That’s not my name, now.”

  I frown. “Jameson Teeling?”

  Smile getting just a little wider, he nods, and there’s a bit of childish happiness in his voice. “You like it? They let me pick it out.”

  “No, I don’t. Jameson Teeling? I mean, you might as well call yourself Whiskey McWhiskeyson.” Still, I can’t help but smiling, too.

  That name is just so stupid.

  And so him.

  “Come on, you know you love it,” he says.

  “No. You’re the one I love,” I say. “But still, I refuse to call you that.”

  He laughs. “Sorry, Whiskey Gal, but you have to. I’m your Whiskey Man now. Literally. At least until they finish the trials for Lochlan and the others. Then, maybe, I’ll change it back.”

  It feels so good to be around him, even if he’s now got the dumbest name in existence. And he’s proud of that dumb name, too.

  Putting my arms around him, I rest my head against his chest. He might be going by a different name now, but he smells like Connor, he feel
s like Connor, and that’s what matters.

  “Come on, lass, let’s get out of here.”

  Hand in hand, we walk to his car.

  On the way, we catch up. I tell him about my job at the coffee shop and at the Cambridge Chronicle, where I write about what I want, and how good it feels. I feel like I’m making the kind of difference that I always wanted.

  We pull into the driveway of a bungalow style home. As I get out of his car and look to my left, not more than two blocks away I can see the beach. Sunbathers and surfers and swimmers stride the sand and relax in the waves.

  “This is nice,” I say, still staring off at the beach and the vast Pacific Ocean. “This is really nice. Is this yours?”

  He nods.

  “WITSEC wanted to put me up in some roach motel on the other side of town. I told them to go fuck themselves and bought this place for myself with some cash I had squared away. I hate it.”

  “You hate it?” I stare at him. “What? Why?”

  “We Irish aren’t made for non-stop sunshine. At the end of the day, especially if I’ve been out surfing, I feel like a well-done rotisserie chicken. My skin is all cracked and crispy.”

  “Wait, you surf?”

  He shrugs. “Sort of. I’m passable, now. Been practicing. When you’ve got nothing but time on your hands between the odd court dates and FBI interviews, and you’ve got someone checking in on you all the damn time, you’ve got to get a hobby or you’ll go crazy.”

  I try to picture him on a surfboard and I just can’t.

  I mean, I love the thought of him squeezed into a wetsuit, the thing clinging to every muscle, highlighting every wet detail, watching water run down his chest, but I can’t see him surfing.

  We go inside.

  It’s nice, with glowing worn hardwood floors and modest furniture. It feels like a home. An actual home. I set my bags down on the couch and Connor leads me into the kitchen and I sit down at the table. As if reading my thoughts, he pours me a cup of coffee.

  We sit together in silence for a moment, just enjoying each other’s company.

  This is really real.

  I can’t even describe how good it feels just to be around him. To just enjoy his presence, the way my body feels more alive with him around, like it wakes up because of his energy.

  And then, because I’ve always got questions bubbling around in my head, one makes its way to the surface and I look over at him and I break the silence.

  “Why now, Connor? Why’d you wait so long?”

  “Believe me, lass, I wanted to contact you sooner. But I promised I’d keep you safe. Even if it killed me,” he says, moving to stand behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders, bringing his lips down to my ear. “And it killed me to keep away from you. I spent a lot of nights thinking about you, about the curve of your ass, the feeling of your thighs against my cheeks, the taste of your pussy. I need you.”

  His words are a growl, deep, fierce, insatiable.

  I’m frozen, with heat and wet growing between my legs.

  His hands drift from my shoulders down the front of my chest and my nipples harden as he slides his hands down further, grasping the bottom hem of my shirt. I raise my arm and he lifts it off me.

  “Even my dreams don’t compare to having you right here where I can touch you,” he whispers, his hands working the clasp of my bra. There’s a second where it feels like he’s having trouble with it, then, growling, he rips it apart.

  “Hope you have a spare,” he says.

  Don’t know. Don’t care.

  I turn, looking up at him. His hands caress my tits, my lips meet his, and my body lights up with desire for him. I feel hot, burning hot, but goosebumps are rising up all over my body.

  He’s overpowering. He’s all I want. He’s all I need.

  A hand leaves my breast and slides down my belly, beneath the waistband of my pants. One gentle finger strokes my pussy.

  “You’re wet,” he says, still stroking me.

  I’m dizzy.

  My body is running on overdrive with need. It’s been months since I’ve had sex. Months of sleeping alone, months of thinking about him while I played with myself, hoping, vainly, that my orgasm would even come close to the kind of pleasure he gave me.

  Mow I’m right here, with him, melting in his hands.

  He draws his hand back and slips that wet finger in his mouth.

  “I’ve missed how you taste.”

