Curing Erica’s Phobia

Dear readers: I want to thank you for the thoughtful comments and address the concerns that the original episode was in the wrong category. I confess I was thinking ahead to where the story line was going, which would be more appropriate to BDSM, and wanting to keep all the potential episodes in the same category, I made the decision to use that category. I apologize for the confusion that it caused.

*****

Eric quickly undid the scarves and handcuffs from Erica’s limbs, trying to maintain constant contact with her. She was laying quietly, the faintest smile on her lips. Her eyes were closed and she was humming very softly, which Eric found endearing. He rolled onto his side to relieve her of his weight but wrapped his arms about her.

After some time, she said, “Eric?”

He had been dozing, but he was instantly alert. “Yes? Do you want me to move away?”

She seemed to consider it a moment, then shook her head slightly. Her eyes were still closed. As the silence stretched, he tried to prompt her. “Do you need something? Is there something I can get for you?”

She shook her head again, then after a moment, turned to look at him. “Why did you do it?”

He sighed, then said, “If I told you it was because you were unbearably beautiful, that probably wouldn’t be enough of an answer, right?”

She scoffed lightly. He reached up to smooth her hair from her face, but his hand paused before he touched her face. “May I?”

She nodded, and he smoothed her blonde hair back, tucking it behind her ear. She jumped ever so slightly, but then relaxed under his touch. “You are unbearably beautiful. But that’s not why I did it. Well, not the only reason.” He smiled at her. He took a deep breath. “This morning, I wanted to follow you, make sure you got home safe, but I had shift. As soon as I got downtown, I called your cell. Then a bunch of times after that. I left messages. I was worried. I’d dumped a bunch of nastiness in your lap. When I went by your apartment, and you didn’t answer the door, I had to know if you were okay.”

“So breaking and entering?” she said, but with a wry smile.

He nodded ruefully. “Then I saw you lying on the bed. You hadn’t even taken off your windbreaker. It looked like you’d been there like that all day.” He took a deep breath. “I think I could use some of that liquid courage, right now, before I make my confession.”

“What?” she asked, tensing up.

“I told you we investigated you. We found out you had seen a psychologist for a while a couple of years ago.”

“What?” She tried to pull away from him, but he tightened his hold.

“Wait. Listen to me. He didn’t tell us anything. He didn’t tell us why. Doctor patient privilege. He only acknowledged that you had been a patient, and you terminated your visits abruptly. I was really worried about you, about what he might have been treating you for.”

“So you decided to fuck me,” she said with disdain.

“No. I swear. I only wanted to get you up and moving. Eating. I wanted to hug you, to hold you and tell you everything was going to be okay. I wanted to stay here overnight, to make sure you were okay.”

She shook her head, but didn’t say anything. “Then you were telling me about your phobia, and about what Juan did to you,” he continued. “I was afraid I’d pushed you into a hole and you wouldn’t be able to climb back out. I really was trying to make you angry. I mean, I’d much prefer you be angry at Juan, but if it had to be at me… And if I couldn’t make you angry, I was willing to make you afraid. Whatever would bring you back to the here and now.” He paused for a long moment. “And then, I just wanted to show you that it didn’t have to be the way it was with Juan. It didn’t have to be torture.”

She was staring at the ceiling, not responding. “Erica, were you seeing the doctor about your phobia?”

She rolled off the far side of the bed and circled it to get to the door, snatching a robe down from a hook on the way. He jumped into his jeans and followed her. She was in the kitchenette, topping off her wine glass, her back to him. He sat on a stool at the island. “Talk to me. I want to understand.”

She gripped the edge of the counter and her shoulders sagged. “Juan made me go,” she said softly. “He said I needed to quit freaking out every time anyone got near me.”

“But it didn’t help? Is that why you quit going?”

She took a deep breath that had the edge of a sob to it. “Maybe it worked too well. The doctor said something in my past may have happened that caused it. But there are whole chunks of my childhood I just don’t remember, so he wanted to use hypnosis, regression to help me remember.”

“And?” he prompted her.

She took a long drink of the wine. “I didn’t remember, but I started having nightmares, terrifying dreams. Finally Juan said I was more of a pain in the ass screaming all night. He let me quit.”

“What were the dreams about?”

