Last Breath

Five

Regan

I’VE TOTALLY LOST MY SHIT.

I thought I was holding together pretty well. That I’d buried everything so deep inside that nothing could affect me anymore. Guess I was wrong because the longer things seem normal, the more frayed my nerves get.

Daniel has taken me to a nice apartment. Not great by American standards, but cleaner than the brothel and private. It’s only me and him, and I immediately think he’s going to pounce on me as soon as we get inside. That’s okay; I’m ready for that and I’m fine with having sex with this man as long as it gets me to safety. Pleasing one man in bed would be child’s play after what I’ve been through.

But Daniel is . . . nice. He lets me shower in his bathroom and gives me clean clothes to wear. Nothing slutty, just clothes of his own. It’s clear that he wasn’t intending to bring me back with him, which lends credence to his story about taking me to the embassy. This man, this nice man, meant what he said. He was really going to drop me off at the embassy and go on with his life. He wasn’t going to use me for sex even if he was attracted to me.

And this confuses me. My new reality is that men want a quick fuck. I don’t know how to deal with people that are nice for the sake of being nice. Not anymore. I dress in the clothes he’s given me and sit down to eat the food he’s made. And I’m bitchy. I can’t help it. Hiding behind a shitty attitude is all I’ve got anymore.

But he’s trying to make me comfortable. He’s not looking at my body, even though it’s clearly outlined in the thin undershirt I’m wearing without a bra or panties underneath. He’s even made me dinner and poured a glass of milk. And he starts to leave to get me clothing. Or bread. Something.

“Eat. I’ll be right back,” he says.

My mind flips out. I’m being abandoned again. I want to scream, but I jerk to my feet instead, and spill everything. My plate shatters at my feet, and it looks like I feel, all broken and piecemeal.

And I lose my shit.

I start crying uncontrollably. Everything feels like it’s crashing on me at once. Tonight I escaped the brothel, but now the embassy is lost to me. Freedom was so close and yanked away again. And this man is trying to be nice to me, but he wants to fuck me. I don’t know what to think anymore.

So I sob.

Like a hero in some fairy tale, Daniel grabs me in his arms and carries me to the couch. This only makes me cry harder because if he threw me down and started fucking me, I’d expect that. I’d know how to handle that. But he’s petting my hair and whispering soothing things to me.

And I. Cannot. Deal.

Great, wracking sobs escape my body. My hands curl in his shirt and I lean against him, crying my heart out. I’m so scared and lost. And even though this man is holding me, I feel completely and utterly alone.

“Sweetheart, don’t cry,” he murmurs as he strokes my hair. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll take you back to the embassy in the morning, and you’ll be on a plane home in a few days. I promise.”

His mention of the embassy only makes me cry harder. If I go there, Mr. Freeze will find me. He’ll check my teeth, order me “gentled” for a bit longer, and when I’m totally broken . . . what then? I have visions of him sculpting me into the perfect woman he wants…and then, I don’t know, pulling my skin off and wearing it as a hood. He might want a blowjob from a pretty slave girl, but I no longer have optimism as a fall back.

My hands slide around Daniel and I hug him as he strokes my back. It occurs to me that I’m practically in his lap. I want to pull away and take another shower, but a different thought flickers in my mind; this time, when I press my cheek against his neck, it’s to hide the fact that my tears are drying up.

Daniel has weapons.

I move my hands to his waist, still weeping and sniffing, and delicately try to feel for his gun. There’s one taken apart on the table nearby, but Daniel seems like the type that would have one at the ready at all times. He must have another one on him. It’s become my goal to find it.

So I sniffle and burrow against him, noticing the tent rising at the front of his pants. He’s trying to be comforting, but his body is responding all the same. I pretend not to notice it, even as I let my breast brush against his chest. “I’m sorry,” I say in a wobbly voice. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He gives a brief chuckle. “You kidding me?” His fingers stroke my damp cheek and I do my best not to recoil from his touch. All touches seem to lead to rough, horrible sex lately. “You’ve been through hell and came out the other side. I think you’re allowed a cry-fest. Try not to slobber on me too much.”

I like Daniel’s humor. A watery laugh escapes my throat, even as my hand grazes something hard tucked into his belt that can only be a gun. Yes!

Before I can grab it from him, though, his hand covers mine, preventing me. “Cry all you want, sweetheart, but the weapons stay with me.”

I jerk away from him, wiping my eyes. The time for cuddling is past. “You have to give me credit for trying.”

