6. What Are You Afraid Of?
what are you afraid of?
Scarlett
N ight falls, and with it, a soft warm rain. We park on the road, engine off, and listen to the rain going tick-tick-tick-tick on the roof.
"The money guy was my way out," I say after an hour of silence.
Sol says nothing. Waits. He's stretched out as much as possible, hands folded on his belly, eyes closed; I know he's listening.
"He was obsessed with me,” I continue. “Twice a week turned to three, and then four, and then every day. The more I pretended to like him, the more obsessed he became. Eventually, he bought me. Fifty thousand US dollars—that was the value they put on my life. Fifty grand. He paid in cash and smuggled me into the US. He had a false rear bench in his van. It opened up with a secret latch, and there was a space for a person to hide. It was hot and stuffy and loud and smelled fucking awful. He took me to Texas, to his home. He locked me in his basement and…" I choke. "It was a very nice prison. No roaches, no mice, no ants. I only had to let him fuck me. He fed me three times a day. I had a real bathroom with a real shower—something I’d never even seen before. He never hit me. He…he liked to pretend we were a couple. He brought a TV down and made me cuddle with him and watch telenovelas."
"Fucking weird."
"Right? He was this fifty-year-old dude, not ugly or anything, but just…weird. Obsessed with me. He'd bring me dresses and lingerie and make me pretend like I was a model. He wanted me to speak like a little girl. Soft, quiet, submissive. He had all these rules. I always followed them because he…he'd get this look in his eye. Crazy eyes. Killer eyes. I didn’t understand it at the time, just knew that it scared me shitless, so I did what he said. Now I know it was the eyes of a killer. Not like you and me are killers, though. Someone who gets off on murdering people. I think…I think some part of me recognized that. I think I knew that eventually he was gonna kill me."
"How'd you get away?" he asks, eyes closed.
"He was getting erratic. Making weirder and weirder demands. Dress up and play with puppets, and lick his feet and all sorts of weird shit. And he'd get pissed really fast if I so much as hesitated. He…" I let out a breath. "He tried to rape me…anally. That was my breaking point. I fought him. Kicked him off me and fought for my life. To this day, that's the hardest kill I've ever made. I got him in a leglock and choked him to fucking death. But fucking god, he wouldn’t die . I had to choke him for fucking minutes . Maybe I wasn't strong enough, I don't know. I got dressed and raided the upstairs for anything I could carry. A backpack and food and as much random shit as I could fit. And I fucking ran."
"Goddamn, Scar."
"I was in that basement for a year."
He opens his eyes finally and looks at me. "A fucking year ?”
I nod. "I remember seeing a newspaper from a distance at a gas station once he had me across the border. I noticed the date. When I got out, I saw another newspaper. I was in that monster's basement for one year, two months, one week, and six days."
"So…you were never an illegal immigrant."
"Not by choice. I was brought across the border against my will. I had no identification. I don't think I was ever even on any records in Panama. I've never existed."
"What'd you do?"
"Begged. Starved. Suffered. Walked a fucking lot.” I sigh. "About six months after I escaped, I was walking around some shitty part of El Paso. It was late. Dark. A car drove past me. I was walking along a wall in the shadows, so I guess they didn't see me. Turns out, I stumbled across a secret meeting between a CIA agent and an informant from south of the border. And I saw them. Heard everything. The agent didn't notice me himself until after his informant left. I didn't know what I'd seen at the time, obviously, only that I knew it was something I wasn’t supposed to see. And then I accidentally kicked something. Gave myself away. The agent had a gun to my head in seconds. But it was obvious right away that I was just some homeless girl. I guess he took pity on me. I dunno. He brought me to an all-night diner and bought me food and pumped me for information. I told him everything. My family dying. Luisa. Being a captive. Everything. I guess he saw something in me because he brought me to his boss. That's how I went from illegal homeless immigrant and former sex slave to CIA agent. They made me a whole identity. Helped me pick my name. The works. Put me through testing and training. Eventually ended up a field agent working south of the border, turning informants—making double agents out of cartel informers. Got into wet work by accident. I was meeting another agent and a senior case officer when we were ambushed. The senior case officer was impressed with how I handled myself in the gunfight and recommended me to Chad, and you know the rest."