“No!” she snapped. “If I try to remember the dreams, the same thing will happen.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” he said, taken aback by her vehemence. “And the guns? Do you think that is related?”

As if suddenly remembering, she spun around and surveyed the room. “I put it up on the shelf in the closet. I can take it out and lock it in my car,” he offered.

She glanced with concern at the closet, but then shook her head. “I don’t know if it’s related,” she sighed. “I remember gunfire. Very close to me. But everything around me is dark, as if…”

“As if what?” he asked softly.

“It’s stupid,” she said with a shake of her head.

“Tell me anyway.”

“As if I was the only source of light in the room. There. See? Stupid.”

“No, not stupid at all. It’s a memory. Memories and dreams aren’t really all that different.”

He moved his stool back. “Come sit down.”

She added a little more wine to her glass and put the bottle back in the refrigerator, then moved around the island to the stool on the end. Eric reached into his back pocket and pulled her phone out. He pushed it across the counter toward her. “See if there is an email, or a text from him.”

“You already know there is, don’t you?”

“Yes. We want to know how to answer it. We want to know about your relationship with him.”

“Why?”

“If we can string him along, if we can convince him that it’s you, we might be able to get him to reveal himself.”

She shook her head. “It won’t work. The only time he emails me is to set up a Skype session. He doesn’t text because of the time difference. And I suppose he wants to Skype so he can see me and be sure it’s me. So knowing all about our sordid relationship won’t do you any good.”

“This is what we do. We’re good at it.”

She rubbed her forehead. “How sure are you that he did what you say he did?”

“Very. We’re just not sure of the full extent of his role. We wanted to get as much information about the ring as we could before we alerted them. And frankly, we hoped that Juan would come back in country. Erica, I spent today with some of the task force, pulling in the Seattle participants. Other segments of the ring in other cities were arrested at the same time. It was all coordinated. Interpol is involved too, with the international elements and searching for Juan. I probably don’t have to tell you at this point that he wasn’t really in Bosnia.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Read the email.”

“Shit,” she muttered, not noticing his frown. She picked up her phone and put in the pass code. It was showing five new emails, and a quick check revealed that they were mostly junk. She stared at the one from Juan for a moment before opening it.

**Erica, my love, I miss you so much. Do you remember the barn on my grandparents’ farm in Spain last year? What we did? I dreamed about it last night, remembering. It made me hard, so hard for you. I need to talk to you again. Please be on Skype at 2am your time, Wednesday.**

“He’s expecting you to acknowledge his message by responding with a memory from that day, right?”

“You know everything else, you respond,” she said pushing the phone back at him.

He shook his head. “Erica, we know what has gone back and forth between you since we started investigating, after we had a warrant to monitor your communications. But there’s too much we don’t know. That’s why we need your help now. We don’t know what you did in the barn. We can’t keep him on the hook without information like that.”

“Fucking A!” she exclaimed. “My life isn’t your own personal porn video.”

“Erica!” he said sternly, then took a breath. “Just give me something. Something that happened then, so he’ll know it’s from you.”

“So this whole sharing of memories that he insisted on was just a way to make sure I was me…” she said, taking her wine glass back to the refrigerator and draining the bottle into it then taking a deep drink.

“Yes.” Eric answered cautiously. “Maybe even the whole making of memories.”

She glared at him across the kitchen island. “Then email him this,” she spat out.

**My dearest Juan, I still feel the slivers from the barn timber you hung me against, piercing my breasts and belly and the bite of the quirt from my shoulders to my ass, reaffirming I was but a slut for your pleasure.**

As she concluded, she threw the remains of the wine on Eric, then stormed back to the bedroom slamming the door.

He calmly wiped himself dry with a kitchen towel then followed her into the bedroom. She was lying on the bed, sobbing quietly, facing away from him. She tried to pull the covers over her head, but he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled them back as far as her shoulder, taking care not to touch her. “Erica, I need something real to send him. He has to believe it. Please.”

“That was real,” she said between sobs. “Tell your boss or your task force or whatever that you seduced me into cooperation. I’m sure it will get you a promotion. Just leave me alone.”

He went out into the outer room for a few minutes. Then he returned and went into her bathroom. She took note of all of this distantly, even to reminding herself to get up and throw the chain lock when he finally left. Except he didn’t leave. When he came out of the bathroom, he quietly sat on the edge of the bed behind her.

