Van

  "Then let's go home," I say as I start the engine.

  "What are we going to do?" she teases, reaching a hand over to lay it on my thigh. Once I put the Rover in drive and pull onto the road, my hand goes down to wrap around hers. She squeezes my hand in return, and that's when I notice I actually made an affectionate, nonsexual move on her that was done without any real thinking on my part. Almost as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  I resist the slight urge to pull away, and then it passes.

  I turn to give her a brief glance. "I've got handcuffs. Wanna play?"

  "Oh yeah," she says, her voice husky. "Totally want to play."

  Chapter 18

  Simone

  I wake up with Van's mouth between my legs. I sigh in pleasure as my fingers slide into his hair. "This is a nice way to start my morning."

  Van lifts his head, and I have to raise mine from the pillow to look down at him. His lips are wet and he grins at me. "You took forever to wake up. I think you actually had one orgasm in your sleep."

  "Really?" I ask with a pout. I didn't know I could do that.

  "I think so. Had two fingers in you and your pussy clamped down hard on them."

  "Wow," I say in amazement. "But that kind of sucks I don't remember it."

  "Didn't suck for me," he says, bending slightly to touch his tongue to my clit. My hips shoot up off the bed, but slam right back down as his hands go to my stomach to pin me in place. "Stay still. I want to make you come again."

  "Then you can fuck me," I murmur.

  His eyes crinkle. "That's a given."

  "You may proceed then," I say regally.

  Van's mouth presses down onto me and then I'm lost to everything but him.

  After I come--brilliantly--and he fucks me--stupendously--Van passes on my offer for breakfast, stating he'd rather get his workout done for the day. He doesn't add, "So we can spend the rest of the day together," but I'm choosing for that to be the implication. He's not the best with words, so I sometimes have to read into his actions.

  After he leaves, I take a quick shower. I don't bother to dry my hair or put makeup on. Van once told me he hated that shit. That didn't stop me from wearing it, though. It wasn't until one night when he was moving inside of me that his eyes left mine to drop down to my nose. He bent his head and kissed it, not missing a stroke, and said, "I think your freckles might be the most beautiful thing about you."

  Since then, I rarely bothered with makeup if it was just Van and me. I was giving him 100 percent access to my freckles.

  I throw on a pair of loose shorts and a tank top, intent on cleaning the house a bit. It was obviously messier when Lucas was here, and I've been able to stay on top of it better once he was gone, but the carpet needs a good vacuuming. I'd taken it upon myself to do all the cleaning, feeling it was the least I could do since I was staying here practically rent free.

  I lug out the vacuum cleaner from the linen closet and start in the living room. I hum to myself, my mind often drifting to think about Van. About the ways he's opened up over the last few weeks, and I can't help but be a little hopeful that I could have something more with him.

  It's so much more than sex to me now. My stupid heart is involved, but it's also a patient heart. I think he's probably worth waiting for.

  It doesn't take me much effort to do Lucas's room. He'd of course told me I could move in there, as he intended to stay at Stephanie's until he could find a place to buy, but there had been no need. I'd been in Van's bed every night since then, even when he was at the away game in Jersey. It was a way to stay close to him, and besides, he really, really liked knowing I was in his bed that morning before the game when I called him for my promised phone sex.

  Before I vacuum Van's room, I take a few minutes to pick up some of his clothes from the floor. Not sure what it is about men, but why they can't take the extra few steps to put their dirty socks in the hamper is beyond me. I then turn on the vacuum, letting the noise relax me. I move it back and forth across the carpet, and when I reach the bed, I take advantage of the fact this model extends flat to reach under furniture.

  I'm three strokes in under the bed when I can feel that I've hit something. It's lightweight, and the forward movement pushed it out to the other side. I don't bother looking, though, taking my time to move around his bed. When I get to the other side, I see it's an old shoe box and I'd knocked the top off.

  Shutting the vacuum off, I bend over and grab the top, intent on replacing it and shoving it back under the bed. But there's a document on top, and the official seal from the Virginia Department of Corrections catches my eye.