"Fucking Chad," he says.
"Fucking Chad," I agree.
"Sol?"
He opens his eyes and looks at me. "You were the first person I had voluntary sex with."
He frowns. "What?"
I nod, shrug. "Yep. After what I'd been through, I sort of turned off my sexuality. Wanted nothing to do with it. Couldn't. It wasn't until I met you that I even knew what it felt like to be attracted to someone."
He looks at me thoughtfully. "Makes sense why it was such a fight to get you to sleep with me. I thought you were just playing hard to get."
"Wasn’t playing. I was scared out of my fucking mind. I had no idea what I was doing. What I wanted. What it was supposed to feel like."
"I wish you'd fucking told me, Scarlett," he murmurs. “I’d have done things so much differently. I had no idea. You seemed so strong, so fearless, so confident."
"I'm a good actress. I didn’t trust you. I didn't want anyone to know what I'd been through. I was ashamed. Fuck, I still am."
"Ashamed? Of being a victim?"
"I'm not a fucking victim," I snarl at him. "Horrible shit was done to me. But I'm not a goddamned victim ."
"I don't understand that, Scar. What's wrong with understanding that you were victimized?"
"I do understand. But identifying yourself as a victim comes with a weight I do not want. If I think of myself as a victim, the weight of everything I went through will crush me. So therefore I'm not a victim. I'm a survivor. A fighter. I fought my way across the Darien Gap. I fought my way across Central America. I fought to stay alive in that whorehouse. I fought to stay alive in that basement. I fought Alejandro and I won. I fought to stay alive on the streets of El Paso. I fought to the top of my class at the Farm. I have had to fight for everything I am, everything I have, every moment of every day my whole life. I'm a fucking warrior, not a fucking victim."
"That I get," he whispers. "But Scarlett, you don't have to fight when you're with me. You can let your guard down. You can relax."
I bark a laugh. "Relax. Good one, Sol."
He turns to face me on the bench seat. "Close your eyes."
I look at him. "Why?"
He arches an eyebrow at me. "Call it an exercise in trust."
I let out a slow breath and then force my eyes closed. "Now what?"
"Now breathe. Just…breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Eyes closed."
"I understand how breathing works, Sol."
“Then shut the fuck up and do it."
I snort. "Fine. Breathing."
I settle more comfortably into the seat, lace my fingers across my stomach, and breathe as he instructs.
"I'm going to touch you," he murmurs. "Don’t react. Don’t do anything. Just keep your eyes closed and breathe."
I feel myself tensing. "Sol…"
"Trust me."
I feel everything tense inside me. This is Sol, but I’m still nervous. What's he going to do? I need to know.
Instead, I focus on breathing. In for four, hold it for seven, out for eight. Eyes closed. Trust him.
A single fingertip touches the center of my forehead. Traces down my nose. It's gentle, a ghost of a touch. Pauses at the tip. Back to my third eye and down to the tip of my nose again.
I'm breathing hard—not quite panting, but long, deep breaths that I'm not in control of.
"Relax and breathe, Scarlett."
"Trying."
This time, his fingertip trails down my nose, over my philtrum, and then pauses on my lips. Traces my lips from one side to the other and back to center.
My skin tightens and tingles. My heart pitter-patters.
His palm, large and warm and rough, cradles my cheek. Slides down my neck, pauses, loosely circling my throat—it takes every ounce of self-control not to break his arm. I focus on breathing. On his touch.
He slides his hand down the outside of my arm. His fingers slide between mine.
"What are you doing, Sol?" I whisper.
He doesn't answer.
Instead, he lifts my hand, and I feel his lips touch the center of my palm. He kisses me there, and my whole body twitches at the delicate touch of his lips.
“Easy, Scar. Just breathe. Relax."
"How can I relax when I don't know what you're going to do?" I ask.