“Erica,” he said very softly. “May I touch you? I want to hold you.”

“No!” she snapped. “Go home.”

“I can’t leave you like this. I need to know that you are all right. I need you to know that you are safe. I need to be here.”

“Get away from me,” she pleaded.

He sighed and moved into the outer room.

Sometime in the early morning hours, Erica screamed in the midst of a dream. He was there almost instantly, as if he had expected it. He debated for only a moment before he scooped her into his arms, holding her tight as she thrashed against the demons in her dream. After a moment, her screams were interspersed with a panting, hyperventilative sort of breathing that he was more familiar with. “It’s me, Erica. It’s just me. You’re safe. I’m holding you. I won’t let anything hurt you, but I’m not going to let go. You’re safe. You’re safe,” he repeated, and after a while, her screams faded into sobs, then into ragged breathing, then into a quiet but tense respiration. He wasn’t sure if she had ever truly awakened. But he held on nonetheless and laid awake the rest of the night, holding her, listening to her breathing.

****

Erica awoke feeling overheated and she felt herself beginning to breathe in the short, shallow panting she knew presaged an anxiety attack. It took her a moment to realize that something, someone was curled around her. “Juan?” she whispered, trying to gain control of her breathing, afraid to move away from the source of unbearable heat at her back.

“It’s me, Eric,” he said, softly.

She pulled away sharply, but then sat on the edge of the bed, looking down on him, trying to orient herself. He pulled his arms and legs back, giving her more space. “You had a bad dream,” he explained. She calmed; her breathing gradually returned to normal.

She stood. “I need to run.” But she didn’t move away from the bed.

Eric glanced at the clock. There had been no alarm, but he knew, from watching her apartment on past surveillance that it was exactly the time she always rose. He reached over and turned on the bedside light for her. “I’ll go with you.”

She seemed disoriented and didn’t respond, but didn’t object, either. After a moment, she moved toward the bathroom, as if finally remembering her morning rituals. He rose and dressed hastily. When she emerged from the bathroom, she stood in the doorway for a long moment, and looked at him. “I want to run with you, Erica,” he repeated. She shook her head, but still didn’t vocally object as she began gathering her running clothes. She even took a moment to glance out the window, gauging the weather.

Eric ducked into the bathroom and made quick work of the necessities, emerging as she was still dressing. “Are you okay?”

“I will be after I run.” She was fastening the armband that would hold her cell phone, then looking around in puzzlement, her cell phone not in its usual place. Eric hastened to retrieve it and hand it to her. He watched as she called up her playlists, noting with dismay what she selected. He didn’t know what songs were included, but she had labeled the playlist “Whip It.” She continued her rituals as if he was not there, moving in an almost robotic-like fashion. She took some vitamin supplements along with a large glass of water. She stretched fluidly. Then she went out of the apartment, and he noted with horror that she left the door unlocked, took no keys. He wasn’t specifically dressed for running, but he followed her, three feet back and three feet to the side. She seemed oblivious to him.

She pursued her too predictable route, along the north shore of the lake, turning back at the precise location she always did. By the time they arrived back at her apartment, she seemed much more engage with reality, including being annoyed at him.

“Why are you still here?” she snapped as she refilled the glass from earlier with more water, and drank deeply.

“The email.”

“I told you the truth,” she snapped.

“I believe you,” he said softly. “But that’s not the way you would have answered. I’ve seen your other answers. They’re not that… graphic.”

She stared at him a moment, then moved around him. “I’m going to take a shower,” she told him.

“Erica,” he called after her, but she ignored him.

When she emerged from the bathroom, he was still there, waiting. “Don’t you have a shift to do or something?” she grumbled.

“Yes. I do. I want you to come in with me.”

“What?” she said, going pale. “I don’t understand. Are you arresting me?”

“Jesus, no, Erica! Get that out of your head. I want to show you something, and I want to give you a less… threatening way to tell us about your relationship with Juan.”

“I don’t understand,” she repeated, shaking her head stubbornly.

“Just come with me, please. It’s Sunday. It will be nice and quiet.”

“And I can leave whenever I want?”

