Curing Erica's Phobia Ch. 02

"I want you to tell us about your relationship with Juan. The sorts of things you did. We can record it, so no one else needs to be in the room, give you all the privacy you need..."

"Sure, until I leave. Then how many people will get their kicks watching me spill my guts," she retorted bitterly.

She stood up and started pacing on her side of the room. Eric watched her closely. "It won't be that way. One, maybe two people on the task force, so they can try to come up with a way to lure him out. Probably FBI, probably profilers, so not even local."

She rubbed her palms on her jeans. "You have to understand, Juan was into... things."

"BDSM?" he asked softly.

"He said it would help me," she whispered.

"I kind of figured from what you already told me. Did you have a contract with him?" She shook her head. "Safe words?"

"No. He said we didn't need those kind of things. You know. That we had love and trust and that was all we needed."

"Do you think he loved you?" Eric asked.

Erica stared into the mirror. "He would tell me he did."

"When? When did he say 'I love you?'" Erica closed her eyes and shook her head. "After he hurt you? After a scene?" She just shook her head. "That's not how it's supposed to work," Eric told her. "Did you love him?"

She gestured vaguely toward the table and his file folder. "Obviously he wasn't who I thought he was, who I thought I loved."

"Did he have other lovers?" She hugged herself, rubbing her arms. "Erica?" She was facing the wall, now. He watched her profile in the mirror.

"Not that I know of," she whispered.

"But," he prompted her.

She gave a shuddering sigh. "He took me to a club once." Now her eyes were closed. "He made me wear a collar. With a leash. I had to kneel on the pillow beside his chair."

"A BDSM club?" Eric asked when she trailed off in her narrative.

She nodded. "He wanted me to watch the scenes on the stage. Said he wanted to do scenes like that on stage with me, one day."

"What happened at the club?" Eric asked softly.

She turned, her back to the wall and slid down it, hugging her knees and burying her face. Eric had to strain to hear her. "Men would come to him. Ask to borrow me for a scene. He always told them no, said he would never share me." Eric waited silently, sure there was more to come. She gave a soft sob. "But he would tell them that they could touch me."

Eric sucked in a breath despite all of his training. "He knew what it would do to you?"

She nodded against her knees, not lifting her head. She was crying softly now. Eric heard something about cuffs and ball gag. He didn't move closer to her knowing it would only make it worse. He let her cry herself out, then asked softly, "What happened after?" She took a long time to answer, and he waited patiently.

"He took me home, caned me, then sent me to the psychologist." She took a deep breath. "After that, he always went to the clubs alone. He said I was too much of an embarrassment. But he would come home smelling of sex. He said it was just borrowing someone's sub for a blow job, but I could smell the sex."

"Erica, Seattle doesn't allow sexual contact at the clubs," he told her.

She actually raised her head and rolled her eyes at him. "What do you know about the scene? About VIP rooms?" He was relieved to see that the anger was back in her. She rose gracefully from the floor. "I want to go home now."

"Just a few more questions, please. No video today, okay. I might have an idea." She looked at him with a puzzled frown, then glanced at the water bottle on the table. "Sit down," he suggested. "Hear me out. I may have a way for you to get back at the bastard."

She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her hoody, but sat and drained the water bottle. "At the club, he said he would never share you. Did he ever?"

She scoffed softly. "If he was away for even just a day or two, he would interrogate me about who I had seen, been with. When he was away for months, he would..." she twisted her fingers.

"What, Erica?"

She straightened and took a deep breath, gathering strength. But then seemed to lose it with the next exhalation, burying her head in her hands. Eric reached toward her, but then caught himself and pulled his hand back. She took another deep breath, then tried to say everything all at once, before she lost courage. "He would punish me, demanding to know who I had been with, and if I convinced him I hadn't been with anyone, he would demand to know who I wished I was with."

"So, jealous? Is that how you would characterize him?"

She shrugged. "With me, I guess." He noted that the anger had started draining out of her already. "He always said he wanted to Skype because he could look in my eyes and know if I'd been with someone else."

"You've been with him for two years?"

"Something like that."

"Why?"

She stood abruptly. "I want to go home."

"Why, Erica?"

