CW: Smut, discussions of sex trafficking, discussions of trauma, discussions of drug use, car accidents, and alcohol abuse.
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SLOANE
TEN YEARS AGO
TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES, NEW MEXICO
"What's your name?" Clint asks as I wolf down my third burger.
Everything is that much more intense on my tastebuds. All they fed us was porridge and moldy bread.
"They called me Michelle," I tell him.
"What's your real name?" The redhead, Natasha, beside him asks, her voice low and husky.
I still don't trust these people, but they gave me new clothes and Natasha helped me clean up in a gas station bathroom. They haven't raped or killed me yet, but there's still time. I've been living like a prisoner for years now, so I'm highly suspicious of people who want to "save me."
It's what some of the men told me they wanted to do.
While they were raping me.
I don't fucking trust anyone anymore.
I glare at her and she leans over the table, her hands wrapped around a mug of steaming black coffee. It was hard to stop looking at her in the car ride to the diner. She's captivating, with plush lips and beautiful eyes. She's in a black tank top and a pair of black jeans. Compared to her, I must look like a rabid animal wolfing down my food.
"You can trust us."
I take a big bite out of my burger and chew it slowly, onions and lettuce crunching in my mouth while the juice from the patty drips down my chin. I don't really want to talk, I just want to eat until I throw up.
"Leanne."
Natasha nods.
"Last name?"
"Wagner."
"Where are your parents?" Clint asks.
I huff a laugh.
"Hopefully dead," I whisper.
I hold no affection for my mother or my father. They're the people who got me into this mess. They didn't care what happened to their daughter. All they saw was profit so that they could keep sticking a needle into their veins.
"Fair enough," Clint replies with a nod. "Do you know where you were taken from?"
"Tuscon, Arizona. Daddy had a trailer. I don't know if it's still there." I stare at them. "You're not gonna rape me, are you?"
"No," Natasha whispers. "Clint and I help people."
"What about the other girls?"
They only took me. Some people in black vans showed up to take the others.
"They were taken in by law enforcement," Natasha replies. "All of them were underage. You were the only adult."
My stomach turns. I never saw any of the other girls, I only heard soft sobbing in the middle of the night, and maybe the odd scream when they were beaten. After a while, it was hard to tell how many of them were in the house with me and how old they were.
"How old am I?" I ask, the question sounding almost childlike.
I don't know how many birthdays I've missed.
Natasha's head drops and she lets out a shaky exhale.
"Cypress had all your birth certificates. You're about to turn 19."
My heart starts to pound and tears rush down my face as my chin quivers. Cypress told me he killed girls once they turned 18. Said they were used up by then.
"What's gonna happen to me?"
Clint looks at Natasha, who leans forward, her eyes shimmering with hope. A kind of hope I haven't felt since I was a kid.
"Tell me who you want to be, Leanne."
***
"That's it, pretty girl," Bucky purrs, his hands on my hips as I ride him. "Come for me."
I gave him permission to fuck me whenever and however he wanted.
And, good God, did he run with it.
My eyes roll back and I let out a whine. I can feel my nails sink into his chest and I'm so fucking close I can taste it. This is better than drugs, better than alcohol, better than fucking anything.
This is our fourth? Fifth? Time? Fuck, I can't even remember. All I know is that Bucky is ravenous for two things: my cooking and my pussy.
And he takes both very fucking seriously.
I'm clenching around him, moaning and whimpering as he thrusts up into me. He's so fucking thick it feels like I'm being torn apart in the best way. I've never fucked a man like this, and I've never felt pleasure like this before.
I'm addicted to it.
After what happened to me, it was hard to enjoy sex. My virginity, while a patriarchal construct, wasn't freely given. It was stolen from me. My body came to believe that sex and violence were one and the same. My blood ran cold when a man looked at me with any hint of desire.
Writing helped me to take that power back. So did ten years of counselling that Clint and Natasha graciously provided for me. I'm starting to heal, and starting to realize that sex doesn't have to be intertwined with violence. I'm even discovering kinks, which is something that I never thought could be possible.
I'll never be healed, and I'll never be normal, but the right partner can make me feel like those days of tears and anguish are far, far behind me.
"You're so b—beautiful, Sloane." His voice is shaking and there's a gorgeous flush to the apples of his cheeks. "Fuck, I love watching you take my cock."
This man is exquisite. Everything about him is perfect.
His hands are everywhere, gliding over my body before gripping my hips again.
And those eyes. Clear blue oceans that make me want to tell him he can't leave here.
Because after him, I know I'll never fuck another man again.