He paused at that, but when he saw her breath start to quicken, he jumped to assure her. “Yes. Whenever. I will drive you back. I promise.”

She backed away from him, but then went to the closet and pulled out a hoody. As an afterthought, she glanced up at the shelf. The gun was gone. She turned and realized he had his jacket on again, the gun undoubtedly holstered underneath. She sucked in a deep breath. Could she go into a whole room, a whole building full of people wearing those?

****

Eric parked in the basement parking lot. He was at her door, chivalrously holding it for her while she was still screwing up her courage to get out. She had taken one of her anti-anxiety meds that morning, for the first time in almost a year. Now, though, she was wondering if it had lost its potency, because it sure didn’t feel like it was helping. Eric waited patiently. It was so unusual to have someone who actually seemed to get it. She climbed out of his car and pulled the hood up on her hoody. Eric smiled encouragement and led her toward the elevators. He took her up to the third floor and they were in a long hall. Windows gave a view into open office areas on either side of the hall. Even though there were only a handful of people working today, it seemed like everywhere she looked, there were guns; shoulder holsters, belt holsters, even tucked in the back of jeans like in the movies. She quickly determined that her best bet was to stare at the floor, following Eric’s heels down the hall.

He led her to an interrogation room and she looked at him in confusion as he held the door for her. “I thought you’d be more comfortable in here than in the squad room. We don’t need to close the door.” She looked at the mirrored observation window. “It’s just you and me, today,” he said softly.

“Okay,” she said hesitantly.

“Do you want some coffee?”

“Water?” she asked, walking slowly around the table in the center of the room.

“You got it. I’m going to grab a file and drinks and I’ll be right back. Will you be okay?”

She nodded, sinking into a chair. He left leaving the door slightly ajar. Erica pulled her hood back and gazed at the mirror, then folded her hands on the table and stared at them, practicing a breathing exercise to calm herself. When Eric returned, carrying a file folder under his arm, a coffee cup in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, he smiled at her warmly. He put the folder and coffee down, and opened her water for her. He sat across from her and pulled the file folder in front of himself. “Are you doing okay?” She nodded, noticing he had removed his shoulder holster and gun. She kept her fingers locked together so he wouldn’t see them shaking.

His thumb played with the edge of the file folder. “I wanted you to see what this is about. I’m not trying to shock you or horrify you. I just want you to understand that this is real.” She squirmed uncomfortably, staring at the folder.

“You don’t need to show me. I believe you.”

“Believing me is not as real as seeing it. An image makes it real, not just a vague idea of what it looks like.”

“Eric…” she protested, but he was already pulling a blown up photo out of the folder, sliding it over to her. She glanced at it then screwed her eyes shut, flipping the photo over.

“Container ship that arrived in Seattle a few months ago. Two of the women in that container died on the trip over. All these women thought they were being smuggled to a new life in America. Paid for the privilege, even.” He pulled another photo out, holding it against his chest. “Look in the mirror,” he said.

Erica frowned at him and he nodded toward the mirrored window. She glanced over at it. “Look at yourself, Erica,” he said softly. He put the photograph down in front of her. “These three girls thought they were going to Dubai to marry rich Arab husbands. They look like you, Erica. Blonde, beautiful, a little younger, perhaps.” He put a set of photos in front of her. “These were taken at a brothel, here in the States. The women were brought in from Eastern Europe.” He put a final set of pictures in front of her. “Singapore. Tourist sex industry.” He paused dramatically. “These are kids from America. The foster care system.” Erica covered her mouth, turning away from the table as Eric gathered up the photos and returned them to the file folder.

“Juan did all this?”

“We know he played a major part in the transportation piece. And he did the photography of victims in Europe and America that were being matched up for forced marriage. We think that might be how he first got involved. Erica, these are only transactions that we know about. Not even all of those. There most certainly are others, victims of trafficking that we haven’t been able to find. Victims that didn’t survive.”

She drank some of the water, still facing away from Eric. “I still don’t understand how I can help you,” she said softly.

“I want you to tell us about your relationship with Juan. The sorts of things you did. We can record it, so no one else needs to be in the room, give you all the privacy you need…”

“Sure, until I leave. Then how many people will get their kicks watching me spill my guts,” she retorted bitterly.

