Carefully, she spreads the glue in place and then I squeeze the flesh together, hissing a little as glue stings. I slap a gauze strip over it and hand her the tape. As she winds the tape around my waist, her breasts touch my back and that—combined with the touch of her soft hands—is enough to give me a semi. Worse, on the third pass, her arm brushes a little too close to my crotch and the semi grows into full wood.

“Sorry,” I say through gritted teeth. “Delayed adrenaline.” A total lie but given that Regan freaked out before in the alleyway, I’m working extra hard not to provide more fodder for her nightmares. “Let me finish up,” I offer to take the tape from her.

“No, I’ve got it,” she says, but on the next two passes she makes sure she’s well away from my lower region. It doesn’t matter. Just her nearness is making me dizzy with arousal and want. “How’s that?” she asks finally.

“Good,” I say and then nearly run to get out of the bathroom. I flop down on the sofa wishing I had at least a couple of those bottles of vodka down my throat instead of on my side. I’m going to need something so I don’t think about having sex with Regan every five seconds.

She follows behind and suddenly the big bedroom that I booked for us is way too small. I would’ve gotten two rooms if that had been safe, but I couldn’t protect her if she wasn’t within eye sight. Maybe she’s worried that we have to sleep in the same bed. “Don’t worry,” I assure her. “This sofa has a pull-out. You can have the bed.”

Absently she nods and then sits on the side of the bed, bouncing a little as if she’s not sure if she wants to sit or pace. Rather than worry about that, I close my eyes and let the exhaustion of the past few days roll over me.

“Tell me about your sister,” she says.

I’d rather make puppets with my socks because Naomi’s story will give Regan a legitimate reason to hate me but she probably deserves to hear all of it. “She’s seven years younger than me and a fucking genius. Like, when she was in elementary school, she could think circles around me. I went to her for math help, not the other way around. She skipped all kinds of grades. Graduated high school when she was fourteen and then started taking college classes. Not sure if she’s really autistic or whether her lack of socialization with kids her age hurt her, but she’s really socially awkward. Has a hard time relating to people, but she’s so damn sweet, Regan,” my voice grows pained as I think of what happened next. “I wanted her to have some fun, you know?”

“You can’t feel like what happened to her is your fault,” Regan protests.

“Really? Maybe you should reserve judgment until I finish the story,” I say shortly. Surging to my feet, I lunge at the minibar. I need some alcohol to finish this story. There are six more bottles of liquor inside. I take out the Jack Daniel’s and swallow the bottle in one gulp. In my absence, Regan has moved to the sofa and is patting the cushion. With a sigh, I head back and crack open the bottle of rum. Rolling the small bottle between my hands, I finish the story “So I’m telling her to get out and do some normal stuff. She’s studying at MIT, some kind of string theory shit that is more complicated than how the F16 is constructed. During one of our Skype calls, she tells me that some classmates of hers are going on spring break to Cancun, and I encourage her to go. No.” I stop and drink down the bottle, tossing the empty container on the coffee table. There’s not ever going to be enough alcohol to make the pain of this memory go away. “I force her to go. I tell her that she’s wasting her life in school; that the real world is passing her by—she’s gotta get out and live it.” Those last words come out with so much bitterness and self-hatred that even Regan leans away.

“She goes and on the second day is kidnapped. I get a Red Cross call—the line family members can use to inform you of an emergency—and fly twenty hours home. When I get to the ranch, my momma looks like she’s aged fifty years and can barely rise from the chair to greet me. My dad doesn’t want me to even step foot on the porch of our house. He tells me to find her and not come home until I do.”

“Oh, Daniel,” Regan leans over and starts rubbing my upper shoulders, which feels far better than I deserve at the moment. “Have you been saving girls for the last eighteen months?”

That and killing people.

“Every time I walked into one of those houses or pulled over a truck carrying fucking kidnapped girls I didn’t know whether I felt relief or disappointment at not seeing her face. Until a few hours ago, I believed she was dead.” I hunch over my knees, using my hands to cradle my head. “And now I’m feeling so much fucking relief, I can’t even tell you, Regan.”

“Do you need to cry it out?” she murmurs.

“What?” I crank my head around.