He laughs. "Exactly. You don't." He skates his touch back up my arm to my shoulder and then cups my face again. "Do you think I'm going to hurt you?”
"No."
"Does it feel like I'm making a move? Trying to get into your pants?"
"That'd be easier to deal with."
"I know." His thumb ghosts over my lips again. How do I know it's his thumb and not a finger? I just do. "Trust me, Scarlett."
"Fucking hard."
"You trust me in a gunfight."
“Yeah, but—"
"If some tango had you in a chokehold with a gun to your head, would you trust me to take the shot?"
"Absolutely."
"If you were running through a building, and I was on the radio telling you where to turn, and I told you to jump out of a window, would you?"
"Without hesitation."
“You do trust me."
"Sol…"
His palm goes to my cheek again. "So trust me in this, babe.”
His hand slides down. Palm over the hollow at the base of my throat. Fingers circling my throat—gentle, delicate…even affectionate. Yet, my pulse pounds frantically.
"Sol," I gasp.
"Eyes closed. Breathe."
"Sol. Stop. Let go."
"Am I hurting you?"
"No, but…"
"Would I ever choke you out?”
"No.”
His touch tightens just a little. Holding, now. His fingers are against my pulse point, so he must feel how frantically it's pounding.
"Sol," I gasp.
“It's me, babe. Just me. You can breathe. You know you can break my wrist in a split second. So what are you afraid of?"
"I…I don't know."
“You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me."
"I like it," I whisper. "I don't want to like it."
"Why not?"
"Submission."
"You're not submitting. You're allowing me to touch you. You're still in control." He cups my face again, brushes his thumb over my lips. Cradles my throat in his hand again.
"You're in control, I whisper.”
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"You have your hand around my throat. One squeeze and I'm dead."
"But you know I won't."
Panic is building. A memory. Something I've blocked out is coming back. Tears burn behind my eyes.
"Let go, Sol. Please let go. It hurts. I don’t like it. I don’t—I don’t like it.”
His touch is gone. He takes my hand and guides it to his throat. "You try."
I try to pull away, but he holds onto my hand. "Sol. No."
"Tell me what you're afraid of, Scarlett."
"Maria was weak. She had no control." It's barely a whisper. I’m shaking. Trying like hell not to cry—I haven't cried in twenty years. Not since Mama, Hector, and Daniela died.
"Tell me." He guides my hand to his throat, presses on my hand with his. "Tell me what he did to Maria."
"He…his name was Alejandro. He…" Tears leak out.
"Tell me. Tell me everything he did to Maria."
"He made me feel things. At first, I only pretended. The other girls did it, too, at the whorehouse. We talked about it at night, after. How to fake what they wanted to hear. I faked it. But then when he brought me to the basement, he…it was different. He touched me. And…it…it felt….good."
"Your body felt it. Nothing wrong with that. It's normal."
"It's not . I was a prisoner. A slave. But he was patient. He knew when I was faking, and he'd stop. He wanted it to be real."
"So you let it be real."
“Yes."
"Tell me."
"He would touch me. He'd…he'd get me right there. And then he'd choke me. Right when I was about to pass out, he'd let go and make me come all at once. It was scary. The relief, the…the orgasm. It was too much."
I find myself squeezing his throat and force myself to let go. "I forgot about that. Till just now. I blocked it out."
"You had no control. If you hadn't forced yourself to give him what he wanted, he would've killed you. You knew that instinctively and did what you had to do to survive. That was you fighting, Scarlett."
"Didn't feel like fighting. Felt like giving up."
I take his hand and bring it to my throat. Open my eyes and meet his gaze—green eyes, soft, gentle, understanding. This is Solomon, the man. No longer WindWalker. Not the man I used to know. Someone new.
I hold his hand against my throat, my hand on his. “You're not him."
"No, because you chose your moment, and you fucking killed him."
"My first kill."
"Always the hardest."
"What was yours?" I ask.