She stood up and started pacing on her side of the room. Eric watched her closely. “It won’t be that way. One, maybe two people on the task force, so they can try to come up with a way to lure him out. Probably FBI, probably profilers, so not even local.”

She rubbed her palms on her jeans. “You have to understand, Juan was into… things.”

“BDSM?” he asked softly.

“He said it would help me,” she whispered.

“I kind of figured from what you already told me. Did you have a contract with him?” She shook her head. “Safe words?”

“No. He said we didn’t need those kind of things. You know. That we had love and trust and that was all we needed.”

“Do you think he loved you?” Eric asked.

Erica stared into the mirror. “He would tell me he did.”

“When? When did he say ‘I love you?'” Erica closed her eyes and shook her head. “After he hurt you? After a scene?” She just shook her head. “That’s not how it’s supposed to work,” Eric told her. “Did you love him?”

She gestured vaguely toward the table and his file folder. “Obviously he wasn’t who I thought he was, who I thought I loved.”

“Did he have other lovers?” She hugged herself, rubbing her arms. “Erica?” She was facing the wall, now. He watched her profile in the mirror.

“Not that I know of,” she whispered.

“But,” he prompted her.

She gave a shuddering sigh. “He took me to a club once.” Now her eyes were closed. “He made me wear a collar. With a leash. I had to kneel on the pillow beside his chair.”

“A BDSM club?” Eric asked when she trailed off in her narrative.

She nodded. “He wanted me to watch the scenes on the stage. Said he wanted to do scenes like that on stage with me, one day.”

“What happened at the club?” Eric asked softly.

She turned, her back to the wall and slid down it, hugging her knees and burying her face. Eric had to strain to hear her. “Men would come to him. Ask to borrow me for a scene. He always told them no, said he would never share me.” Eric waited silently, sure there was more to come. She gave a soft sob. “But he would tell them that they could touch me.”

Eric sucked in a breath despite all of his training. “He knew what it would do to you?”

She nodded against her knees, not lifting her head. She was crying softly now. Eric heard something about cuffs and ball gag. He didn’t move closer to her knowing it would only make it worse. He let her cry herself out, then asked softly, “What happened after?” She took a long time to answer, and he waited patiently.

“He took me home, caned me, then sent me to the psychologist.” She took a deep breath. “After that, he always went to the clubs alone. He said I was too much of an embarrassment. But he would come home smelling of sex. He said it was just borrowing someone’s sub for a blow job, but I could smell the sex.”

“Erica, Seattle doesn’t allow sexual contact at the clubs,” he told her.

She actually raised her head and rolled her eyes at him. “What do you know about the scene? About VIP rooms?” He was relieved to see that the anger was back in her. She rose gracefully from the floor. “I want to go home now.”

“Just a few more questions, please. No video today, okay. I might have an idea.” She looked at him with a puzzled frown, then glanced at the water bottle on the table. “Sit down,” he suggested. “Hear me out. I may have a way for you to get back at the bastard.”

She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her hoody, but sat and drained the water bottle. “At the club, he said he would never share you. Did he ever?”

She scoffed softly. “If he was away for even just a day or two, he would interrogate me about who I had seen, been with. When he was away for months, he would…” she twisted her fingers.

“What, Erica?”

She straightened and took a deep breath, gathering strength. But then seemed to lose it with the next exhalation, burying her head in her hands. Eric reached toward her, but then caught himself and pulled his hand back. She took another deep breath, then tried to say everything all at once, before she lost courage. “He would punish me, demanding to know who I had been with, and if I convinced him I hadn’t been with anyone, he would demand to know who I wished I was with.”

“So, jealous? Is that how you would characterize him?”

She shrugged. “With me, I guess.” He noted that the anger had started draining out of her already. “He always said he wanted to Skype because he could look in my eyes and know if I’d been with someone else.”

“You’ve been with him for two years?”

“Something like that.”

“Why?”

She stood abruptly. “I want to go home.”

“Why, Erica?”

She looked at the door. He’d left it open a crack. She pulled her hood up and started toward the door, but he was suddenly blocking her way and she gasped and cringed back from their almost collision. He was studying her like a science experiment. He stepped closer and she backed away, around the table. “So last night wasn’t a cure. More like a temporary fix?” She refused to meet his eyes. “Was it that way with Juan? He had to fix you every time he decided to touch you?”

