Vanquish (Deliver 2)

Where was her anxiety for straight lines? Her impulse to tackle the mess?

She dropped her head back against the dresser and closed her eyes. She couldn't think about that right now. Something else was pressing against her brain.

He lived thirty minutes from that restaurant. If she knew which restaurant it was, she could narrow her search for the cabin. She jumped to her feet and strode toward the wall that faced Liv and Joshua's house, pressing her cheek against it. Maybe Van had given them his address? At the very least, they knew the restaurant.

And so her harrowing journey to their house began. By the end of that first night, she was able to peer out of every window without losing control of her breathing.

By day five, she started keeping her front door open, letting in bugs and sunshine and the gawking of neighbors in passing cars. She sat on the threshold, trembling and gasping, but she didn't pass out.

On day nineteen, her ass hit the bench on the front porch for the first time in two years. She'd stumbled into it, actually, in a breathless fall of exhausted, quivering muscles. She might've clapped her hands if they weren't squeezing the weathered slats in a death grip.

But she did manage a smile, the first smile to touch her lips since the night they'd left for the restaurant. God, he'd looked so handsome in his suit. He'd been so nervous and...turned on by her.

Her heart pinched, and her smile wobbled away. She missed him, deeply and painfully. His absence was a constant wrench of every breath as if her lungs could never quite fill without him.

She uncurled a hand and raised the hem of her old t-shirt, wiping the humidity and sweat from her face. He would've been proud of her. Fuck that. She was proud of herself.

“I'm sitting on his bench,” she announced to the coverage of bushes, the sunlight soaking into her damp hair. She ran her fingers over the wood, hoping to absorb some part of him that might still be there.

She glanced at the closed-up windows on Liv's house and nodded. She'd get there.

That night, she lay on top of the covers in bed, nude and as content as she could be without him beside her. As she fantasized about his heat sliding over her skin and his tongue controlling her mouth, her hands roamed her body.

Her house might've been a mess, but she'd maintained her daily regimen of cardio and strength training, and that effort flexed sensually in the hard hillocks of her ass and firm flesh on her hips. Her muscles and curves felt beautiful beneath her fingertips. And so did her pussy.

She stroked her fingers down her mound and between her folds as her thoughts filled with silver eyes, a thick cock, and seductive lips. The deep, reverberating voice in her head commanded she fuck herself. So she did, with urgent, wanton thrusts of her fingers. When his voice told her to come, she shouted his name to the ceiling.

There was a good chance she'd never find him, that she'd never be able to show him how far she'd come. But as the next two weeks passed, she protected her new self-esteem, nurturing it with every little progressive step. She refused to even consider puking. She made trips to the mailbox, reconnected with Dr. Michaels, and reinstated her leathercraft business, adding leather dolls to her list of merchandise.

She hadn't worked up to leaving the yard yet, but as the weeks passed, conquering the agoraphobia became more about self-reliance and less about finding Van.

Still, night after night, she sat on the bench and waited for him.

She'd always thought it would take a tragic event to rip down the walls of her phobia: her house catching fire, terminal cancer, abduction and rape. Yet, on day seventy-six, something unexpected finally propelled her over the property line and onto Liv's porch.

Love guided her shaky legs beneath the luminance of the moon. She loved herself enough to raise a sweat-soaked fist and knock on the door. And she loved him enough to smooth her breathing when a gorgeous brunette poked her head through the crack.

A pink scar, just like Van's, twitched on Liv's cheek as she tilted her head. “Yes?”

She curled her fingers in the fabric of her shorts, relaxed them at her sides, and lifted her eyes. “I...I...uh...” Her voice quivered, and the air thinned. “I live next door. I'm—” She wheezed with burning lungs, and Liv's emotionless expression didn't help her nerves. “Sorry. I'm a bit panicky.”

A car motored down the street behind her, and she jumped. Jesus, get a grip. “I'm...I was Van Quiso's...” What was she? Slave? Girlfriend? Lover?

Those dark eyes turned to stone. “What the fuck did he do?” Liv opened the door all the way and stepped toward her.

Her muscles heated, and her own eyes hardened. And she didn’t step back. “He loved me enough to shove me out the door.” Oh fuck. Awkward. She glanced over her shoulder, cringing at the open space of the shadowed street. “Can I come in?”