  My hand is reaching for it before I can even have an attack of conscience, so curious about why Van would have correspondence from a prison.

  I unfold the letter and my eyes skim down it. I take in certain words that don't make sense, so I slow down...start from the beginning and read it slowly.

  Grant VanBuskirk? In care of Etta Turner?

  I take in details that a prisoner is dying, but there's not much else.

  Weird.

  My eyes go back to the box, and the next thing I see is an old photograph. It's in color, and slightly faded. I couldn't possibly date the clothing, but it's clearly before I was born.

  A man, a woman, and a little boy of about five years old, all smiling at the camera. The father has one arm around the mother, and another holding the little boy's shoulder with clear affection.

  Sweet.

  Next in the box looks like stacks and stacks of newspaper articles. I'm past the point of feeling guilty about snooping, so I pull them out and sit down on my butt beside the bed.

  The first article is dated from twenty years ago from the Washington Times. The headline says, CAPITAL CITY KILLER ARRESTED.

  I read the article about a man named Arco VanBuskirk--the prisoner referenced in the letter--who had been arrested and charged with the rapes and murders of five women. The details were sparse, as the investigation was still pending.

  The next article is from two days later. It has a bit more details about the grisly murders and the fact that they had gone unsolved for years.

  I flip through article after article, chronicling the investigation all the way up through the trial of the man. One news article has a picture of the courtroom, and I notice with astonishment the woman and kid from the first photo I'd looked at are in the front row.

  Quickly pulling the news articles I'd already read back onto my lap, I flip through and look at the pictures of Arco VanBuskirk, and holy shit...it's the man in that first photograph.

  But why would Van have this stuff?

  I pull the picture back out, and my eyes narrow on the little boy. It's hard to tell, but I think--

  "What are you doing?" I hear Van's voice behind me and jump with a little yelp.

  "You scared the crap out of me," I say with my hand held to my heart, still clutching the photo. Van stalks into the room, rounds the bed, and squats. He grabs the photo out of my hand, looking at the news articles in my lap and the half-empty box because I didn't get a chance to read everything.

  "I'm sorry," I mumble, my face actually flaming hot that I've been caught snooping.

  "Christ," he mutters with frustration as he stands, scrubbing one hand through his hair. It's slightly damp from a shower he must have taken at the gym.

  "Are you--" I start to say, but then Van is walking out of the bedroom holding that photo. I scramble up and follow him out. When I find him in the living room, just staring at the couch, I ask him again, "Are you the little boy in that photo?"

  He spins on me, his face a mask of pure rage, and it's so frightening I move back. "Why the fuck were you snooping in my room?"

  "I wasn't," I say as he takes a step toward me and I take one back. "I was vacuuming and I accidently pushed that box out with the vacuum. It knocked the top off, and I saw the letter from the prison--"

  "Fucking snooping," he growls. "Fucking goddamn snooping in my
personal shit, and you know, Simone...you know there's supposed to be this separation. But you just won't fucking stay the fuck back."

  "Van," I say soothingly...cautiously. "Talk to me. What is this stuff?"

  "Fuck," he yells louder than I've ever heard a human yell before, and it's full of pain and rage, and it scares the shit out of me. He turns away from me with fists clenched. My first instinct is to run, then just to wrap my arms around him. I don't know what to do. His eyes cut back to me. "You shouldn't have seen that stuff, but now that you have...it's over, Simone."

  "What?" I exclaim with a cry. "No. Van...please, just tell me what this is. Whatever it is, I don't care."

  "Fuck," he yells again, his face contorted with fury, but he also looks so damn lost.

  "Why would you push me away without giving me an explain--"

  "Because my father is a goddamned sociopathic serial killer," he screams at me, and even though I had slightly suspected that because of the photo, his words cause me to stumble back a bit.

  "Yeah, see," he sneers at me. "Not so attractive anymore, am I, Simone? That look on your face says it all."

  That rattles me and I shake my head, taking a step toward him. "No, Van...you just caught me by surprise."

