Curing Erica's Phobia Ch. 03

It was somewhere around three in the morning when Erica arrived back at her apartment. She couldn't remember where she'd been, or how she had gotten back. She had simple walked or run for hours. Her stomach was empty, but the thought of food made her nauseous. Juan would be mad at her about that, she thought to herself. He always called her scrawny, nagged her to eat. And he would know. Even over Skype, he could tell if she hadn't been eating. She paused at the bottom of the stairs up to her apartment. Just like he would know she'd been with someone else, had let some other man touch her. Erica closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cool stonework façade of the building. He would know and he would hurt her. She glanced around at the darkened street, the cars parked here and there, the even darker Green Lake park across the street. A car drove by on the street and slowed. She could make out faces looking her way. She turned and ran up the stairs.

When she opened her apartment door, a slip of paper floated to the ground. For a moment, she just stared at it, but then she remembered the car out front, and she grabbed the paper and dashed inside, pushing locks into place. Once inside, she flipped a light switch and looked at the paper. All it said was 'Call Me' and gave a phone number. She knew it had to be either Juan or Eric. She wasn't even sure anymore if they weren't just one and the same, full of rosy promises and pain. She pulled her cell phone out and glanced at it. She had muted the ringer at some point when the incessant beeping became too much to bear. The screen was full of missed calls and voice mails and partial text messages. She ignored them all and tossed it onto the couch.

Wearily, she made her way to the bathroom and then to the bed, staring at the wall. It felt like the wall was staring back at her in the darkness, watching her, waiting for her to fall asleep. She rolled onto her back, hoping the ceiling would prove more empathetic, but it only seemed to hang more heavily over her as if a great weight sheltered in the attic, restlessly waiting to crash down on her. She knew its name; memories. It had stirred from its slumber and it was angry at being denied so long. Erica rolled to her stomach, sure she would not be able to sleep with the room closing in on her. Her eyes wanted to close, she was so tired from hours and hours of fear and running, but memories threatened behind her eyelids, dripping down from the ceiling like rain seeping through the damaged roof that was her life. The memories were visions; racks of canes and whips, ropes and shackles. The memories were pain. She lay, her head buried in her arms, her back exposed because it hurt so much more when they struck her front; her nipples, her clit, the skin stretched tight over her ribs.

She could feel them there; Juan, calling her vile names in Spanish through the whistling of a cane; Eric, telling her to breathe between the slapping of leather; and others, shadow figures watching, applauding, laughing, vying for a turn. And then HIM, waiting until her sobbing turned to moaning and her writhing became more urgent, until she begged to come, her desperation voiced in incoherent screams. HE always waited, not letting her come until the pain was blinding, became her whole world. In the beginning, HE was the pain. But now, it came from everyone, everywhere, at all times. Only mindless orgasm freed her from the pain, but ever so briefly. Then it would start again, by others, with different sources and causes. HE set few rules, innovation was rewarded. Her entire world was fear, and pain, and need. Her reward came when her need was fed. Her punishment was when she was driven to famished need and then denied.

Erica was screaming hoarsely and thrashed, until she fell from the bed, flailing even more frantically as she was caught between the far side of the bed and the wall. As she slowly realized where she was, she curled into a ball, kneeling on the floor, trembling but finally fully awake. Her fingers crept between her legs, found the waistband of her sleeping shorts, slid down her belly and between her pussy lips. She rubbed, softly at first, groaning with need, then harder, her fingers slick with the moisture of her overwhelming desire. Her fingers plunged inside as her palm rocked hard against her clit. But the pain was gone with the dream, and she didn't know how to come without pain. Only Eric held that secret. It was nearly a half hour before she climbed back onto the bed, though she didn't sleep again. She simply stared wide-eyed at the wall of her bedroom until it was time to get up.

When she did climb off the bed a couple hours later, fully intending to follow her usual morning routine, muscles that had been thoroughly abused for hours on end last night screamed in protest and she gave up any notion of running. It was so hard to figure out what she should do next, when she couldn't mindlessly follow her routine, but somehow she managed to get ready for work, even though early. When she crossed the street, the bus to downtown was just there, as if called to order. Once she had settled into a seat, things began to feel like they were on their way back to normal. All a bad dream, she thought, never even missing the cell phone she'd left lying on the couch.