Ten minutes later, she sat in a brown leather armchair with a mug of coffee in her trembling hands. Liv and Joshua perched on the couch across from her, Joshua's arm wrapped around Liv's shoulders. No doubt they assumed the worst about Van, and her need to rectify that spilled the words from her mouth.

They listened without comment or expression as she told them her story. The agoraphobia and OCD, the reason Van was on her porch, the abduction and rape, the dolls and the restaurant, his forceful attempts to overpower her disorders, his longing to have a relationship with his daughter, and his final unselfish act. The how and why he shoved her out the door. On the surface, the events were horrific and unsavory, but she spoke of them with a passion that made her eyes burn, her chest swell, and her lips curve upward. “I love him.”

“I see that.” Liv reclined against the couch back, her denim-clad legs crossed at the knee and hands folded in her lap. “Stockholm Syndrome is an intense—”

“I have an addictive personality, Miss Reed.” She set down the mug and faced the woman head on. “If you want to psychoanalyze me, please consider all of my syndromes. As well as your own capture-bonding relationship.” She flicked her eyes at a grinning Joshua.

A smile bent Liv's otherwise unreadable expression. “Touché.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “He healed me in a way none of my therapists had been able to do. He freed me.”

Liv hummed, and the soft, reverberating note sent an exquisite chill through the air. “And you want me to allow him contact with Livana?”

She nodded. “I also want you to help me find him. The restaurant you named only limits my search to...oh, the greater Austin area.”

“He'll find you. He's nothing if not dedicated to his stalk—” Liv smiled. “Pursuits.”

She left Liv's house with a yearning to believe her. Hell, he wouldn't have to look far.

For the next two months, she waited right on that bench. She'd trimmed the bushes so he wouldn't miss her if he drove by. So she wouldn't miss him.

Often, she lie down on the wood slats and fell asleep under the canopy of stars. During the day, she expanded her business and paid her bills. She kept a routine, but it was flexible. One time, she even took a cab to the grocery store. A panic attack cut her shopping trip short, but she'd managed to get herself home without assistance.

She didn't subscribe hope, but she refused to let herself slip by without a constant goal to work toward. Sitting on that bench, night after night, was a full-on confrontation with her fears. For an agoraphobe, that kind of courage was hard to come by. She collected her courage from every tiny advancement she made in her recovery, saving it up and making herself stronger.

If he never came back for her, she knew she was brave enough to continue alone.

Not a second went by when Van didn't question the choice he made that night. Every window, every speck of dust, even the bedside lamp was a painful reminder of what he'd given up. The most agonizing choices were the right ones, but acknowledging it didn't make it any less agonizing.

Six months had passed since he'd kissed her drug-slackened lips in a torturous goodbye. He didn't just miss her lips, but goddammit, he missed them so

fucking much.

He missed the sound of her knuckles cracking, her little gasps of panic, and her constant bratty comebacks. He missed working out with her in the mornings and making love to her in the afternoon. He missed feeding her and whipping her and studying all the quirky nuances that made her blush and scowl and throw her head back with laughter. And he missed her in his bed, the firm curves of her body all tucked up against him.

The silence of the cabin was excruciating without her. Even the simple act of breathing was met with a hollow echo that left everything cold and empty.

Like most nights, he drove aimlessly up and down the streets of Austin, heading anywhere except back to the lonely cabin. The leather doll she'd made was a permanent passenger on the seat beside him, a reminder to not show up at her house and demand she come back. He held no doubts in her ability to recover. The doll beside him was a symbol of her strength. And he’d made her weaker. As long as he didn't interfere, she would find her tenacity again.

He turned onto a dark, narrow street. Austin didn't have ghettos, and certainly nothing as decrepit as his childhood shacks, but there were pockets that bristled with crime and broken families.

Up ahead, a small silhouette moved on the side of the road, bobbing and darting beneath the canopy of an abandoned gas station. He slowed the Mustang, motoring closer, the street empty and unlit. He turned into the lot, and the headlights flashed over the tiny features of a five- or six-year-old girl sitting against the concrete wall, legs curled against her chest.

Where was her mother? There was no one around, and she was way too young to be out alone at eleven o'clock at night. Hell, he'd spotted a prostitute just two blocks back.

He stopped the car and opened the door to the sound of her soft sniffles. Approaching her cautiously, he asked, “Are you lost?”

She hugged her legs and shook her head.

With a hand on his hip, the other rubbing the back of his neck, he looked around. Apartment buildings, dark commercial properties, and empty parking lots lined the street. “Where's your mom?”