With one more graze against my G-spot, my belly floods with warmth and I'm coming hard as Bucky flips us over, pushing me into the mattress while his hips snap faster.
"I'm gonna come," he growls, and the texture of his voice makes my bones rumble.
"Fill me up," I whine. "I want all of you."
He grits his teeth and wraps one hand around my throat, squeezing the sides until his body freezes and starts to shudder. Fuck, I can feel his cum leaking out of me.
We'd make pretty babies. If he got me pregnant, he'd have to come back.
No, that's a bad idea. I barely know this man, and my birth control is expensive as all hell.
And yet, when he's fucking me like this, I wouldn't mind getting pregnant. He'd take care of me.
Of us.
I think something inside of me has always yearned to be cared for.
Bucky dips his head, kissing me softly as his hips slow down and he starts to soften inside of me.
"I've missed this," he whines through more kisses. His hips roll involuntarily, thrusting into me until he literally can't anymore. "Feels good."
"What, pussy?" I laugh.
Bucky pulls back, shaking his head, his eyes more alive than I've seen them since he landed on my doorstep.
"No." His breath hitches. "Being with someone."
The look on his face makes me want to cry, and he pulls out of me, stretching out next to me and pulling me close to him. I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heart, both of us coming down from our highs. My eyelids close and he pulls the blankets over us. His embrace is warm and comforting. It's been a long time since I've let someone sleep in my bed. Even though we're both covered in sweat and our hair is still wet from the two showers we've failed to take because we stopped to fuck during them, I don't want to move from this place.
"Thank you," he says softly.
I look up at him, smiling, but confused. A man's never thanked me for sex before. A lot of them have apologized. But thanking me? That's something brand new entirely.
"For what?"
"For letting me hold you."
I melt into him, burying my face in his chest.
"You can hold me for however long you need."
Another low hum ripples through me and we breathe deep, both of us sleeping into sleep.
I dream about running, feet pounding against the earth. Bare feet. The forest is a blur around me and I can hear the sound of Cypress screaming in the distance.
My heart's pounding and I can feel something on my heels. Getting closer and closer.
Don't look back. Don't fucking look back.
My chest tightens, like someone's trying to wring out my lungs with their bare hands. Every muscle burns and sweat pours down my face and back like a waterfall.
My bare foot catches on something, sending me flying forward until I land on my stomach. But instead of hitting the ground hard, I fall through it. Into blackness, the terror never-ending.
And then I wake up to the sound of screaming.
Bucky's voice.
My eyes snap open and the first thing I feel is his metal arm collide with my head, right near my temple.
"Fuck!"
Instinctively, I cover my face as he thrashes against the bed, his voice shattered and broken.
"You can't take me back!" He roars. "Stop it! Stop!"
When I turn, his eyes are squeezed shut and he flails against the mattress, tears streaming down his face. I can't remember if waking someone up from a nightmare is a myth or not, but my head is pounding and I have to get him to stop or he's going to hurt himself. Before his metal arm can swing out again, I grab it and climb on top of him. I've done enough wrangling of Gus and the goddamn horses. I think I can handle this.
The second I make contact, Bucky's eyes fly open and he starts to scream. I grab his face with both hands, but it looks like he's not fully present, half of his body still trapped in the nightmare.
"Bucky!" My voice is breaking as I watch his eyes fill with tears. He looks so helpless, and the look in his eyes doesn't match his Herculean frame. All I see is a lost little boy.
"I killed them!" He sobs. "I killed them! I killed them!"
He just keeps repeating it until his despair catches up with him and great, heaving sobs leave him voiceless and breathless. I don't know what to do or what to say, so I just melt on top of him like a blanket, wrapping myself around him as he cries.
He holds me tight, and outside of sex, this is the most intimate connection we've ever had.
I've had these dreams, and I know them well. I can't stop what's happening to him, all I can do is... well, what I'm doing right now.
The tears eventually subside and he sucks in deep breaths. When I look up, his face is splotchy and his eyes bloodshot from crying. I stroke his cheek and he flinches, shivering. It's hard not to take it personally, but maybe he doesn't want to be touched there.
"Tell me what you need."
"My notebook," he replies. "I need to write it down— or I'll... I'll forget it."
I know he took my notebooks and at least three of my pens. I didn't say anything. Whatever is buried within him needs to be unearthed, and if writing is the only way he can do that, then who the fuck am I to get angry about a couple of missing notebooks?
"I'll get it. It's on your nightstand, right?"
He nods and I have to resist the urge to kiss him. It's not the right time, and he's not in the right headspace. But I have to help him in some way.