Erica stopped at the corner Starbucks and got a mocha and a muffin, though she only made it halfway through the muffin before her stomach started to protest. She walked the half block to her office building and headed for her cubicle. Normal was getting even closer, almost in reach. Except there was someone waiting by her cubicle for her. She stopped at the entrance to the HR department. She was at least a half hour early. No one else was around. Someone - security? - had let a woman into the department. The stranger was an African-American woman in a dark pantsuit. Not particularly threatening, save it wasn't normal, and Erica desperately needed normal. She started to back out of the department just as the woman turned and spotted her. The woman immediately started her way. There was a guest badge hanging on a pocket of her suit jacket.

Erica turned and ran for the elevator, vaguely aware that the woman was calling her name. When she reached the elevator bank, she pushed furiously at the call button, but it was a big building and people were pouring in to work. The woman reached her before an elevator did. She was holding out an ID even as Erica backed away from her.

"Erica, my name is Joann Majors. I'm with the FBI. I'm on the task force with Eric. I just want to talk to you. Erica, please, I know your upset. I'm not going to touch you, okay? Just talk."

An elevator dinged and Erica looked hopefully for escape, but it was on its way up, packed with people even after her company's Finance Manager got off. He glanced at the tense confrontation before him. "Everything okay, Erica?"

Erica nodded, but the man looked at the two women for another moment, before he turned to head to his own department. The FBI agent waited till he was out of earshot. "You have interview carrels in your department. We can use one of those. Just to talk. Please, Erica. Let's keep this informal."

Erica stared at her, not even wanting to think what 'formal' might consist of. The woman gestured back toward the HR department. When an elevator dinged again, disgorging more co-workers, Erica finally broke free of her paralysis and headed reluctantly back to the department. One of the other HR specialists had just arrived and watched with undisguised curiosity as Erica led the agent to one of the carrels. Inside the tiny glass room, Erica stood with her back to a wall, hugging herself, staring at the floor. The woman gestured toward one of the two chairs, but Erica only shook her head. The agent gave a soft sigh, and continued to stand herself.

"Eric called me and said he had done something stupid that upset you. He asked me to find you. To convince you that we still needed your help."

"What did he tell you?" Erica asked softly.

"He didn't give me any details. Do you want to?"

"No."

"Okay. If that changes at any point, you just call me." She laid a business card on the little desk in the carrel.

"Is that all?" Erica asked hopefully.

"No, there's the matter of the Skype call. It's been set in motion. It's too late to change that. We need you to talk to Juan on that call." Erica closed her eyes wearily, suddenly feeling the fatigue of not sleeping last night.

"Will Eric be there?"

"Not if you don't want him to. You call the shots, Erica."

"Okay. Is that all?"

The woman studied her. "Have you slept? Maybe you should go home."

Erica shuddered. "No," she said softly.

"How can I help?" the agent asked. "Do you want me to take you home?"

"No," Erica said more firmly, shaking her head.

"All right. Tomorrow evening, we need to meet and discuss what you will say when he calls. Do you want to meet at your apartment?"

Erica pictured the police department and all those guns, and said "Yes, please."

"Good. We want you to receive his call at your apartment, in case he's checking your IP address, so that will work out fine. We'll be there with you the whole way. In the meantime, you call me if you need anything at all, even if you're just nervous and need a friendly voice. Okay," she said, pushing her card closer to Erica.

****

On Tuesday afternoon, Erica was on the bus, heading home, when she felt the beginnings of a panic attack. For the past two days, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. It had only intensified, and now it felt like she was being crushed between the eyes at her back, and the appointment with Juan that she was rushing toward. The bus had just crossed the Freemont Bridge when she jumped off it at the first stop and headed on foot toward Gas Works Park trying to breath normally. There was a light drizzle falling, almost more of a mist and she turned her face up to it. Her heart was pounding. Though she swore she wasn't going to do it, she looked behind her. The only thing to see was the rush hour traffic on Aurora and the cars heading for the Wallingford neighborhood. A few hardy pedestrians were hustling here and there, most with heads down and umbrellas tilted into the drizzle. It only made her feel all the more foolish for her unshakable paranoia.