  He takes two big steps back from me, holding his hands out, the one clutching the photograph so hard it's crumpled into a ball. "Just stay the fuck away from me."

  My instinct takes over--my true instinct--and instead of running away, I'm flying at him. I slam my body into his, wrapping my arms tight around him. Pressing my face into his chest, I squeeze him as hard as I can.

  He just stands there, his breathing harsh and labored, his arms hanging loose and not holding me back.

  I turn my head, lay my cheek over his heart. "Van...I don't give a fuck what your father is. It's you I care about."

  "You shouldn't," he mumbles, and I tip my head back to look at him. He's staring at me, his eyes flat and dull. "You shouldn't care about someone like me. I told you I don't have anything to give."

  "Bullshit," I snap at him. "You have everything to give. Why would you think that?"

  Van pulls away from me, but his hands go to my shoulders. He peers down at me. "Do you know what it's like for a kid to watch their father arrested, and then tried for horribly gruesome crimes? And for your mom to insist he's innocent, but deep in your heart...you just know he's evil. And yet how confusing it is to love that man? By loving him, did that mean I condoned what he did?"

  "Absolutely not," I say adamantly, but he doesn't hear me.

  "Or what about the fact I looked up to him? Admired him? Smiled with pride when he called me a chip off the old block? Maybe I am like him. Maybe I've got..." He pauses a moment, bangs his fist to his chest, and his voice is absolutely tortured. "Maybe I've got the same sickness in me?"

  "God, no," I say with a sympathetic whine. "Absolutely not. I know you, Van, and you--"

  "You don't know shit about me," he growls.

  "I fucking know everything about you," I yell at him, and he blinks in surprise. I take a step to him, put my hand on his chest...right over his heart. "If I didn't know it ten minutes ago, I sure as fuck know it now. You are a man tortured by your father's sins, and the mere fact you're so tortured tells me all I need to know about you."

  Van's eyes seem to flicker, die, and then pop back to life. Maybe with hope? I don't know, but I'm not stopping.

  I step into him, my arms once again going back around his waist. He doesn't reciprocate so I snarl at him, "You better hold me, you motherfucker."

  His arms immediately come up and around me. He squeezes tight and I snuggle hard into him. With relief, I hear him let out a sigh of capitulation, possibly relief, and then we just stand there holding each other.

  "I know you, Van Turner," I whisper to him. "And I think you're mighty fine."

  Chapter 19

  Van

  I don't think I can do this.

  Even as I hold tight to Simone, every moral cell in my body is screaming at me to cut ties and run. She doesn't deserve this weight I carry around. As she holds me now and I realize that her heart is indeed involved, she sure as fuck doesn't deserve to fall for someone like me.

  "Simone," I say gently as I bring a hand up to the back of her head. I curl my fingers around her neck and give her a gentle squeeze.

  She looks up at me with fierce eyes. "Don't you even think about telling me I deserve better, or that you don't have anything to give me. At the very least, you better sure as fuck keep giving me what you've been giving me, and if I had my way, you'd talk to me and tell me everything."

  I blink at her, mesmerized by her determination. She continues. "So you have two choices. You either take me back into your bedroom and fuck the hell out of me, and we'll both push this under the rug. Or you sit your ass on that couch and you tell me all of it. Every last nasty detail, and then you let me keep your secret."

  "I'm not surprised," I mutter.

  "By what?" she asks with her head tilted.

  "That you won't take no for an answer," I say with a sigh. "You're relentless."

  "And shiny," she says with a perky smile.

  "And shiny," I admit with defeat. "Go grab two beers out of the fridge and you'll hear it all."

  She doesn't hesitate, releasing her hold on me and trotting into the kitchen. When she comes back, I already have taken a seat on one end of the couch. To my relief, after handing me my beer, she sits on the opposite end. I kick my legs out but turn slightly to face her. She draws her legs up under her and pops the top to her beer.

  "How much of that stuff did you read?" I ask her.

  "I got the gist of what your father did," she says quietly. "And that he's in prison in Virginia and dying."