“Stop it,” she moaned, then more firmly, “Stop!”

“Is that how he fixed you? By hitting you with canes and quirts? What was it you said? He would torture you by touching you and then torture you by not touching you?”

She stared longingly at the door, trying to map some route to it that didn’t go near him. “Talk to me, Erica. Look at me!”

Like a moth drawn to a flame, her eyes were drawn irresistibly to his. She was panting, closing in on a panic attack. “Tell me what he did to you.” He circled her slowly, holding her eyes, maintaining just enough distance to keep her from fleeing, until she was backed up against the table. “Tell me why you stayed with him.”

“Because he understood,” she said softly. “He knew.”

“What did he know?” Eric coaxed.

A lone tear trickled down her cheek. He moved slightly closer and she trembled violently. She shook her head, finally breaking eye contact. “Please,” she whispered.

“Erica,” he said, his voice low but commanding.

She tensed, then seemed to slump. Her wet eyelashes were fanned out on her cheeks. Her lips were parted, breathing fast, but softer than before. Even her trembling seemed more anticipatory than fearful.

“Speak,” he said in the same tone.

“When he hit me with things, I wasn’t afraid,” she said so softly he could hardly hear her. “If he wanted to punish me, if I misbehaved, he would use his hands, his fingers. But most of the time, he used a crop or flogger, or a paddle. Some implement.”

Eric took a step back. “So he could be far enough away not to frighten you.”

“And I …”

“Would get aroused,” he concluded for her. She nodded, still not opening her eyes.

“I would need him so badly, my fear would be forced into the background; subsumed by my desire. The more he hit me, the more crazed I became. He liked to hear me beg.”

“You said he used a cane on you after the club,” Eric pointed out. “How was that punishment for embarrassing him at the club?”

“Because he didn’t… afterward,” she stammered.

“How did he figure all this out?” Eric asked.

“The first night, when I wouldn’t, couldn’t… He tied me up and just… wouldn’t… stop… touching me. I was screaming. At first, he thought it was funny, but then he started getting mad.”

“And?”

“He took off his belt and started hitting me with it.” She sank into the chair beside her, burying her head in her hands. “I started begging him to fuck me. He called me his pain slut.”

“You said I could go whenever I wanted,” she moaned. “I want to go. I need to go. Please,” she added softly.

“Erica, I need to make some calls, but then I want to take you to lunch. I owe you big time for what I’ve put you through. Can you wait just a few minutes for me? I swear I won’t ask any more questions about what he did to you. Well, not at lunch, anyway.”

“I just want to go home,” she said.

“There’s a cute little Italian restaurant just a block from here. They serve wine,” he added. “You can throw it on me if I break my promise.”

She just sighed in surrender. He pulled his cell phone out, and picked up the file folder. “Just a few minutes, I promise. I’ll be right out here in the hall, okay?”

When a few minutes became ten, Erica began pacing about the room. When it became twenty she could feel panic nibbling at the edges. She would walk to the door, lay her hand on the knob, but then back away and pace again. When it became thirty, she was through the door. Eric was at the juncture of this hall and the one that ran between the glassed in offices. He turned toward her, and she expected a scowl but he smiled at her. He was arguing with someone on his phone. He waved her over to him.

“I’ve got this, Frank. I know you’re the profiler, but you don’t know these people like I do. I’m telling you, I own this asshole. I don’t care if he’s half a world away. I can get him back here. Trust me.” He looked directly at Erica. “No, damn it. She is not like a million other blondes. She’s his addiction. Look, Jerry approved it, so get on board.” He looked at the screen of his cell phone. “Bastard hung up on me,” he swore, but he was grinning. He looked over at her. “Hungry?” She gave a non-committal shrug. “Come on. You’ll like this place. Best bread sticks on the west coast.” She glanced askance at him as she followed him down the long hall, trying to ignoring the men and women in the office areas to either side, all wearing guns. He had his jacket back on, and presumably his own gun tucked away in the shoulder holster.

They walked to the restaurant, and it was as described. Small, intimate, and smelling delicious. The hostess knew Eric and seated them in a quiet corner. “Do you want Chianti or a white wine,” he asked her.

