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  Policemen, specifically. Fucking fantastic.

  First they took my statement. The temptation to lie was strong. To say: “Nothing happened.” And then walk away and pretend that it was true.

  But no, they already knew. They’d probably spoken to other people that were there already. They’d probably spoken to my doctor already, too. This was just—what?—procedure. I was a formality. A paper that had to be filed.

  So I told them. Everything. It didn’t matter because I didn’t know them and they wouldn’t care. I only got stuck a couple of times, but they waited. They even had the grace not to appear impatient.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I understand that was hard for you. As a courtesy, we can fill you in on what happened last night. You may have heard about the Hard Z’s and the Locos?”

  I nodded. They liked to hang out at the bar where I worked. Best to get their orders correct and fast, then stay out of their way.

  “Well, they are both gangs in the area and involved in illegal activities: drugs, smuggling, prostitution and the like. The police department received information that a conflict was brewing between the two gangs and we put agents into place. The sting went on for six months, but it came to a head last night. We found out that a bomb was set in a school for retaliation for another act. Our operators worked out a deal late last night to identify the location of the school and then bust both gangs.”

  Why bomb a school? They were just kids, but gang members were filled with high school students, even middle school kids. It didn’t even have to be about that specifically. Bombing an elementary school on another gang’s turf would be an act of war. It was all so senseless. I felt numb, unable to process the horror of what he described.

  He looked at me expectantly. I looked back. What did he want from me, a high-five?

  “One of the men who attacked you last night, the second one, a Mr. José Fernandez, was identified as a member of the Locos. He was found dead on arrival.”

  He paused, looking uncomfortable now. That was interesting.

  “The other man who … well, he…”

  “Zachary,” I said. I wouldn’t ask if he was okay.

  “Yes, he… his name is Zachary Kant. He was one of the agents workings under cover in the sting operation.”

  What. The. Fuck.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  He cleared his throat, “Zachary Kant is an officer with the FBI who, working in conjunction with the local police department, infiltrated the Locos gang. His participation was vital in determining the location of the bomb, which was found and removed from an elementary school early this morning. No one was hurt.”

  I paused to try to take that in. Zachary was one of the good guys. A fucking cop.

  No one was hurt. Well, that wasn’t quite true, was it?

  “So, I was … I was fucked by an FBI agent last night.”

  “Ah, yes. I believe that the reasoning was to keep cover and also to—” He cleared his throat again “—to protect you. It was his belief that you would be … you would be violently gang-raped and possibly killed had he left you to the other men. He attempted to claim you in a manner that is common among that group of people.”

  “I … I see.”

  “Yes, well, undercover officers are given immunity for certain crimes that they commit as part of their role, but that particular one … well, ma’am, the precedents are … unclear. It will be up to you as to whether or not you want to press charges.”

  “Ah.” That was why he was nervous.

  “Even if you do, it is possible that the DA or judge will pardon him … considering the circumstances. Still, that won’t come into play unless you decide to pursue this.”

  “I see. Well, this is a lot to take in. I guess I don’t want to press charges.”

  “Ah. Okay. Good,” he said, sounding relieved.

  He wrapped up by giving me information about victim’s counseling and his business card. I threw them both in the trash.

  So. Zachary was an undercover agent. Zachary Kant. He was okay, I presumed, since the detective was concerned about pressing charges.

  And it made sense, though, his reasoning for doing what he did. He was probably right about what would have happened to me. So in a way he did save me, even if he had to fuck me to do it. He didn’t protect me from that man, Mr. José Fernandez, but he was a little busy—what with being in the middle of a gang war and saving a school full of children and everything. In the end, he had saved me.

  But Zachary hadn’t come. This detective had come and taken my statement and explained about the undercover operation, but Zachary hadn’t come to see me.

  Chapter Four

  I transferred all the grocery bags to my left hand. They were too heavy that way, but my right hand still couldn’t handle much weight, even with the wrist brace. I rushed up the stairs, hoping to make it at least to my apartment door before all the bags slipped out of my grip.

  At the top of the landing, the bags dropped to the ground. Bread and oranges and yogurt containers tumbled across the concrete. For once I hadn’t held back at the grocery store, thanks to the thick envelope of cash that had somehow ended up in my apartment mailbox. I suspected I knew who had left it there, but why? To keep me quiet about it? Or out of guilt?

  Movement beyond the spill caught my eye.

  I tensed, ready to run.

  A man turned from my apartment door to face me. Zachary.

  My breath caught. He looked like shit. Well, he was still beautiful. He would always be beautiful, but now he was also a wreck. If he was here to give me more money, he shouldn’t have bothered. I could live on that much for months. Which was convenient, because I’d lost my job at the bar after being gone for that long.

  “Rachel,” he said, “I’m sorry.” For startling me or fucking me? It was the first time he’d said my name.

  He had a few days’ worth of stubble. I remembered his goatee, but the stubble spread evenly across his face, as if he’d shaved first before letting it grow out again. He was dressed in grungy clothes like before, but now they were rumpled and … ordinary. Not dirty designer jeans, just dirty torn jeans. Not a leather jacket, just a thin, worn, gray t-shirt. His eyes were bloodshot and had thick, dark circles underneath. When was the last time he slept?