She looked at the door. He'd left it open a crack. She pulled her hood up and started toward the door, but he was suddenly blocking her way and she gasped and cringed back from their almost collision. He was studying her like a science experiment. He stepped closer and she backed away, around the table. "So last night wasn't a cure. More like a temporary fix?" She refused to meet his eyes. "Was it that way with Juan? He had to fix you every time he decided to touch you?"

"Stop it," she moaned, then more firmly, "Stop!"

"Is that how he fixed you? By hitting you with canes and quirts? What was it you said? He would torture you by touching you and then torture you by not touching you?"

She stared longingly at the door, trying to map some route to it that didn't go near him. "Talk to me, Erica. Look at me!"

Like a moth drawn to a flame, her eyes were drawn irresistibly to his. She was panting, closing in on a panic attack. "Tell me what he did to you." He circled her slowly, holding her eyes, maintaining just enough distance to keep her from fleeing, until she was backed up against the table. "Tell me why you stayed with him."

"Because he understood," she said softly. "He knew."

"What did he know?" Eric coaxed.

A lone tear trickled down her cheek. He moved slightly closer and she trembled violently. She shook her head, finally breaking eye contact. "Please," she whispered.

"Erica," he said, his voice low but commanding.

She tensed, then seemed to slump. Her wet eyelashes were fanned out on her cheeks. Her lips were parted, breathing fast, but softer than before. Even her trembling seemed more anticipatory than fearful.

"Speak," he said in the same tone.

"When he hit me with things, I wasn't afraid," she said so softly he could hardly hear her. "If he wanted to punish me, if I misbehaved, he would use his hands, his fingers. But most of the time, he used a crop or flogger, or a paddle. Some implement."

Eric took a step back. "So he could be far enough away not to frighten you."

"And I ..."

"Would get aroused," he concluded for her. She nodded, still not opening her eyes.

"I would need him so badly, my fear would be forced into the background; subsumed by my desire. The more he hit me, the more crazed I became. He liked to hear me beg."

"You said he used a cane on you after the club," Eric pointed out. "How was that punishment for embarrassing him at the club?"

"Because he didn't... afterward," she stammered.

"How did he figure all this out?" Eric asked.

"The first night, when I wouldn't, couldn't... He tied me up and just... wouldn't... stop... touching me. I was screaming. At first, he thought it was funny, but then he started getting mad."

"And?"

"He took off his belt and started hitting me with it." She sank into the chair beside her, burying her head in her hands. "I started begging him to fuck me. He called me his pain slut."

"You said I could go whenever I wanted," she moaned. "I want to go. I need to go. Please," she added softly.

"Erica, I need to make some calls, but then I want to take you to lunch. I owe you big time for what I've put you through. Can you wait just a few minutes for me? I swear I won't ask any more questions about what he did to you. Well, not at lunch, anyway."

"I just want to go home," she said.

"There's a cute little Italian restaurant just a block from here. They serve wine," he added. "You can throw it on me if I break my promise."

She just sighed in surrender. He pulled his cell phone out, and picked up the file folder. "Just a few minutes, I promise. I'll be right out here in the hall, okay?"

When a few minutes became ten, Erica began pacing about the room. When it became twenty she could feel panic nibbling at the edges. She would walk to the door, lay her hand on the knob, but then back away and pace again. When it became thirty, she was through the door. Eric was at the juncture of this hall and the one that ran between the glassed in offices. He turned toward her, and she expected a scowl but he smiled at her. He was arguing with someone on his phone. He waved her over to him.

"I've got this, Frank. I know you're the profiler, but you don't know these people like I do. I'm telling you, I own this asshole. I don't care if he's half a world away. I can get him back here. Trust me." He looked directly at Erica. "No, damn it. She is not like a million other blondes. She's his addiction. Look, Jerry approved it, so get on board." He looked at the screen of his cell phone. "Bastard hung up on me," he swore, but he was grinning. He looked over at her. "Hungry?" She gave a non-committal shrug. "Come on. You'll like this place. Best bread sticks on the west coast." She glanced askance at him as she followed him down the long hall, trying to ignoring the men and women in the office areas to either side, all wearing guns. He had his jacket back on, and presumably his own gun tucked away in the shoulder holster.

