Alessandra Torre - End of the Innocence

I had barely taken a breath when he was in the car, his hand sweeping over my face, my eyes opening to find his concerned gaze on me. “Is everything okay? Your eyes just closed. I’m calling a doctor.”

I laughed weakly. “I’m tired. Please drive. I want to get the hell outta here.”

He obliged, putting the car into drive and holding my hand gently. “Just relax, baby.”

I did, closing my eyes, and felt instantly drugged, my entire body sinking, the hum of the car hypnotic, my entire self happy to surrender to his care.

♥♥♥

Brad called Martha as he drove, trying his best not to jostle Julia’s sleeping body as he navigated home. She answered on the first ring.

“It’s me. I have her. She looks bad, like she hasn’t eaten in days. Can you fix her a plate, and have someone prepare the bedroom? I can’t remember much of the last twenty-four hours, but feel like I may have broken a few things up there.” He glanced over, studying Julia’s profile, wanting to wake her up just so he could look into her eyes.

Martha’s voice calmed him, her strength giving him something to hold on to. He answered her questions as best he could, the lack of information difficult to accept on both their parts. He ended the call with a promise to be home soon, and asked her to call Julia’s parents and to get a doctor over to the house.

He caressed the hand he held, it’s limp grip reminding him of all the possibilities that could have occurred. The fact that she was here. The fact that she had returned in one piece, a miracle. He vowed to spend the rest of his life earning it.

Movement. Jostling. Brad’s arms. Once again being carried. My eyes opened to find him watching me. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s okay.”

He carried me through the bedroom door, moving toward the bed, which had been turned down, extra pillows added. I stopped him with a hand. “Don’t put me on the bed.”

“What? You’re exhausted.”

“I’m also disgusting. And I want, more than anything, a shower.” I grinned weakly at him and he turned, carrying me into the bathroom and setting me gently on my feet. I fought a wince when my feet hit the floor, his eyes catching the tell anyway, focusing on my feet, his face flaring with concern.

“What is that from?”

“My feet are a little raw ... they got scraped up a bit.”

He said nothing, a tic in his jaw giving away his anger, and he moved to the shower, turning knobs and pressing buttons until the bathroom started to fill with hot steam. He stripped, my eyes traveling over his gorgeous body, loving the curve and bend of muscles as he moved, his dick hanging between his thighs, sexual even when relaxed.

He studied my clothes, then opened a drawer, pulling out a set of scissors. “Hands out,” he instructed.

I obeyed without asking, too tired to put up a fight. He moved carefully, sliding the scissors open and cutting my tee-shirt off, his eyes examining my bare chest, an eyebrow raising.

“I didn’t have a bra on when I was taken,” I said quietly, aware of his thought process.

He nodded, kneeling before me, gently cutting fabric until my sweats and panties fell away.

“I didn’t want to try and pull your clothes over your feet or your head.” he said softly, offering his hand and leading me to the shower.

He stopped, just before the entrance, his hand tightening on my arm, a pained question in his eyes. “I don’t want to ruin evidence.” He said tightly. “Did anyone... did they—”

I stopped him quickly, with a firm shake of my head, seeing where his question was going, the raw fear in his eyes. “No. Nothing like that.”

I could see the relief, it poured through every muscle in his body as he exhaled, his hands gently pulling me closer and brushing his lips against my forehead. Then he let me move, and I stepped in delicately, moving quicker when I felt the hot water, the gentle rhythm massaging my skin as it cleansed. I moaned at the sensation, Brad running a loofah gently over me, creating a path of bubbles that disappeared quickly beneath the torrent of water, suds of soap pooling at my feet. I stood limp, letting him wash me, his hands gentle as they ran over and across my body. He examined my shoulder bandage, leaving it alone and washing around it. Then he turned off the water, wrapping me in two hot towels and carrying me to the bedroom.  Someone had laid out my robe, a monogrammed piece Brad had given to me for Christmas, and I slid into the fluffiness of it, climbing carefully into bed and settling back into the stacks of pillows.

He sat on the bed next to me, his brown eyes full of concern. “Martha has been cooking all day, hoping you’d return. Do you feel up to eating something?”

I grinned at the thought of food. “I’m starving. Is she still up? What’s she got?”

“What do I got?” A loud voice came from the direction of the door, no delicate or dainty treatment in her voice, and I turned to see Martha, wiping her hands on her apron, her full face smiling broadly. “Girl, you had me worried sick!” She maneuvered through the door, meeting my eyes with a face-splitting grin. “I got chicken and rice soup, or pot roast, or chicken salad, or lasagna. If none of those sound good, I’m happy to make you something else.” She moved to the side of the bed, her wide hips easily bumping Brad out of the way, her arms wrapping around me in a hug that made me wince.

“They all sound good. I’m starving. I’ll take the pot roast if there’s enough.”

“There’s plenty; all the food’s been going to waste, everyone too worried to eat.” Her eyes softened. “We’re so happy you’re home. I spoke to your parents and friends. I told them you needed rest tonight, but I won’t be able to hold them off for too long. They’ll be by in the morning.” She studied me. “Your parents, I know they’d sleep a lot better if they heard your voice.”

I nodded. “I’ll call them now. Thanks, Martha.”