"First op on a kill squad after transitioning from analytics. Orders were to take out a cartel assassin who'd killed a judge and fled to Belize. Shot a guard from fifty paces away. Snap. So fucking easy. He just dropped. It didn't register till much later after the op. I threw up. Didn't sleep for three days afterward, kept seeing the guy fall."
His hand on my throat feels like affection, somehow, now. Just telling him…did something. Changed something inside me.
"Sol…" I whisper, looking at him. "I've never talked about any of this. Not to anyone except the agent who recruited me, and he died in Afghanistan five years ago."
"I've got you, Scarlett."
"Scarier than any gunfight."
"I know."
"Tell me something you've never told anyone." I touch his lips with my fingertips.
His lips are soft. Damp. Touching them like this, gently, reverently, tenderly…I've never touched anyone like this.
"I killed a kid. In Iraq." His voice is a low growl. "We were hunting a warlord. Had his location narrowed down to a block in Baghdad. Rounded a corner, and this kid was in the middle of the street. Maybe six. Little boy. He had a gun. A pistol. He could barely hold it with both hands. Pointed it at me. I…I meant to wing him at best. Make him drop the stupid thing. Not like he could hit me, could barely hold it. He was so small. Why'd he have a fucking gun? Who gives a six-year-old a fucking gun?" His voice is tight and harsh. “He moved. Last second, right as I fired, he threw the gun down and ran…took the round to the fucking skull. If he'd just stayed where he was or even moved in any other fucking direction, I’d have shot the gun out of his stupid little hands or just plain missed. But he moved wrong. It was an accident. I have nightmares about that kid all the goddamned time. Never talked about it with my squad, in a psych eval, nothing. Ever. Not till now."
"Fucking hell, Sol."
"That was the hardest one. First kill was just shock. But that fucking kid, man." He flops back in his seat, head smacking the headrest. "We completed the mission. Went back the same way, and the kid's body was gone. Heard a woman crying. Sobbing. Never heard a sound like that before or since, the way that woman was crying. I'd do fucking anything to take that back. Let the kid shoot me. Fuck me, man. Fuck me."
"Been there. Everyone is a combatant. You don't know who has a gun. Who has a bomb vest. Who's gonna toss a grenade at you. IEDs everywhere. Every step, every room, every civilian…some kid has a gun on you, what are you supposed to do?" I touch his shoulder.
He looks at me. Green eyes are damp. Full of agony. "He was just a goddamn kid. Why ?"
"You know there's no answer to that."
"I know. Can't help asking, though."
His shoulder is thick and dense under my hand. Flashes of memory skitter across my mind: Sol, above me, limned by the red dawn sun, moving over me, in me. My hands on his shoulders as he fucks me slowly. Hair loose and messy and sweat-wet. Grinning. Panting into the side of my neck.
"Tell me," he murmurs.
He can read me so damn easily. I shake my head. "No."
"Scarlett."
I can't help brushing his hair off his forehead. Something else I've never done. I'm a total stranger to tenderness. "Thinking of us. Remembering." I swallow hard, touch his shoulder again. "How I used to hold on to your shoulders."
His eyes light up. "I remember."
"You'd have nail marks for days."
"I always had them, Scarlett. That was your thing. Digging your nails into my shoulders while I fucked you."
I look out the window at the darkness. "One of us should sleep."
He snorts. "As if either of us could."
"I couldn't."
"Me either."
He faces me. His other hand drifts across the space between us. Rests on my knee.
I just look at him. Wait. Hold his eyes.
His hand slides up my leg to midthigh, pauses. His gaze dares me to stop him. I can't. I won't. Don't want to. Not now.
Further up, until his fingers catch against my crotch, against the seam of my pants.
Another pause. I just hold his gaze, breathing slowly.
Up. Fingers nudge my shirt up, baring a sliver of belly. Find flesh, and my skin pebbles at his touch.
I have no idea what he's going to do, what he wants, what I want. He asked me to trust him, and I do. I always have. Fuck, I came to this fucking jungle for him when I wasn’t even sure it was him. I came on a thin hope.
Whatever this is, then, I'll play along.