I hop off him and throw a robe around myself, rushing down the stairs. Gus and the cats are standing at the bottom, their bodies tense and Gus's ears are sticking straight up. I pat him on the head.
"It's okay, just a nightmare," I tell him. "You're a good boy."
All three of them follow me into Bucky's room and I see my black leather-bound notebook sitting on his nightstand. I grab it, along with a pen. Something in my brain begs me to flip through it, but I hold back the impulse. That's a massive violation of trust, and if I'm not disclosing my past, he doesn't have to either.
I jog back up the stairs and find Bucky sitting on the bed, his feet on the floor and his head in his hands. He's slumped over, like he's been hollowed out. Shoulders turned inward, his head hung, and his elbows resting on his massive thighs. Sunlight slices through the curtains, illuminating the exquisite muscles in his back and shoulders. I see so many scars.
Whoever he killed? I'm sure they deserved it.
I creep toward him, placing the notebook and pen beside him. Bucky lifts his head, his dark hair hanging in his face. All I can see are those eyes. Piercing, terrified, and scanning me to make sure that I'm not a threat. For a few seconds, I can't catch my breath, because it's like looking into a goddamn mirror.
"I should leave," he murmurs.
I blink, shaking my head.
"What?"
"I hurt you," he whispers, gesturing to my head.
I haven't even thought about it, but when I turn toward the mirror, I see that the skin has been split from the force of the impact and there's blood running down the side of my face. I swipe it away with my fingertips.
"I'm fine. You had a nightmare, it's—"
"It's going to get worse." He shakes his head, rubbing his face. "It always gets worse. He'll start to show up."
I freeze, because the way he says it makes my blood run cold.
"Who?"
"I've dragged you into something dangerous. I should—"
"You're not going anywhere," I tell him as I move to stand in front of him, suddenly indignant. I'm a grown fucking woman, and if he thinks I can't handle a nightmare, he's insane. "You're not going to fuck my brains out and treat me the way no man has ever treated me and then just vanish. That's not how this works. Whoever is after you was going to come after me eventually. If you leave, I have no protection, and no explanation. So, what you're gonna do is grab that notebook, write down everything you can, and then we're going to eat dinner."
I point to my head.
"Because this? I've taken far worse hits than this and I'm still standing."
His eyes flash and his jaw ticks like the hand on a clock.
"You don't know how bad—"
"How bad you are?" I ask. "I burned down a house filled with people. I listened to them scream and I didn't feel bad about it. I slit a man's throat while he was raping me. My whole life has been kill or be killed. Now, you've been inside me, but you don't know a goddamn thing about me."
There's something in me that would fundamentally break down if he left. The connection between us, the chemistry, the electricity... it makes me want to believe in love again. When I look into Bucky's eyes, I feel understood. I feel safe.
"I could hurt you."
"You won't," I reply. "You don't have it in you."
He scoffs.
"How do you know that?"
I take a breath and shed my robe, letting it fall to the floor so that he's forced to look at my entire body. His cock twitches as his eyes glide along my curves, lingering on the bite marks and hickeys he's left behind. Slowly, I crouch down in front of him, placing my hands on his thighs, offering myself to him. Completely.
"Because I spent years being broken by evil men. I've learned all about them, including how to spot them." I swallow hard. "But you? You're gentle, Bucky. You're sweet and kind—"
"Stop," he chokes, his chin trembling and his body convulsing as he holds back sobs. "Я убийца."
"Whatever you think you are, I promise you... you're not." I swallow, my heart aching as another tear rolls down his cheek. "Your past is just that... your past."
"It's not," he chokes. "He's still in here."
He thumps his fist against his chest and when he takes his hand away, I replace it with my own. I'm not here to cure this man's trauma, but I can show him what it looks like to live on the other side of it.
"I've been where you are," I whisper. "Maybe not exactly, but you and me? We're the same level of fucked up. I'm not afraid of you. If you wanted to hurt me, you would have done it already. Remember when you patched my knee up for me and had me sit inside?"
Bucky's quiet, his body still twitching a little as he works through his feelings.
"I watched you with the horses. You were so gentle and patient with them. I don't think anyone has been gentle or patient with you, have they?"
The dam breaks and he begins to weep, deep, aching sobs that shake the bed. This is grief. It's guilt. It's trauma embedded into his DNA. And it makes me angry that he has to endure this.
I don't care what Bucky's done, I care about who he is in the here and now.