She turned back and walked with determination, toying with the idea of not going home at all. Even as she thought it, the tightness in her chest began to ease somewhat. She knew there would be hell to pay with Juan if she blew off the Skype session, but it would be far worse if he took one look at her and knew she had been with another man. And she didn't believe for a minute that he wouldn't come for her; that Interpol would find him before he could leave whatever country he was in this time. For all she knew, he was already here; maybe even the watcher that she could feel at her back. It wouldn't be the first time Juan had had her watched. Maybe he'd had someone watching all along, already knew. Even as she thought that, her breath caught. She stumbled to a stop, repeating her mantra for panic attacks: slow breaths, in, hold, out, hold. What little food she had been able to get down at lunch time was roiling in her stomach, demanding release.

She tried to keep walking. If she could get to the park and find a bench to sit on, it would help. She could sit until the attack passed, then decide what to do. She stumbled again, and she was terrified that she would fall; not that she would get hurt, but that some good Samaritan would try to help her, touch her. She stopped again. She was hyperventilating now, losing control. If only she were dressed for running. That always helped, always quieted the alarms in her head, regulated her breathing. She closed her eyes, tried to picture herself running, timed her breathing mantra to the imaginary stride. After a few moments, she pulled out her cell phone and called up her favorite playlist. Even better.

She started walking again, timing her steps to her mantra and the music. Almost normal. How many times had she said that to herself in the last few days? Would anything ever be normal again? As she began to feel better, she briefly considered getting back on the next bus and heading home, but then remembered that the FBI would be waiting there. As she thought that, her phone rang through the ear bud. She dug it out of the pocket and hit ignore, then briefly wondered if they could trace her location through the phone. They were always doing that on TV. She vowed to turn it off when she reached the end of the playlist.

After a couple more blocks, she decided she was feeling so much better, that what she really needed to do was find a nice quiet bar and have a nice cold glass of white wine. On the next likely looking street, she turned north. She didn't know the neighborhood well, but she was sure if she went up to Forty-fifth there would be someplace to get some wine and something to eat. What she would do after that, she had no idea.

She hadn't even made it to the next corner when someone grabbed her arm. Erica gave a strangled scream and tore her arm free, instantly back in full hyperventilation mode. She stumbled backward, one hand over her mouth by reflex trying to slow her breathing. When she got her feet under control and was able to look up, it was to see Eric. He was poised as if to catch her, should she fall, but as he realized she wasn't stumbling anymore, he placed his hands on his hips, watching her. "Breathe," he said softly. "You're okay, just breathe."

She shook her head at him, backing away. "They are waiting for you at your apartment," he reminded her.

"I'm not going," she gasped.

Apparently, he had expected that answer. All he said was, "Why not?"

"He'll kill me." It came out more as a wheeze, and she covered her mouth again, trying to limit her breath intake.

"He's not here," Eric said patiently.

"If you don't know where he is, you don't know that he's not here," she was gasping every few words, but the effort to talk was actually helping. "What are you doing here? They said you wouldn't be here."

He crossed his arms, making no move toward her even though she was backing further away. "They said I wouldn't be at your apartment. Which is where you're supposed to be. I'm here because I knew you'd chicken out."

She straightened, her mouth opened to deliver a scathing retort, but then she couldn't think of a good argument against the truth. "Just leave me alone."

He shook his head. "I can't do that. This is too important."

"Fuck you," she exclaimed, though it didn't come out nearly as emphatically as she hoped. She turned and started walking. She would have run, but she was in her work shoes, not to mention her pencil skirt. She was rubbing her forehead, trying to relieve the headache that always came on the heels of one of her hyperventilation episodes. She almost ran into Eric, who was suddenly in front of her, blocking the way. She backstepped quickly.

