Page 7 of Fire Meets Fire

“Yes, Chaz. Yes.” Her voice is breathy, full of pleasure.

What I’ve done comes as no surprise. She knows me and the way that I like my sexual encounters—impersonal, both partners finding enjoyment, but basically just a physical endeavour with a mutual desire to get off. Knowing what to expect, she clasps the headboard and braces herself as I start hammering in.

I like rough sex and make no apology for it. The women I go with all know what to expect. Right now, CeCe definitely isn’t objecting, proven by the way her cunt starts rippling around my cock.

Knowing she’s close means I don’t have to put in an effort. To ensure she’s with me, I reach down my hand and pinch her clit in the way that she likes. Then I pause, enjoying the sensations of her coming and squeezing the hell out of my dick. When she starts to relax, it only takes a couple of pumps before I’m filling the latex.

I pull out and go to the bathroom to deal with the condom. After I’ve flushed and washed my hands, I return to the bedroom unsurprised to find CeCe has already dressed and left.

She knows her place.

Which would be satisfying but for the reason when I came, it wasn’t CeCe I imagined beneath me. It was the woman I’d left imprisoned in our shop. And hell if the fact that it wasn’t her in reality had left me depleted of cum, but also far from sated.

God fucking damnit.

CHAPTER THREE

HELO

God fucking damnit!Why did it have to happen today?

My episodes which caused my medical discharge continue to be the bane of my life. The easy explanation, post-traumatic stress disorder, the harder, what actually goes on in my brain. If there was some trigger to avoid, some way to predict when they’d occur, I could deal with them more easily. Sometimes, like today, I get subtle warnings, other times, I do not. I could be having a normal conversation with somebody and then, lights out. The frequency is erratic as well, adding to the complications of dealing with them.

It's not easy to get over them either. The episodes leave me feeling weak and drained, barely aware of where I am or what I’m doing. I huff to myself. I doubt I’d have been able to answer their questions rationally, even if I was prepared to start talking.

But what kind of people am I dealing with here? They didn’t show an ounce of sympathy that I’d collapsed. Sure, they’d offered to call for a medic, but didn’t argue when I refused their help. Then, with no regard nor seemingly any care as to whether I’d live or die, the bikers had thrown me in a pit, chained me up and left me alone.

Grinning, I muse medical assistance wouldn’t have helped anyway. There’s no cure for what ails me. As for my prison, it’s not so bad. I’ve been detained in far worse situations. I even chuckle at the thought of their faces if they only knew, instead of being frightened and alone, I welcome the space to get myself back together. It takes far more than this to make me afraid. I’ve faced much worse enemies and survived.Well, kind of,I correct myself.

Ignoring the bruises from the blows that my worthy opponent had landed, I close my eyes, relax and allow my heart rate to return to its normal pre-episode rhythm, neither too slow nor too fast. From experience, I know that my recovery time is quicker if I don’t fight it and give my body time to find its equilibrium again.

But as the aftereffects of my episode fade, I begin to remember the details of what happened before my panic attack. I don’t waste time feeling mortified and embarrassed, this is my new normal. Instead, as I become more alert, I start to scan my surroundings, or what I can make out as they’ve left me in the dark. As my bound hands fumble for anything I can use, I snort at the idea they thought leaving me chained and alone would have any effect on me. They have no idea what I’ve already been through, and getting out of this is going to be child’s play.

It’s a mechanics pit. It would be exceptional not to be able to find a piece of wire or something down here, and indeed it’s only moments before I find one. Having my wrists zip-tied together is only a slight drawback, as I tackle the padlock on the chain that’s fastened me to the hydraulics. It’s a matter of moments before I’m free. I stand, shaking my head to rid it of the vestiges of the fogginess that had assailed me, then feel the walls until…

Yes.Steel rungs provide an easy way out of my prison. Relying on balance, I climb without the use of my hands. Once I’m standing in the auto shop itself, I don’t even bother laughing.Getting free was so easy, it’s not worth congratulating myself. Next step is to find something to undo the zip ties binding my wrists. It’s not long before I come across a handy box cutter, and then only a matter of seconds until I’m free.