I sit beside him, cupping his face in my hands as I press my forehead against his. I've never had much of a comforting instinct outside of bottle feeding Gus when he was a pup and falling asleep with Garth purring on my chest. But the loneliness in Bucky forces me back to those early days when I was on my own and terrified to connect with anything.
Even an animal.
"You showed fucking Benny the kindness that nobody's shown you, and he's an asshole," I whisper. "It takes a good person to do that."
Bucky clings to me, holding my body tightly against his. I lift my head and his mouth finds mine as he kisses me through tears. It's sweet and tender, just like him.
"I've got you, Buck. Do you believe me?"
He nods, and I let him cry, holding him and knowing I'm in too damn deep.
***
Hours later, Bucky and I are curled up on the couch. I sat with him in bed until he emptied the contents of his brain onto the page. Then, we stripped the bed and I put everything in the wash before we came downstairs and I made him his favorite meal: biscuits, gravy, extra vegetables, roast chicken, and cherry pie for dessert.
He's gone back to being mostly non-verbal except for saying thank you, but after a good meal, he seemed to perk up a little.
The thing I've learned the most about Bucky is that he likes his quiet, and he says a lot without saying much at all. But his mind is always working, and he notices everything, even when you think he doesn't.
After dinner, I went to wash the dishes and then felt large hands wrap around my waist, and then the tip of his nose brushing against my jawline. It was hard to focus on anything other than the way he smelled— like fresh soap and the whiskey we drank at dinner.
"Let me."
It's really fucking hot to watch a man do the dishes when he's wearing nothing but a tank top and a pair of sweatpants. It gave me some pretty good inspiration for my book.
Now, I'm working on my outline while Bucky massages my calves and feet, a cooking show playing in the background. I'll admit, it's hard to focus on outlining when I've got a gorgeous man gently pressing his thumbs into the arches of my feet.
Bucky likes to help. I think it's his way of showing that he cares.
Garth, Wayne, and Gus are all asleep in a giant pile on Gus's bed, and the windows are wide open to let in some fresh air. My body is gloriously sore from a day of endless lovemaking, but if he asked me to, I'd go again.
I can feel him watching me out of the corner of my eye, and grin.
"Am I more interesting than TV?"
"Exponentially," he rumbles as he gently works a knot in my calf muscle, making me moan. That son of a bitch just smirks while he says, "Thank you for today."
"I'm just glad you didn't run."
"Wanted to," he replies. "Don't anymore. I'm sorry I scared you."
I shut my laptop and exchange it for the glass of wine he brought me.
"I have nightmares too."
"You do?"
"Yeah. Bad ones. I'm running from the people who hurt me, and I'm never fast enough. Some nights, they catch me and I'm right back in the room they kept me in. Other nights, they kill me."
My voice shakes and I clear my throat, taking a sip of wine for a bit of extra courage. I really shouldn't be drinking, but I already gave up the pills. I think one vice is okay, so long as I don't overdo it.
"I found the police report from your accident," he says softly. "I read it. I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry?" I laugh.
"Because I was looking through your things." He breathes deep. "I just... I needed to make sure I could trust you."
"That's fair," I whisper. "What did you learn from that report?"
"You got into an accident. A bad one. Your blood alcohol was four times the legal limit, and you had cocaine, oxycontin, and ketamine in your system. You had fractured ribs, broken hips, broken legs, bleeding in your brain..." He turns to me. "And you were never arrested."
I swear I can still feel a piece of shrapnel from the car digging its way into my ribs. Phantom pain, the doctors call it. I don't tell people about this part of my life, the part where I tried desperately to exist as someone normal for the first couple of years after Natasha and Clint gave me a place to live and a new identity.
"After I escaped, I tried to... pretend it never happened. I wanted to bury it. I mean, who wants to think about being beaten, and burned with cigarettes, and raped until you're bleeding? I just wanted to be like everybody else." I shake my head. "Carrying around all that pain was... my head was so loud. The only thing that could make it stop was drugs. I almost died that night. The nurses told me I was a miracle, but I didn't feel like one."
My voice is shaking, and I instantly wish I could grab all of those words that just spilled from my lips and take them all back.
Bucky is quiet, staring at the TV while one of the chefs struggles with the ice cream machine.
"I killed people," he whispers after a long silence. "A lot of them."
It explains the tactical gear he was wearing. I figured he was military. His vest is still downstairs in the basement.
"You did what you had to do," I murmur.
He turns to me, tears in his eyes as he shakes his head.
"They made me," he rasps. "I didn't have control."
I gave him privacy to write in his notebook earlier today while I tidied up the mess we'd made during our six hour fuck session. I didn't ask what he was writing because his pain isn't my business. It's not mine to work through, but I can help him.