Brad brought me the house phone, my fingers slowly pushing the digits, trying to figure out how, what to say when they answered. But it turned out nothing was needed. My mother’s sobs, my father’s gruff exclamation of love... we all cried like babies, then they told me they loved me. Told me they’d be by in the morning, if I felt up to it. I told them I would and hung up the phone.

Martha then brought the food on a tray, the smell floating upstairs in a delicious announcement, my stomach audibly moaning at the scent. Brad let me eat in peace, watching me intently, like I was tissue paper and might crumble before him. He spoke the moment my fork hit the plate, when I settled back against the soft pillows with a content sigh.

“Julia, I know you are tired, but we need to punish whoever did this to you. If you could tell me what you know—”

I held up a hand, and he instantly quieted. “Brad, I’ll give you what I know about where I was kept. But I don’t know anything else. I was drugged or passed out for most of the time. I didn’t hear or see anything that clued me in to who they were or what they wanted.” The memory of his hands, pushing apart my thighs, popped into my mind, but I dismissed it, knowing the effect it would have on Brad, wanting to keep his mind clear as I gave him this information.

I spoke, telling about the downstairs room I was kept, the developer showroom, the street it sat on, storefront names I could remember, street names that had stuck in my mind. I spoke, even as the doctor entered and began his examine, my voice cracking when he inspected my head wound, my skin goosebumping when he pulled back the covers and checked every limb. Brad’s eyes flickered, from the doctor to my face, listening intently, his eyes giving away the processing that was occurring behind them. When my words began to slur, my head nodding, he stopped me.

“Sleep. We can talk more in the morning. That helps.” He placed a gentle kiss on my forehead and stood, tugging the blankets up around me and removing some extra pillows.

I nodded, closing my eyes as he moved to the side with the doctor, their voices lowered to whispered growls, my mind already falling down through layers of sleep until I hit the bottom and all was dark, deep sleep taking over my body. Downstairs, unbeknownst to me, a small army was assembling.

As a half moon rose over the city, casting its dusky glow equally over all areas, oblivious to zip code, property values, or social standing, dark activity bred. In the large kitchen of Brad De Luca, police officers converged, pouring over a map of the city, pinpointing possible locations while loading up on armor and ammo. Their numbers doubled a normal response, Brad hiring every moonlighting cop available, wanting every presence possible, every warm body that carried a badge to be concentrated on bringing down Julia’s captors. Two hours after the first officer walked into their house, the FBI arrived, and the house swelled to capacity. Plans were discussed, egos clashed, and Martha’s food disappeared, bit by bit, into the mouths of men. Then they disbursed, headed for three possible targets, a sea of black disappearing into the night.

In another part of the city, the security video was burned to a disk, carried to an upstairs office and played for a larger audience, the men watching in silence as the girl opened that door, ran down that hallway, and disappeared from their building. Options were discussed, risks were weighed, and a call was made. Then, cleanup began, starting with the room where she had been kept. The smell of bleach soon filled the air, urgency in the men’s movements, every moment until she was found a desperate race in cover-up. The three-mile perimeter was widened, and word of her escape spread.

Dom Magiano sat on his back porch, cloaked in darkness, listening to the rustle of palm leaves as a cool breeze swept across his skin. He was tired, flaccid muscles limp around old bones, his chest rasping as he inhaled the thick air. The day weighed on him, nothing going as planned, the look on his son’s face haunting him. It was not the first time he had disappointed his son. Disappointment was good for children; it taught them to value that which was taken or withheld from them. But this fight he had taken on, this lesson he had strived to teach his son ... maybe it was not worth the effort. He certainly hadn’t expected her to escape, to fight a grown man in doing so. It should have been simple. An exercise in intimidation, one that would have sent her on her way, a way in the opposite direction of his son. Instead, it ended in failure. He was getting old, unsure of how many fights he had left. Better to save the energy and expel it against a worthy adversary. She was not worth his energy. And, given the recent news from his youngest son, the report of his daughter-in-law’s cancer ... Julia might be needed for grandchildren. They would need to start immediately; he wanted to see new young heirs before he passed.

♦♦♦

While the city moved, Brad sat in a chair by the bed and watched her sleep. His phone, set to vibrate, lay on the dresser next to him, a ticking time bomb, the police instructed to call the moment they discovered anything. They had wanted to question her, the police and FBI insistent, their faces growing red at his refusal. But she had been through enough. She needed sleep, and he didn’t want her to say anything until he knew the full story, liability constantly lurking, like a dormant plague, waiting to infect if given the slightest opening. In the morning, when she woke, they could talk. Then, with an attorney present, she could give the police her statement.

Hours ago, with his kitchen full of black uniforms, he had second-guessed his actions, the call to involve them in this situation. Every face he saw, every cop he paid, he silently examined with distrust. There was corruption in the police department, his family being one of the major parties responsible. But they had been his best chance, the source he felt most comfortable using. He hadn’t wanted to further involve his family, the nagging possibility of their hand in her kidnapping rendering that a risky move.

She shifted in her sleep, a sigh settling over her body, and he stood, his hand in his pockets, moving closer until he stood over her. There he stayed, his eyes memorizing her features, her breath, the flush of her skin as she slept. His enormous relief at her return was foreshadowed by his panic, his concern that something else could happen. The horrific thing about having everything that he ever wanted was the constant fear that it would all disappear.