They walked to the restaurant, and it was as described. Small, intimate, and smelling delicious. The hostess knew Eric and seated them in a quiet corner. "Do you want Chianti or a white wine," he asked her.

She shrugged. He ordered one of their numerous choices of Chianti and they studied the menus until the waitress arrived with the wine, glasses and bread sticks. Erica ordered a seafood alfredo and Eric ordered cheese ravioli. When the waitress was gone again, he looked across the small table at her. She seemed miles away, so he reached for one of her hands and she pulled away in alarm.

"Earth to Erica," he said softly. "He treated you like shit. You know that, right?"

"You don't know what it's like," she whispered.

"What what is like?" he asked. "Being afraid?"

She sighed. "Going without being touched." Her voice was so soft, he had to lean forward to hear her. "Watching people hug. Hold hands. Kiss." She closed her eyes and he could feel her slipping away again.

"Erica, come back."

She shuddered. "I went to a New Year's party once." She went even paler than her usual skin tone. "Never again." She opened her eyes and stared at him. "Do you know how often people at work expect you to shake hands? Maybe he treated me like shit, but he gave me respite from my terror."

"It doesn't have to be like that. You have the key now."

She scoffed. "What, masochism? Sure, I'll place a personal ad tomorrow. Masochist in search of a sadist for mutual satisfaction."

"Erica!" he said sternly.

"Eric!" she mocked him with the same stern tone. "I am one fucked up piece of shit in a relationship with an even more fucked up piece of shitier shit."

"Hush," he commanded as their waitress approached, blushing, with their salads. Erica took a big gulp of wine and began eating her salad, ignoring him. He finally reached over again as if to touch her, and when she recoiled, he said, "I want you to help me take the fucking bastard down."

"How come you get to swear and I don't," she demanded.

He blinked at her. "You're right. Not my place to judge. But the question stands."

She sat back in her chair. "I don't know what else I can do. What more detail do you want? Where he hit me? How many times?"

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "I've already had more detail than I can process."

"Then what do you want?" she cried in exasperation.

"I want you to tell him you've found somebody else." Erica stared at him, a forkful of salad suspended in midair. "He told you that he would be able to tell if you'd been with someone else. That he would be able to see it in your eyes. Well, you have. So when he Skypes you on Wednesday, you simply tell him the truth. That you've been with someone else and don't want to see him anymore."

She shook her head. "He'll go ballistic."

"Exactly. Maybe ballistic enough to show his hand, maybe even come back here."

Erica went Arctic pale. "You can't be serious," she whispered.

"We'll protect you. We think Juan may be the lynchpin in this trafficking ring. If we don't take him down, he'll just rebuild the ring."

She could feel herself starting to hyperventilate again. "Erica, look at me," he said in that low, commanding tone.

She glanced up at him, but then shook her head, breaking the contact. "I can't, I just..."

"Why?" he demanded trying to hide his growing exasperation. "He was your boyfriend, right? You said he gave you respite from your terror. So why are you scared to talk to him?"

"When he's angry..." she whispered. "When he..."

Eric stilled. "That time you were in the hospital with the concussion?" She nodded. "Jesus, why didn't you tell someone then?" He fell silent as the waitress brought their main courses. When she was out of earshot, he continued more calmly. "It doesn't matter. He can't hurt you this time. He's halfway around the world."

"But you're trying to provoke him to return," she muttered, staring at her plate of food as if it was a foreign object.

"To try to return. Interpol will have him the minute he shows at an airport. " He continued in a gentler voice. "Eat something, please. Let's just take this one step at a time. We need to respond to the email, before he get's suspicious. We need to say something that will pique his curiosity, make sure he keeps that Skype date." He pushed a bowl of parmesan cheese toward her to get her attention. "Erica, how would you have answered that email?"

She gave a small shrug, only slightly more animated. "I would have mentioned the horse that watched us the whole time, I guess."

"Really?" he asked with a smile.

"That's what Juan told me. I was... kind of out of it."

"Okay, so then you usually talk about how much you're looking forward to hearing from him and what he's working on. That sort of thing." She nodded, swirling her fettuccini in the sauce, but not actually eating. "Suppose we make it more a tone of you really need to talk to him about something important when he calls."