“Cry it out? You know, let it go. That’s how my, I guess, ex-best friend Becca and I used to deal with things.”

“I hope you know I’m not Becca.”

She smiles, a bit sadly. “I hate that you found me in that house. I hate that I’m a fucked-up victim.”

Turning swiftly, I grab her by both arms. “You are not a victim. You are a fucking survivor. You have more life in you than half the people walking around living their normal lives.” I shake her a little so she gets this. “You are not a victim.”

I don’t think this penetrates because she continues. “Earlier, in the alley,” she gestures in some vague direction behind her, “I freaked out because you were pressed up against me. I felt like I was back in that room.” Her breath catches as if she’s holding back some tears, but I don’t encourage her to cry it out because I don’t know if I can deal with her tears at this moment. “What if I can’t have sex like a normal person? What if all I can do is mutual masturbation?"

Her words are conjuring up wild erotic images which I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate. Swallowing hard, I push my lust away and attempt to speak normally. "I think you’ll move past that."

“I wanted you this morning,” she admits. “I mean, you saw me. I really wanted you. I was fantasizing about you touching me, you rubbing me, your dick inside me.”

Oh Christ. This sex talk is making my dick stand up. But what if . . . ? A thought occurs to me. A really selfish thought. One generated by my dick, but I can’t help myself. Standing up, I say, “Then take me.”

“What do you mean?” She sounds bewildered but intrigued.

I unbuckle my pants and then lie on the bed. “Why not come over and use me? Do what you like to me. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it. If all you want me to do is lie here while you feel me up, then that’s what we do. If you want to climb on top of me and ride me, that’s cool. Shit, you can even tie my hands up.” I shiver at the thought. “Use me.”

“But what if I get upset and leave you hanging?” She’s up off her feet and standing right at the edge of the bed, fiddling with the bottom of her shirt like she wants to whip it off. Do it, baby.

“So I have to jerk it myself. You’re okay with that, right?”

She nods.

“Then it’s all good.” I spread out my arms. “I won’t move unless you tell me to.”

“But what if I get on top of you and then I’m like, on you but have to, um, disengage?” She’s placed a knee on the side of the bed.

“So you’re saying you’re riding me, and your wet pussy juice is coating my dick, and then you decide, nope, this train rides too rough or I’m feeling queasy?”

Her head bobs and her breathing is a little more rapid, a little louder. “Then I guess you climb off and I take myself in hand, and I either jerk off with your hot little eyes watching every move or I go to the bathroom."

“But that seems so unfair to you.” This time she’s fully on the bed, kneeling right beside me. My dick is so hard I could hang a fifty-pound weight off of it.

"Making you feel good is a privilege, not a chore. You hear me? No matter what happens, you tell yourself that getting close to your pussy is a goddamn fucking privilege. Got that?"

I only get a nod, but this is important shit so I make her repeat it. “Say it. Say ‘making me feel good is a motherfucking privilege.’”

She giggles but repeats my words. “Making me feel good is a privilege.”

“No, ‘a motherfucking’ one. Say it again.”

She screams it. “Making me feel good is a motherfucking privilege.” Then she collapses on the bed beside me and we both laugh. It’s stress relief or maybe actual humor, but I can tell we both feel better.

“Wouldn’t it be hard not to want to keep going?” she asks, rolling onto her side. Her head rests on one of my outstretched arms. I’m careful not to move like I promised.

“I’ve gone without for a long time, baby. I can last a few more days,” I say wryly, knowing her next question is going to be how long. Because that’s Regan: always asking the follow-up. She should’ve been a reporter or investigator or something instead of an accountant.

“How long?”

I grin. “Couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

She smiles back and shakes her head. “If you knew I was going to ask, why didn’t you offer it up?”

Shrugging, I sink into the bed a little more. She draws closer to me, her head now resting on my shoulder and her left hand absently stroking my chest. “It’s been . . .” I squint into the distance. “A couple of years? My last leave I was in a bar in San Antonio. Some cougar propositioned me, and I took her up on her offer to teach me some moves. And yes, before you ask, she did teach me a couple of things.”

“I don’t know what to ask you first. Like, why has it been that long and what is it that she taught you?”