I'd like to help him.
"You were a prisoner?" I ask.
He nods.
"For years."
I don't know why, but it makes sense. The way he's so flighty, the sudden confidence and then a look in his eyes like he might have gone too far. He's broken, and the man he's become is vastly different from the man he once was. I was the same way. I used to be happy. Optimistic. I believed that people were good and things always worked out for the best. I believed the universe or God, or whatever was in control of my life, had the best intentions for me.
But after you've been through something as horrific as what I went through, your faith in humanity tends to sour. Even after the men who trafficked me were killed and the ring was busted, I still live in complete and total fear that one of them escaped.
And he'd be out for blood.
Natasha assured me that nobody would find me, and that even if I chose to show my face as an author, the men who hurt me would never have that kind of power over me.
Deciding to obscure my identity wasn't a decision I made out of necessity, it was an active choice I made out of fear. I don't trust anyone, and I don't talk publicly about my story. A few of the other girls wrote tell-all books about what happened to them. And they should. They deserve to have their voices heard and they should be fucking compensated for the hell they went through.
But me?
I never want to go back there.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He shakes his head, trying to hold it together as his hand runs up and down my leg.
"Okay," I murmur. "We don't have to talk. We can just sit and watch TV."
Bucky's face is soft, his eyes luminous and sparkling as he takes me in.
"I like you, Sloane."
I didn't know that four words could make me blush this much. My adolescence was stolen from me. So, when I was thrust back into this world at 19, I found myself an adult with adult responsibilities and nobody to care for me. I grew up hard and I grew up fast without the ability to form normal attachments and relationships to people. My first few boyfriends were abusive, and it was almost like they could sniff out vulnerability— and, man, did I have that shit in spades.
I didn't know how to advocate for myself, and worst of all, I'd fallen into this pattern where I thought that viciousness and love coincided.
"I like you, too, Bucky." I clear my throat, closing my laptop. "Would you like to sleep in my bed tonight?"
The tops of his ears are pink, and I cannot believe this man is bashful after all the things he's whispered in my ear today. A lot of it was in Russian. Really dirty shit, too.
"I can't get enough of this pussy."
"I want to cum on your tits."
"Let me fuck you like a whore."
I ate it up. This man is shy, but he's got a mouth on him that could rival some of the fictional men I've created.
"Is that a good idea?" He asks.
I shrug.
"It's up to you, but I sure wouldn't mind you right next to me."
He gnaws on his bottom lip and I want to lean over and suck on it until he moans.
"You know, when I was younger, I didn't sleep in a woman's bed unless I was... you know, with them."
This man's been in my house for less than two weeks, fucked my brains out, watched me chase my ex off of my property, and listened to me talk about my past without judgment. And yet, I barely know him. I don't know what his favorite song is, or his Zodiac sign. I don't know what makes him laugh the hardest, or even his last name. He's just Bucky.
And I want Bucky.
"Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?"
He laughs, a real laugh. It's rare that I get one from him.
"I don't know what I'm asking."
But we both know that there's an elephant in the room. He's running from something that could catch up to him, and if and when it does, neither of us know what's going to happen.
I don't know how dangerous the people he's running from are, but if someone as burly and tough as him is terrified, then they must be pretty bad.
I took a risk letting him into this house. I know that.
My heart is pounding. Jack and I didn't have this discussion. We met when his truck broke down near my farm. I helped him fix it, we fucked in it, and the rest was just kind of history. There was no big talk about what we were, but maybe that was the problem. Nobody ever taught me how to navigate relationships, and a lot of my encounters with men have been... well, less than ideal.
"Well, I'm not seeing anyone else," I tell him. "I'd like to be with you. Whatever that means to you."
"What does it mean to you?"
I shrug.
"I don't know. I guess it means that we just keep doing what we're doing, but we make a few adjustments."
He nods.
"The first time I saw you, I... I thought you were an Angel, you were so damn pretty."
"An Angel?"
"Yeah," he murmurs. "You have this, uh... this light that never dims. Makes it hard to take my eyes off you. It's rude to stare."
Neither of us can seem to stop smiling and soft giggles float between us. I've never been attracted to someone the way I'm attracted to Bucky. With Jack, it was this primal, animalistic kind of attraction. I needed someone strong to lean on and mend me in the weak spots. But he couldn't give me what I needed, no matter how much I begged for it.
Without him, I found my strength, and learned that to be with someone, I needed to be with me first.
I still don't know if I'm ready, but Bucky makes me want to try again.
"I like it when you stare."