She toyed with a scallop. "I wouldn't be that direct," she said after a moment. "Especially about something I knew was going to make him mad." She pulled her phone from her pocket and stared at it for a moment, before opening the email and hitting reply. She typed in a message, slowly, painstakingly; her face tight, her fingers shaking.

**My Dear Heart. I do remember the barn and the curious horse. I wonder what he thought about us making such a mess of his straw. I look forward to your call. I have given Paris a great deal of thought. We need to discuss things. Erica.**

She showed it to Eric. He nodded. "I like it. More evasive, like it might or might not really be about Paris. It sounds like you're going to say no to Paris, but too intimidated to tell him so. He'll log on just to watch you squirm. Hit send."

She did, and just like that, her appetite came back and Eric watched her eat with amusement. "Do you mind if we stop by my apartment? I want to get some clean clothes."

She frowned. "Why can't you just drop me off, then go home?"

"All right. I confess. I have something I want to show you."

She rolled her eyes. "Your etchings? I've seen them."

He grinned at her. She sounded like her old feisty self again. "Let's just call it a 'different way.'" She raised her eyebrows at him, but kept eating. He refilled her glass with the rest of the wine.

"Trying to get me drunk?" she muttered.

He shrugged. "I'm driving. Eat up."

"Well, it would take you about two more of those bottles, anyway. Just saying. Listen, about Juan..."

"Nope, we're not going to talk about him anymore today. We will need to before the Skype call, but I'm done with him today."

She raised her glass. "I'll drink to that."

****

Eric drove her to his loft-type apartment at the lower edge of Capitol Hill. He dug to a back corner of his refrigerator and found a bottle of white wine, offering her a glass. He excused himself to take a quick shower and change as she wandered about the apartment. Like most of its kind, it was lots of brick and huge windows. He had an excellent view of I-5 from the front room. She looked at the furnishings and artwork and decided a woman had been involved in the decorating. It was just a shade more artsy than comfortable, and she had a sense that Eric was a 'comfortable' - maybe even a man-cave - sort of guy. That impression was only strengthened when he emerged wearing a well-broken in tee shirt and faded jeans with frayed hems. He was barefoot, his hair still wet, like he was afraid she would disappear if he took too long.

He had been interrogating her all morning. She decided it was her turn. "So who did your decorating?"

"A previous girl friend," he answered. He was still in detective mode, studying her reaction to his answer, trying to discern her intent in asking.

"Any current girl friends?" she asked, examining a large stylized floral hanging over the couch. Definitely not Eric's type.

"No. I'm afraid not. Detectives make crappy boyfriends."

"So that's why you have so much time to stalk me?"

He shrugged. "Not the most unpleasant duty I've ever had." He pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. "Do you mind if I put some music on?"

She cocked an eyebrow but shook her head. He went over to a wall of shelves, and she realized that several of the shelves held vinyl records and a turntable. "You know, you can fit all that on an ipod now. Much more portable."

He snickered. "Not the same." He pulled out an album of symphonic music and put it on the turntable, the volume turned down low.

"And I suppose that would be your same answer about all those books," she said, gesturing at the upper shelves.

"You nailed it. More wine?"

"You said you wanted to show me something. I doubt it was your wine cellar."

He took a deep breath. "Actually, I wanted to offer you a chance to experience something."

She raised her hands defensively. "Okay, if this is where you whip out the handcuffs and..."

"No! Hear me out. Last night, I showed you that it didn't have to be torture. Right? No whipping, no crops, no quirts, just pleasure." She was eyeing him, listening, so he plunged on. "Erica, it can be so much more, but no pain. No hurting, no anger, no humiliation, just pleasure. I want to show you that, make it easier to walk away from Juan, knowing you can have a healthy, erotic and painless relationship with someone."

"With you?" she snorted.

"With anyone willing to respect you and your needs," he replied. "Because you will know what to ask for." He took a few steps closer, still respecting the space she needed, but making it easier to capture her focus.

"Eric," she shook her head, her voice aching with pain.

"No bonds," he whispered. "You can walk away any time. I swear I won't touch you without your permission, and if you do want my touch, I won't make you beg. You have only to ask me, tell me what you want and what you don't want. Erica, Juan broke you to pieces, I want to make you whole. Then you will be strong enough to face him down on Skype. You won't be afraid."