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Here. Let me help you with that.”

  He took a step toward me and reached his hand out. Without thinking, I took a step backwards before my mind could register what he’d said. He froze. His body remained still, but emotions flashed across his face like beacons. I didn’t even recognize them all, but I knew one for sure—pain. It had hurt him that I was afraid of him.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said hoarsely. That was what he’d said to me at the time. The words must have brought back the same memories for him, because he grimaced and said, “I’m not going to touch you.”

  I still hadn’t spoken. I wasn’t sure I could. I didn’t know what to say, anyways. Thoughts flitted through my mind. I struggled to grab hold of one.

  Why are you here?

  Why didn’t you come sooner?

  “I… It’s okay. You startled me, that’s all. I’ll pick these up.” I knelt down and began gathering up the groceries into the bags, carefully keeping my body facing him. I was so flustered by his arrival that I used my right hand to pick up a carton of milk. My injured hand. I gasped and dropped the milk. The carton broke open, and white milk spilled onto the dirty concrete floor. Then he was beside me, cradling my arm in his hands.

  He was touching me, and I was letting him.

  “Your wrist,” he said, “it hasn’t healed yet.”

  “Yeah, well, not all the way.”

  His face was turned down towards my wrist that he still held, so I couldn’t see his expression. “Can I bring in the groceries? Please.” He looked up at me—his eyes dark, murky.

  “Uh, sure. Okay. That would be helpful. Thanks.” I stood and backed out of the way. H
e swiftly re-packed the grocery bags and carried them to my door.

  I unlocked the door and stood aside to let him in. As he passed me, the situation hit me. I had tacitly invited my attacker, my kidnapper into my apartment. I felt like the stupid girl in a vampire horror movie. Like he couldn’t have come in on his own but once I invited him…

  But this wasn’t like that, because he wasn’t evil. He was one of the good guys, despite what had happened. He hadn’t raped me. I’d agreed to it. He’d only done it to protect me. He’d fucked me to save me, rather than leave me to the others, if I wanted to believe. I did want to believe. It was not that easy to shift someone in my mind from being bad to good.

  Zachary found the kitchen and began putting things away. It was simple enough with such a tiny fridge and pantry, but I was still impressed with his resourcefulness. Where I came from, men didn’t help. There weren’t too many bags or too much space in the kitchen, so I leaned against the bar and watched him.

  I’d thought about him and dreamed about him, but I’d wondered if I’d forgotten what he’d looked like. I’d only seen him for such a short time period, and during that time I’d been traumatized and in shock.

  He did look different. Not just the goatee or the stubble or the haunted look in his bloodshot green eyes. He looked more gaunt and stood less tall. Even so, he dominated my tiny apartment. I soaked him in—his face, his body, his presence—not knowing if I’d ever have the chance again.

  He put everything away, quickly and without complaint, and then stood awkwardly in the kitchen. Questions came to my mind, and I wanted to ask him what he wanted, but that would just put an end to this sooner. It was suddenly imperative that he stayed. I couldn’t look too deeply into my feelings about him yet, but I knew this much: whatever he wanted, I would give him. Then he would leave.

  He cleared his throat, “You didn’t press charges.”

  My eyebrows rose. I hadn’t expected him to say that. “No. I didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, they explained it. Why you … did what you did. So, it didn’t really make sense to press charges.”

  He looked away, “I think you should. You should press charges.”

  “I don’t understand.” He hadn’t done anything wrong, even if it was questionably legal. The cop had pretty much told me the case would get thrown out. Besides, even if he had done something wrong, why would anyone want to have charges pressed against them?

  “I don’t know what the officer told you,” he said. “Maybe he wasn’t clear on your options or maybe he pressured you or something, but I… what I did to you, you should press charges.”

  Okay, I was getting that he wanted me to press charges. This didn’t make sense. “Listen,” I shook my head bemusedly, “maybe there has been some mistake. Is your name Zachary Kant?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you an FBI agent?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were working undercover in a sting operation with the Locos?”

  “Yes.”

  Now the hard part, “And when you…when you fucked me, you were doing so to keep cover. And because you thought it would help me. That if you claimed me, then the others couldn’t hurt me.”

  “So that’s it,” he said flatly. “You feel gratitude towards me. Well, don’t. I didn’t protect you, I raped you, and I—God help me, but I enjoyed it. Even if I wanted to claim you, to protect you, it didn’t work. You were attacked and raped again while under my protection.”

  “I said yes. It wasn’t rape.”

  “Don’t give me that,” he said fiercely, and I flinched back.

  Damn, I hated being a scaredy-cat. I sighed at myself and at him. “I know what happened. I think that you did the right thing. You did the best you could.”

  He gave me a look that let me know what he thought of his best. “Did you hear what I said?” he demanded. “I enjoyed raping you. I got off on it. That’s not all. I want to do it again. I’ve wanted to do it again since the moment I came inside you.”

  My eyes widened and my breath stuttered. He noticed. He narrowed his eyes and stepped towards me in the tiny kitchen. “That’s right,” he said. “I want to have sex with you. I dream about it. I imagine you under me with your beautiful eyes looking up at me, needy, and those lips and hair spilling everywhere your—”

  He waved his hand towards my breasts, but his eyes never left mine.