"You can walk with me over to the car," he said gesturing across the street, "Or we can go the whole route with handcuffs and pat down. You choose." She went pale, but didn't respond, so he reached into a back pocket and held up the handcuffs, dangling from a finger.

"Please don't do this," she whispered.

He gestured toward the car again, then suddenly reached into a pocket and pulled out a cell phone, tapping a key without taking his eyes from hers. "Eric. I know. I have her here with me. I told you she wouldn't, so a 'thank you' for saving the op just might be in order. We'll be there as soon as she finishes weighing nonexistent options." He put the cell phone back in his pocket. "You're wasting time. You could be out of the rain, in your apartment, having a glass of wine right now."

She glanced at the car, then did a double take. It was a scruffy white Toyota, and she'd seen it before, on the street in front of her apartment, in a parking spot near work. She looked back at him with anger flaring in her eyes. "You've been following me?"

"You didn't answer my calls or texts. I've told you before. I had to know that you were safe. Where did you go Sunday night?"

"I don't remember," she said defiantly.

"Jesus, Erica!" He took a deep breath, and in a calmer voice, said, "You could have stayed, let me explain."

"Really? And see what you were going to use on me next? What's your favorite? Whips, canes?"

"Enough!" he said sharply, as she began to back away again. He put the handcuffs back in his pocket, but closed the distance and took her arm. He didn't let her pull away this time, dragging her across the street to the car.

"Eric," she cried out. "Please, let go. Ahhh!"

"I'll let you go when you get in the car. Time's wasting and we have a lot to go over before Juan calls."

"No, I can't talk to him. He'll know!"

"That's the whole idea, remember?" He was opening the passenger door. "Get in!"

She tried to brace against the roof of the car, but he pulled her arm away and twisted her down into the seat. She shrank back from the contact, effectively ensconcing herself in the car. He shut the door and hurried around the car before she could attempt an escape. When Eric settled into the driver's seat, she had her head back against the seat and her eyes closed, trying yet again to get her breathing, and thereby her panic, under control. "You're okay," he said reassuringly. "Just breathe."

"Fuck you," she replied in a gasp.

"Fasten your seatbelt or I'll do it for you."

When she didn't respond, he began to reach across her, and she hurriedly grabbed the latch to pull it across her lap, finding the buckle. There was a very soft sound with each intake of breath that sounded almost like a sob, and she was rocking ever so slightly in the seat, but when he said, "Ready?" she nodded, knowing the sooner they left, the sooner she would no longer be alone with him.

It only took a few minutes to reach her apartment and he found a parking spot at the end of the block partly in the red zone, but he didn't seem to care. He came around to her side of the car and held the door until she climbed out, looking up at the second floor apartments as if it was the first time she'd seen them. All the lights in her apartment were on. Eric put an arm around her back, without actually touching her, and gestured toward the stairs. She started toward them as if to a funeral.

When they entered the apartment, she stopped just inside the door, staring at all the people and at the cables running across the floor. Eric nudged her forward to be able to close the door, and she didn't even seem to notice, on overload from all the activity. Eric secured the locks on the door so she couldn't make a quick escape then went into the kitchen to pour her a glass of wine. Agent Joann Majors came up to her, talking as if she had just arrived from work and had never contemplated abandoning the project.

"Let me show you what we have set up, okay? Over here we have a computer that will mirror everything that is happening on yours, except, of course, it won't have a camera feed. We'll be able to watch his expressions and everything. It is connected directly to your computer, not over the WAN. You'll be on your laptop at the kitchen counter and..."

"I usually..." Erica started.

"What?" the agent asked, with obvious concern.

"I usually am sitting on my bed," Erica blushed bright red. "Naked," she whispered.

"Okay, no problem," she looked over at the tech sitting on the couch. "Kill the local window. Move the laptop to the bedroom." Another tech hurried to obey. She looked expectantly at Erica. "Anything else?"

"We're going to need longer cords," someone called and someone else hurried to accommodate them. Erica was beginning to pant. She had never had this many people in her apartment before, let alone futzing around in her bedroom. Agent Joann took her by the shoulders, then quickly let go as trembled and turned wide eyes her way.