Shaking my hands out, for a moment I toy with the idea of stealing one of the bikes that are obviously awaiting collection, but firstly, it would be far too dangerous given my condition, and, secondly, I would rather not give the Soulz any more reason to come after my hide.

Frowning, I realise they’ve taken my backpack which means I’ve lost the small tablet that doubles as my phone and only means of communication. Luckily, my wallet and keys will still be hidden where I left them outside as I would never make the rookie error of entering somewhere I shouldn’t carrying identification. The sides of my mouth change direction as they turn up. I’ll be departing here tonight, leaving the MC no clues on how to catch up with me. Which gives me a thought. As they’ve no idea who I am and no way to find out, I might as well get what I came for, and a bit more besides. It’s a damn shame, but now my route has been discovered, I won’t be coming back to this place again.

Not wanting to put on a light, and having lost the flashlight I came with, it takes slightly longer than previously to find a few items by touch, and from memory of where they’ll be located. No longer having my backpack, I wrap my treasures in a discarded rag. Setting my ill-gotten gains securely under my arm, I then slip through the main door and out into the street, carefully making sure that I avoid the cameras that might detect my escape.

Sparing a smile at the thought of the looks on the bikers’ faces when they return the next day to find me missing, I sidle around the side of the lot to retrieve my belongings from their hiding place, then start walking with a spring in my step. Onefoot in front of the next, rinse and repeat, gradually increasing my speed until I settle into a steady jog.

I’ve got five miles to go, but that’s nothing to someone of my training. In the dead of night when the road is all but deserted, it’s enjoyable. As I settle into my stride, my lungs steadily taking in air, my heart pumping in a steady rhythm, I allow myself to take scorn on the bikers for underestimating me. Then I berate myself. I hadn’t been prepared to be discovered tonight and had got blasé about being cautious. What I’ve taken should keep me going for a while, but soon I’ll have to find some other way of getting spare parts.

Of course, I shouldn’t have been stealing from an MC or anyone in the first place, and the woman I wasbeforewouldn’t be able to understand the lengths I now must go to in order to keep a roof over my head. I’ve already discovered I’m not a fan of living on the streets. Yeah, I’ve been there, done that. And, with my particular issues, it proved to be very unwise. One passing-out episode and I’d lost the few meagre possessions I’d gathered together and was lucky to escape with my life. I don’t blame those who stole from me—it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there.

Five miles under my belt and I reach the out-of-the-way ramshackle ranch house. I slow my pace and walk on tiptoe as I skirt around the main building to the barn at the back and take the steps up to the loft. If I accidentally wake Harold, well, that would just be the icing on tonight’s particular cake. He’s cantankerous at the best of times. I don’t want to think about how he’d be if I disturbed him.

My accommodation isn’t much, an old bed frame, sagging mattress, chest of drawers and a box that doubles as my table. On the plus side, it’s dry and I have my own facilities. As I enter the tiny curtained-off bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. The reddened skin over my slightly swollen jaw shows me I’ll probably have a nice bruise tomorrow, and my half-closedeye will almost certainly be black. But nothing worse than I’ve had before. What concerns me most is how I’ll answer Harold’s questioning.

Doing just the necessities before I get into bed, I take a couple of painkillers, then, finally relax. Closing my eyes, I deepen my breathing and hope for a dreamless sleep.

But I should have known that wasn’t to be. I wake only a couple of hours later with the sheet twisted around my body and rivulets of sweat running over my skin. My heart is thumping, still in the throes of my dream. It takes more than a moment to convince myself I’m back in the United States, and that the men who tortured me are all dead. For a while, I sit, shivering and shaking, hating myself for being so weak.They’re dead,I repeat as a mantra.

There’s light coming in through the window, signalling dawn is breaking. Knowing I won’t be able to go back to sleep, I give up on getting some rest and start my day.

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