  I nod, popping my own beer open. I take a long swallow, mostly to wet my throat, which has become dry as dirt. "I was eight when he was tried and convicted. It was in the summer, and my mom made me attend the trial with her. She was convinced he was innocent and wanted to show our support."

  "That's awful," she murmurs.

  "I agree," I tell her. "You don't even want to know the nightmares I had for years after that."

  "Did you...um...ever talk to someone about it?"

  "You mean like a psychologist or something?" I ask, and she nods. "Yes. For a few years when I was younger. Again when I hit my teens. It helped."

  "And your mom? Is that Etta Turner?" she asks.

  I shake my head, smiling slightly at just the mention of Etta's name. "She's my aunt. My mom killed herself three days after my dad was convicted. I came home from school one day and she was just lying in bed...thought she was sleeping. It was a prescription drug overdose."

  "Oh, Van," Simone says with such heartfelt sympathy it makes my nose sting from the care within her tone.

  I wave her off. "I don't miss her. I've come to grips that she was wrong to expose me to that, but honestly, it afforded me a life with Etta."

  "You changed your name," Simone says with sudden realization. "The letter was addressed to Grant VanBuskirk."

  "Etta had custody of me and we tried to stay in the D.C. area, but I was really struggling. School was just hard, and I was acting out. She got my dad's parental rights terminated, moved me to California, and we left it all behind."

  "I like Van," she says, giving me a sweet smile. "It's a good name. Strong. Like you."

  I appreciate her sweet words, but strong isn't the word I would ever use to describe me. Coward, maybe, since I shut myself away from the world. Asshole, definitely. A charlatan, probably, for hiding behind a fake name.

  I don't say these things, though, and push on with my story. "Etta gave me a new life and things were better in California. She got me involved in hockey early, and it was a way for me to channel a lot of my anger."

  "She sounds amazing," Simone says.

  I nod, and although I know it will hurt, I have to say it. "The only woman I'll ever love."

  Gotta give Simone credit, she
doesn't even flinch. She just nods, as if she understands why I'm such a schmuck and is willing to shoulder the burden of my assholery.

  "And now your dad is dying?" she asks, pushing me to finish.

  "I went to see him a few weeks ago," I tell her.

  "After that first night we were together," she murmurs, more to herself than to me. "That's where you went."

  I nod. "I spent maybe five minutes talking to that asshole. He found out who I'd become but promised he'd keep my identity a secret."

  "Do you believe him?" she asks.

  "Not one bit," I mutter. "I just hope he's too fucking sick to have the energy to do it."

  "Why did you go see him?"

  I blink in surprise at this question. "Because...he's my dad."

  "No, that's not it." She doesn't give me any more, but I can see in her eyes that she doesn't accept that.

  Savvy little brat.

  I suck in a breath, and when I let it out, I release the last secret I've held from her. "Because I'm afraid I might be like him, and I had to see if I could find out anything from him that would either confirm my suspicions or put my soul at peace."

  Simone scoffs at me. "That's ridiculous."

  "Maybe to you," I tell her calmly. "But to me, it's all I've thought about most of my life."

  "But you went to counseling--"

  "Yes, I did," I say, cutting her off. "And I didn't kill animals when I was younger and the thought of raping a woman disgusts me. I can't even fathom killing a person. I've read articles on sociopathy and psychopathy--or rather antisocial personality disorder and its variations--and fuck...I was going to go to college and study it before I got drafted, but none of that matters, Simone. Just one tiny kernel of fear is enough to keep me awake at night."

  She doesn't try to dissuade me, but takes another tack. "And did you find out any answers?"

  I don't answer at first, holding her gaze for a moment. So fucking beautiful, and so fucking naive sometimes.

  "He didn't start killing until he married my mother. He was thirty years old. Two years older than I am now."

  Realization dawns in Simone's eyes and she immediately starts shaking her head. "That doesn't mean anything."

  "Yeah, I know. But it could also mean something."

  "Van...I took some psychology courses in college. From what I remember, you don't fit the bill at all. I bet your dad was charming, right? Superficially, that's how sociopaths are, and, baby, you are anything but charming."