Daniel laughs again and shakes his head in admiration. “I do.” He gets to his feet, adjusts himself surreptitiously, and then gestures at the kitchen. “I’ll clean that up, and then I’ll head out and grab you a change of clothes…”

“No!” I yelp again, and I grab at his trousers. The old panic returns, and I don’t care that I’m clinging to the front of his pants and my mouth is pretty much level with his crotch. I look up at him, pleading. “Don’t leave. I don’t want to be left. I don’t need new clothes. These are fine.” Shit. I’m babbling, but I can’t help myself. “Give me a pair of pants and I’ll be fine. I promise.”

He stares down at me for a long moment, and then scrubs a hand over his face and nods. “Okay. You can borrow some of my stuff and we’ll go in the morning. Together.”

Relief courses through me. “Yes. That sounds good. Thank you.”

Even though I protest, Daniel won’t let me help him clean up in the kitchen. Instead, he gets me another plate of food and another glass of milk, and makes me sit on the sofa and eat every bite while he sweeps up glass and mops the floor. He chats the entire time, too. It’s clear Daniel doesn’t like silence much. He talks about the weather, and how different food is here in Brazil, and the upcoming World Cup. They’re harmless, simple topics—like a conversation you might have with a cab driver. I listen but don’t offer additional commentary. I haven’t seen most of Brazil, after all. I’ve been chained in a whorehouse.

But I like to hear talking other than “open your mouth, slut,” so I appreciate it. His normal conversation makes me feel a little more normal, too.

When I yawn and curl up on the end of the sofa, all food eaten, he pauses and comes to my side. “Come on. Time for bed.”

I stiffen but get to my feet. Here it is. Here’s where I have to pay to earn my keep. “I’m ready.”

We head to the bedroom, and the pasta I ate feels like lead in my stomach. I can do this. I can.

Daniel moves ahead of me and pulls down the blankets on one side of the bed. “The windows are nailed shut, so I wouldn’t recommend escaping through them. Plus, this neighborhood is kind of shit. Again, wouldn’t recommend escape.”

He offers me a pillow and I clutch it to my chest, waiting. Is this for my knees? So I don’t get more bruises while I service him? “All right.”

Then he walks past me, back to the door of the bedroom. “I’ll be in the living room. If you get scared or need anything, you shout. Okay?”

And then he closes the door.

He doesn’t want sex with me after all. At least, not tonight. He’s giving me this bedroom. I’m shocked . . . and then my mind starts racing. I can push the bed against the door and barricade myself in. Or there’s a heavy, scratched-up bureau against one wall that I could use to barricade the door if the bed is too bulky. I can wall myself into this room and be completely, utterly safe.

But . . . what if he tries to go out again?

What if he leaves me?

The familiar panic surges, and I’m close to throwing up the food I’ve eaten. I yank the door back open and run into the living room, startling him. He’d sat back down to work on cleaning his guns but stands up.

“What’s wrong?”

I can’t explain the sheer relief I feel at the sight of him. I wring my hands and try to think of a probable excuse as to why I don’t want him in the bedroom with me . . . but I don’t want him out of my sight, either. “I . . . um, I’m scared.”

“Of the dark?” he teases, all smiles again. “You want a nightlight?”

“Very funny, asshole,” I say, but I’m cracking a faint smile myself. I glance over at the couch. “Can I . . . um, can I sleep here?” I point at it.

Now he looks confused. “You want me to sleep in the bed and you on the couch?”

“No,” I yelp out quickly, thinking. If he’s in the bed, he’s in the other room. “I . . . uh, I want to be in the same room as you. Not the bedroom,” I add, “ . . . here. Where it’s safe.”

Where I can see you.

He digests this and then nods. “Sure. Get your blanket. I’m going to be up for a while anyhow.”

I race back to his room, snatch the blanket out of the bed so I don’t have to spend longer than a moment with him out of sight, and then wrap it around me, heading back to the living room. Daniel watches me as I return, his face impassive, but soon returns to cleaning his guns.

I relax a bit more now. We’re not in the bedroom, and as I lay down on the couch, I face the table so I can watch him work. So I can keep an eye on him. I pull the blanket tight around me and curl up. It’s soft. It’s the softest thing I’ve felt since I was taken, and I immediately feel like weeping again at the small luxury.

Tomorrow I will figure out some way to make Daniel keep me at his side. I can’t go to the embassy. I can’t chance it. I’ll have to figure out some other way to get home.

I watch Daniel work until I fall asleep, exhausted.