  I moan, and he slides his hand back down, back against my wet sex, before pulling it up again.

  This time, the finger goes into my mouth.

  I hold him by the wrist, keeping his hand still while I suck it, while I taste myself.

  “Fuck me,” I moan. “Now.”

  I don’t have time for playing around.

  I’ve spent months fantasizing about this moment, about having him again, and I need to feel him inside me.

  He lifts me up like I’m nothing and thrusts me forward, pressing me face-first against the kitchen table.

  My cheek meets smooth wood. I smile.

  His hands make quick work of the buttons on my pants and he rips them down. Fabric tears and pants and panties come to rest around my ankles and then I feel him pressing against me.

  His cock. Hard as fuck. Big as I remembered. Pulsing, heated, and I gasp in pleasure as he takes me from behind.

  “I need this,” I moan.

  “I need you,” he says.

  The world goes black for a second as he fills me the first time. One deep thrust.

  It’s intense. It’s better than I fantasized.

  Again.

  There’s this second where everything slows down, where it almost freezes, where I luxuriate in every hard inch of him inside me, where I can feel all of him.

  Then, he pulls back.

  Then, he takes me again.

  Harder. Faster.

  And he is not gentle.

  I love it.

  He fucks me rough. Dirty. The kind of way you can only fuck someone when you’ve spent months building to this moment, being denied their touch, their heat, thinking about something you can’t have. And then, you have it. It’s all laid out before you. And you know you can’t hold back.

  I scream his name, his real name, my voice rising in time with the creaking of the table as he fucks me into oblivion.

  My voice leaves me, turning into this raspy thing.

  “Harder,” I manage to gasp.

  He doesn’t disappoint.

  Hand cracking against my ass so hard it makes me nearly jump, he growls and takes hold of my hair, bending my head back.

  It hurts so good.

  All I can see are starbursts of white-hot pain and pleasure exploding in my vision.

  All I can feel is him. His cock. His desire.

  All I can think about is how wholly I am his.

  No one else can make me feel this way.

  Ecstasy surges between my legs, a sudden onslaught of pleasure that makes my legs quake and rips an orgasmic scream out from between my lips.

  I scream his name.

  I scream encouragement.

  Harder. Deeper. Fuck me like you mean it.

  I don’t want this to end.

  No one can fuck me like he does.

  My sex clenches around his, spasms of lust, aftershocks of my climax.

  I feel him tighten. There’s a catch in his breath — a sign of something he’s fruitlessly fighting to hold back.

  “Evelyn,” he groans before words fail him and I feel his cock release inside me.

  Feel him tighten his hold on me.

  Feel him lean into me as every ounce, every drop, of him flows into me.

  Bliss.

  We lay there, together, in every sense of the word.

  I have no idea how long it is before either of us moves. It’s like neither of us wants to disturb the moment.

  Connor sighs, running his hands idly up my bare back.

  “It’s good to have you ba
ck, lass. I missed you.”

  “Mmm,” I say. I don’t really have any words right now, or questions, just happiness.

  He sits up, takes my hands and pulls me up with him. We sit, side by side, looking into one another’s eyes.

  “I want to talk about us.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Connor

  Her eyes narrow, in what I hope is surprise.

  “What about us?”

  I shift. I’m fidgety. Truth be told, I’m nervous.

  I’ve got her right beside me, like I’ve been thinking about all these months, but I’m about to enter uncharted territory here and my heart is on the line.

  I want to give her everything.

  “I want this to be more than just a cross-country booty call,” I say.

  She keeps looking right at me, her eyes prompting me to keep talking.

  Fuck, my voice is almost shaking.

  She deserves to know how I really feel. What I really want. She stuck with me through all this.

  What we have is real.

  I keep talking. “I’ve never been one to think too much about the future. I’m sure that doesn’t come as much of a surprise. When you met me, I was too busy with the present and with being an all-around fuckup to care much about tomorrow, much less where I would be six months or a year from now. But that changed after I met you. And now, I only see a future with you in it.”

  I sounded way less nervous when I rehearsed it.

  And I rehearsed the shit out of that.

  She swallows, her eyes look down, and my heart starts to sink.

  Has she moved on? Did she fly out here just to say goodbye? Is this going to be the last time I fuck her?

  Then, she looks up at me. Smiling.

  My heart could fucking burst right now I feel so god damn happy.

  “Connor, I want that, too.”

  Her smile’s infectious.

  “But there’s a lot to figure out, Connor. I mean, isn’t it still dangerous? And don’t you have more testifying to do? And what about my job? And what will you do for a living? Shit, I mean, you can’t really list ‘hitman for the Irish mob’ on a resume.”

  She’s full of questions, just like always.

  And for once, I have some answers.

  I ran this conversation through my head for weeks before I sent her the postcard. I sat down with myself, I questioned myself, and I figured my shit out.