He finds the button closure of my pants. Flips it open. Tugs the zipper down. My heart starts pounding.
"Breathe, Scarlett," he murmurs.
"Trying."
"Yes or no?" His hand is flat on my bare belly, fingers at the waistband of my utilitarian black briefs.
"Yes," I breathe.
"Then close your eyes and just breathe. Trust me."
I close my eyes and go back to slow breathing, counting each breath, fighting the panic. Why am I panicking? This is Sol.
"Why am I so scared right now?" I whisper.
"I don't know. Why are you?" He runs his fingers from hipbone to hipbone, fingertips under the elastic.
"Because it's you," I answer. "But everything is different."
"How is it different?"
"It's not just sex anymore." I put my hands over my face. "I don't know. It meant something to me before, Sol. I swear it did."
"For me too."
'But this is different." I swallow hard. "Tom was my last. And that was four months ago."
"You're in control, Scarlett." He pulls my hand from my face and guides it to his hand. I grip his wrist. "Show me what you want, Scarlett. More, or less?"
My lungs are tight, like there's a band around my chest. It's so stupid—this is Sol, he knows my body. I trust him. But…god, I'm scared. I'm scared of letting this go further and…and what? Falling in love? I was already in love with him.
"I was in love with you," I whisper.
"I know."
"That's why I'm scared. It ended. I lost you. I fell in love and I lost you. And it fucking hurt, Sol. It hurt so goddamned bad." Grip his wrist hard. Swallow. "And then I find out you were alive the whole fucking time. I get why. I understand. It makes sense. It was the only choice you could have made. But I still feel angry that you weren't dead. It makes no sense and I know it, but it's how I feel."
"So be angry at me." A pause. "Look at me, Scarlett."
I look. His eyes are shining with too many things to name.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to abandon you. But you got hurt anyway, and I'm sorry."
I swallow hard around a hot lump. "Fuck you, Solomon."
"I'm sorry, Scar."
"Fuck you."
"I'm sorry."
"Fuck you for dying."
"I'm sorry."
"Fuck you for leaving me alone in this stupid, cruel, violent world. Fuck you for living without me. Fuck you being able to live without me. Fuck you for finding comfort with Violet and not me. Fuck you for letting me…for…for—” It's hard to let the words out and hard to stop them at the same time. "For letting me be with Tom. For letting me feel good with someone else. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you."
Stupid hot fat tears slip down my cheeks. I can't stop them. I grip Sol's wrist in both hands and push downward. His fingers slip under the elastic of my underwear and find skin, find the soft thatch of trimmed hair over my seam. I've never been a shave-it-all girl. Sol told me once he liked it this way, and I’ve kept it like this ever since.
"Sol, "I whisper.
His long middle finger fits against my seam. "Scarlett."
I fit my hand over his and guide his finger inside me. "Make me feel something else, Solomon."
"Something other than what, babe?"
"Afraid of loving you and losing you again."
I gasp, then, as his finger delves inside me, finding me soft and wet and ready.
"Eyes on mine, sweetheart," he whispers. "Don't look away. Look at me while I make you come."
I whimper softly as he curls his finger inside me and withdraws it. Slides it back in. Deeper. Fuck, I forgot how good it feels when he touches me. No one knows my body like he does. How to touch me. My body doesn't respond to anyone like it does him.
"Sol," I whisper.
He just gives me that arrogant half-grin of his, the one that says he knows exactly how he's making me feel, and he likes it. "Breathe, Scarlett. Keep breathing."
I suck in a breath and realize only then that I was holding it. "Sol, fuck. Please."
"Please what, Scarlett?"
I slink down on the bench and angle sideways, my back wedged into the corner between the door and bench, head tipped back. I crush my fingers around his thick, strong wrist. Torn between yanking his hand away and begging for more, I can only hold on and hope he knows what I want, what I need, when I clearly fucking don't.
"I don't know,” I admit.
His finger curls into me again, delving into my wet center. He shifts closer, torso angled to face me. He nuzzles his nose against my cheek. "When was the last time you came?"
"I don't know."