She shrugged. He ordered one of their numerous choices of Chianti and they studied the menus until the waitress arrived with the wine, glasses and bread sticks. Erica ordered a seafood alfredo and Eric ordered cheese ravioli. When the waitress was gone again, he looked across the small table at her. She seemed miles away, so he reached for one of her hands and she pulled away in alarm.

“Earth to Erica,” he said softly. “He treated you like shit. You know that, right?”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she whispered.

“What what is like?” he asked. “Being afraid?”

She sighed. “Going without being touched.” Her voice was so soft, he had to lean forward to hear her. “Watching people hug. Hold hands. Kiss.” She closed her eyes and he could feel her slipping away again.

“Erica, come back.”

She shuddered. “I went to a New Year’s party once.” She went even paler than her usual skin tone. “Never again.” She opened her eyes and stared at him. “Do you know how often people at work expect you to shake hands? Maybe he treated me like shit, but he gave me respite from my terror.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that. You have the key now.”

She scoffed. “What, masochism? Sure, I’ll place a personal ad tomorrow. Masochist in search of a sadist for mutual satisfaction.”

“Erica!” he said sternly.

“Eric!” she mocked him with the same stern tone. “I am one fucked up piece of shit in a relationship with an even more fucked up piece of shitier shit.”

“Hush,” he commanded as their waitress approached, blushing, with their salads. Erica took a big gulp of wine and began eating her salad, ignoring him. He finally reached over again as if to touch her, and when she recoiled, he said, “I want you to help me take the fucking bastard down.”

“How come you get to swear and I don’t,” she demanded.

He blinked at her. “You’re right. Not my place to judge. But the question stands.”

She sat back in her chair. “I don’t know what else I can do. What more detail do you want? Where he hit me? How many times?”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’ve already had more detail than I can process.”

“Then what do you want?” she cried in exasperation.

“I want you to tell him you’ve found somebody else.” Erica stared at him, a forkful of salad suspended in midair. “He told you that he would be able to tell if you’d been with someone else. That he would be able to see it in your eyes. Well, you have. So when he Skypes you on Wednesday, you simply tell him the truth. That you’ve been with someone else and don’t want to see him anymore.”

She shook her head. “He’ll go ballistic.”

“Exactly. Maybe ballistic enough to show his hand, maybe even come back here.”

Erica went Arctic pale. “You can’t be serious,” she whispered.

“We’ll protect you. We think Juan may be the lynchpin in this trafficking ring. If we don’t take him down, he’ll just rebuild the ring.”

She could feel herself starting to hyperventilate again. “Erica, look at me,” he said in that low, commanding tone.

She glanced up at him, but then shook her head, breaking the contact. “I can’t, I just…”

“Why?” he demanded trying to hide his growing exasperation. “He was your boyfriend, right? You said he gave you respite from your terror. So why are you scared to talk to him?”

“When he’s angry…” she whispered. “When he…”

Eric stilled. “That time you were in the hospital with the concussion?” She nodded. “Jesus, why didn’t you tell someone then?” He fell silent as the waitress brought their main courses. When she was out of earshot, he continued more calmly. “It doesn’t matter. He can’t hurt you this time. He’s halfway around the world.”

“But you’re trying to provoke him to return,” she muttered, staring at her plate of food as if it was a foreign object.

“To try to return. Interpol will have him the minute he shows at an airport. ” He continued in a gentler voice. “Eat something, please. Let’s just take this one step at a time. We need to respond to the email, before he get’s suspicious. We need to say something that will pique his curiosity, make sure he keeps that Skype date.” He pushed a bowl of parmesan cheese toward her to get her attention. “Erica, how would you have answered that email?”

She gave a small shrug, only slightly more animated. “I would have mentioned the horse that watched us the whole time, I guess.”

“Really?” he asked with a smile.

“That’s what Juan told me. I was… kind of out of it.”

“Okay, so then you usually talk about how much you’re looking forward to hearing from him and what he’s working on. That sort of thing.” She nodded, swirling her fettuccini in the sauce, but not actually eating. “Suppose we make it more a tone of you really need to talk to him about something important when he calls.”