  “So don’t try to make excuses for what I did,” he said.

  I was breathing harder now, but not out of fear.

  Does he really want me? Or is this a ploy to scare me? He wouldn’t force me. I was almost certain of that.

  “What happened before,” I said breathlessly, “was it the ultimate pity fuck? You had to do it or I would get hurt or die?”

  “What? Fuck, no. I don’t know.” He looked away, breathing hard. “I saw you before, at the club, and I wanted you then. I was working, but I had planned on going back some other night to meet you. Then I saw that they had kidnapped a woman to rape, and that it was you. Sometimes it’s part of the job, to stand by while something like that happens, but I couldn’t let them touch you. I couldn’t let them hurt you. But I hurt you, and then I let them hurt you anyways. I let you down.”

  He paused.

  “This is what I do…I protect people.” His eyes pleaded with me, to understand, to condemn him. “And then when it mattered, when it really mattered to me, I failed you.”

  The words hung in the air.

  “Oh,” I said softly. I reached up my hand and rubbed my knuckles against the scratchy stubble on his jaw. “No, Zachary. You saved me.”

  “No,” he protested, but he held his head still. “No.”

  “Yes, you did,” I said. I trailed my fingertips up his cheek to his eyes. As I traced his eyebrows lightly, he shut his eyes and groaned. I wanted to hear him groan again, but inside me, like he did when he raped me. This time I wanted him to make me come. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it, but I wanted to try.

  “Tell me you want me,” I said. “Tell me you want to have sex with me.”

  “What?” he opened his eyes, looking alarmed. “No.”

  “You don’t want to have sex with me?”

  “No, I do. I’m sorry I said that before, that I scared you,” he laughed humorlessly. “I’m not going to rape you, or hurt you. I’d like to say I’d never do that to you, but we both know I would. But I won’t, not again.”

  “I’m not asking you to rape me. I’m asking you to have sex with me.”

  “Oh God,” he groaned. He hung his head, “Listen to me,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know what this is. You feel so ashamed about it that you think this is what you deserve? It’s not. Or is this some kind of alternative therapy treatment?”

  “It’s not any of that. Not totally,” I said. “I don’t know if I can even have sex. Maybe I’ll freak out. I know that I want you, physically, and I think you want me, too.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “And,” I said. “You will be gentle with me… won’t you?”

  He paused with his eyes locked on mine, though I couldn’t get a read on his thoughts. “It’s too soon. Your body isn’t even fully healed.”

  It made me angry. He knew nothing about my body or my pain. This was my choice. “How long should I wait? Six months, six years? How about this? You come back when I can be normal again and we’ll pick this back up.”

  But he didn’t leave. He stood there in front of me. I could feel the tension in his body, vibrating in the small space. His shoulders were slumped and his head was down as if he was dejected, defeated. That wasn’t the energy he was giving off. It felt like he was restraining something massive, something that might break free.

  “You can have anyone,” he said. “You don’t have to pick me because I’m here or because I was the one who raped you. You can find someone else who will be gentle and be … worthy of you. You are beautiful. And so precious. You know t
hat, don’t you?”

  “I know that you think that,” I said softly. “That’s why I want it to be you.”

  “I want you so badly,” he said. “I shouldn’t have tried to scare you with that, but it’s still true. I want to make you come. Will you let me do that?”

  Could I? I wasn’t sure. My throat felt tight. I nodded.

  He stepped closer to me, almost touching. His hand reached up again to my breast, still covered in my bra and shirt. Then he paused, his hand curved but not touching. He looked up into my face, searching.

  “Can I touch you?” he asked.

  “Yes. Please.”

  He touched his hand to my breast, molding it. His hand curved along the side and underneath, testing its weight. His thumb reached up to swipe my nipple lightly. I shivered. I didn’t want him to stop.

  “I don’t want to scare you. I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. He hung his head, his hand still on my breast. “Rachel. Tell me what to do.”

  Wait, what?

  “I’m afraid that I’ll be too rough, that I’ll do something to scare you. If you tell me what to do, I’ll do it and not anything else.”

  Jesus, did I even want that? Was it a responsibility or a freedom he offered?

  He looked up at me, supplicating. “You can tie me up…if you want.”

  “I don’t want to tie you up, but I will tell you what to do.”

  “Okay,” he said, as if agreeing to a pact, “Okay. I’ll do what you tell me.” He lowered his hand to his side.

  “No,” I said. “Touch me again.”

  He lifted both hands up to my breasts and fondled them tentatively. Too light.

  “Yes. Like that but harder.”

  He used more pressure. Yes.

  A strange feeling came over me. We stood face-to-face as we had before, but I felt taller, stronger. He seemed—well, he was still large—but he seemed almost worshiping. All he was doing was touching me, in ways I had been touched before, but I was more turned on than ever. He was touching me now at my command: how I wanted, for as long as I wanted.

  My cunt tingled, aching for him to touch me there too, for him to bring me to completion. I was enjoying this too much to end it quickly.