"A week ago? A month ago?"
"Weeks. Maybe a month."
"Did you make yourself come?"
"Yes."
"Was it good?"
"No. Not really."
"When was the last time someone else made you come?”
"Months. Tom. It…he…" I trail off, uncertain how much he really wants to hear.
"He what, babe? Tell me."
"It was better than on my own, but…"
"But what?"
"No one has ever been able to make me come like you, Sol."
His breath washes over my ear, hot and slow. His lips touch the sensitive skin behind my earlobe. The side of my neck. My skin pebbles, tightens, and my core pulses around his finger.
"You want me to make you come?" He plunges his finger in and out of me a few times, slow and teasing. Adds a second finger, middle and ring, diving in and curling, withdrawing, slicking back in with a soft wet squelch.
I whimper as his palm brushes over my clit. "Yes," I whisper. "I want to. I want you to."
He slides his fingers out of me and draws them over my clit, smearing my wetness over the tender, erect bundles of hypersensitive nerves. I gasp as lightning sears through me, forcing my hips to drive upward against his touch.
"So fucking wet, Scar." His words drop against my ear, and I pulse, gushing more arousal.
"Sol," I groan.
"Give me your tits, Scarlett," he orders.
I rip my shirt up, dragging my tight, plain black sports bra with it. My tits spring free, and immediately Sol's mouth covers one, teeth scraping my skin, tongue flicking greedily against my hard nipple. At the same time, his fingers press onto my clit and swirl. A soft cry escapes my lips. He sucks on my nipple, transfers to the other breast and grazes my nipple with his teeth while his fingers fly side to side against my clit. The striking lightning becomes a crescendo of intense pleasure that drags another clenched-teeth scream out of me, stars bursting behind my eyes, hips flexed up, buttocks tensed, stomach sucked in, chest thrust out, head thrown back.
"Scream for me, Scarlett," he growls, his words rough against my damp nipple, which he licks, suckles, and then nips hard enough to elicit a surprised yelp from me. "Who's making you come?"
"You," I breathe.
"Say my name. Scream my name for the whole jungle to hear, Scarlett. Tell everyone who makes you come."
He drives two fingers inside me, fucks me with them once, twice, three times, and then smears my essence over my clit and brushes his fingers in a wild, frenetic circle while his tongue flicks against my nipple.
My orgasm breaks open inside me all at once, and I feel my pussy spasming, clenching around nothing, and a scream rips out of me. " SOL !" I scream. "Sol, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, Sol!"
I can't breathe, can't draw a breath, can't scream—I can only ride the waves of ecstasy as they ripple through me. He bites my nipple again, thrusting his fingers deep inside me, and another spasm wracks me as my inner walls clutch his driving fingers, and I push my hips against him, sucking in a shuddering, gasping breath…only to be wracked yet again. And again. and again.
Wrecked by the orgasm, I pant and whimper as the aftershocks keep me quivering. I pull his hand up and away, forcing my eyes open.
His grin is arrogant and satisfied. He puts his fingers in his mouth and licks them clean.
A surge of exhaustion hits all at once, and my eyelids grow heavy. Sol sees it and sits up. Pats his thighs. "Lay down, honey."
"Sol…"
He tugs his pistol free and lays it on his thigh. "I'll keep watch. Put your head down and rest. I've got you."
"But what about you?" I rest my hand on his zipper, which is bulging with the strain of his trapped erection.
He pulls me around, bodily turning me and guiding my head onto his lap. "Plenty of time for that later, Scar. For now, close your eyes and rest. I've got you."
"I don't wanna leave you hanging," I protest, even as my eyes drift close, drowsiness starting to swallow me whole.
“You're not. I'm fine. This was about you. Only you."
"Sol, I…"
His fingers graze through my hair—my hat came off at some point during the last few minutes. "Hush, Scarlett. I've got you. Rest."
I let myself drift, then, choosing to trust him. His fingers trail through my hair, stroking softly and slowly, affectionately, soothing.
He's got me.
Satisfied yet aching with arousal, I slip into sleep.