She toyed with a scallop. “I wouldn’t be that direct,” she said after a moment. “Especially about something I knew was going to make him mad.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and stared at it for a moment, before opening the email and hitting reply. She typed in a message, slowly, painstakingly; her face tight, her fingers shaking.

**My Dear Heart. I do remember the barn and the curious horse. I wonder what he thought about us making such a mess of his straw. I look forward to your call. I have given Paris a great deal of thought. We need to discuss things. Erica.**

She showed it to Eric. He nodded. “I like it. More evasive, like it might or might not really be about Paris. It sounds like you’re going to say no to Paris, but too intimidated to tell him so. He’ll log on just to watch you squirm. Hit send.”

She did, and just like that, her appetite came back and Eric watched her eat with amusement. “Do you mind if we stop by my apartment? I want to get some clean clothes.”

She frowned. “Why can’t you just drop me off, then go home?”

“All right. I confess. I have something I want to show you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Your etchings? I’ve seen them.”

He grinned at her. She sounded like her old feisty self again. “Let’s just call it a ‘different way.'” She raised her eyebrows at him, but kept eating. He refilled her glass with the rest of the wine.

“Trying to get me drunk?” she muttered.

He shrugged. “I’m driving. Eat up.”

“Well, it would take you about two more of those bottles, anyway. Just saying. Listen, about Juan…”

“Nope, we’re not going to talk about him anymore today. We will need to before the Skype call, but I’m done with him today.”

She raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

****

Eric drove her to his loft-type apartment at the lower edge of Capitol Hill. He dug to a back corner of his refrigerator and found a bottle of white wine, offering her a glass. He excused himself to take a quick shower and change as she wandered about the apartment. Like most of its kind, it was lots of brick and huge windows. He had an excellent view of I-5 from the front room. She looked at the furnishings and artwork and decided a woman had been involved in the decorating. It was just a shade more artsy than comfortable, and she had a sense that Eric was a ‘comfortable’ – maybe even a man-cave – sort of guy. That impression was only strengthened when he emerged wearing a well-broken in tee shirt and faded jeans with frayed hems. He was barefoot, his hair still wet, like he was afraid she would disappear if he took too long.

He had been interrogating her all morning. She decided it was her turn. “So who did your decorating?”

“A previous girl friend,” he answered. He was still in detective mode, studying her reaction to his answer, trying to discern her intent in asking.

“Any current girl friends?” she asked, examining a large stylized floral hanging over the couch. Definitely not Eric’s type.

“No. I’m afraid not. Detectives make crappy boyfriends.”

“So that’s why you have so much time to stalk me?”

He shrugged. “Not the most unpleasant duty I’ve ever had.” He pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. “Do you mind if I put some music on?”

She cocked an eyebrow but shook her head. He went over to a wall of shelves, and she realized that several of the shelves held vinyl records and a turntable. “You know, you can fit all that on an ipod now. Much more portable.”

He snickered. “Not the same.” He pulled out an album of symphonic music and put it on the turntable, the volume turned down low.

“And I suppose that would be your same answer about all those books,” she said, gesturing at the upper shelves.

“You nailed it. More wine?”

“You said you wanted to show me something. I doubt it was your wine cellar.”

He took a deep breath. “Actually, I wanted to offer you a chance to experience something.”

She raised her hands defensively. “Okay, if this is where you whip out the handcuffs and…”

“No! Hear me out. Last night, I showed you that it didn’t have to be torture. Right? No whipping, no crops, no quirts, just pleasure.” She was eyeing him, listening, so he plunged on. “Erica, it can be so much more, but no pain. No hurting, no anger, no humiliation, just pleasure. I want to show you that, make it easier to walk away from Juan, knowing you can have a healthy, erotic and painless relationship with someone.”

“With you?” she snorted.

“With anyone willing to respect you and your needs,” he replied. “Because you will know what to ask for.” He took a few steps closer, still respecting the space she needed, but making it easier to capture her focus.

“Eric,” she shook her head, her voice aching with pain.

“No bonds,” he whispered. “You can walk away any time. I swear I won’t touch you without your permission, and if you do want my touch, I won’t make you beg. You have only to ask me, tell me what you want and what you don’t want. Erica, Juan broke you to pieces, I want to make you whole. Then you will be strong enough to face him down on Skype. You won’t be afraid.”