Young, Allyson - Broken [Running to Love 2] (Siren Publishing Allure) (12 page)

Another attached file profiled the beautiful setting Tara Larson’s home occupied. Why Tabi changed her name wasn’t clear. He doubted she had done it to hide from him because she had to know tracing her through public documents would be easy for someone with his resources. He zoomed in on two figures descending the meadow and saw two huge dogs, nondescript breeds, but likely the ones keeping people off the property. Kyle loved animals and wondered why he and Tabi had never gotten a pet, something for her to have as company when he had to be away from her even for such short periods of time. He wondered if he had ever truly totally accepted that he wanted Tabitha to be in his life forever until she had run from him, and getting a pet might have made his commitment more real. He never told her he loved her. That thought kept haunting him and making him question ulterior motives.

Kyle booked a flight to Portland for the next day, arranging for an SUV at the airport, then went to his bedroom and began to pack. He had no plan, packed none of the tools of his trade, just decided to present himself to Tabi and fix things. He was optimistic and confident, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of his head that suggested he wouldn’t be enough.

Chapter Eleven

Tara Larson lay beneath the pumping figure of Roger Bend and thought about where she might walk to paint tomorrow. She believed that in the time she had left, she would never run out of places on her property to explore and try to capture the illusive object her watercolors hinted at and her oils fairly screamed about. Roger bucked to completion and collapsed on top of her before rolling off.

He pulled off the condom and said, “Well, now, precious, you needed that, I can tell. Next time you come into town, I’ll maybe have you meet my cousin. I know you suck as good as you fuck.”

Tara Larson murmured something and rolled up to her feet, pulling her dress over her head and toeing into her shoes.

“Not much for après sex, are you?” commented Roger. He got up and opened the door for her in grotesque courtesy, patting her buttocks as she passed. His office backed onto an alley surrounded by windowless walls, and thus, there was no fear of discovery by Roger’s tyrant of a wife. It served Tara Larson’s purpose to keep his use of her under wraps as well. For the time being.

Tara Larson continued to the grocery store where she picked up the items on her list, adding more cat food. She had hauled all the females to Portland and had them spayed and given their shots before bringing them back home the same day. There were no kittens, but the cats were either eating more or additional ones had wandered in. She was running out of creative names. That trip to Portland had been a long, onerous day, but she couldn’t leave her home overnight. It was her sanctuary, and her biweekly trip into the village was normally as much as she cared to undertake. The folks in the store treated her politely, if distantly, and she responded in kind, yet there were none of the pleasant weather-type comments and such she heard them sharing with the other shoppers. The curiosity had probably not dissipated, but they respected her boundaries. She had already forgotten Roger Bend and his cousin. He was just another chore to attend to when she came to town until she had mastered the pistol she had finally obtained all the necessary permits for. If Roger came on her property to fuck her and threatened to shoot her dogs again or harm any of the injured or orphaned animals she cared for, she would kill him. She had already spoken with the state police and had made certain the grounds were laid for a self-defense eventuality. It was doubtful that he had told anyone of what he was doing to her as blackmail to keep her animals safe, and equally doubtful he really had a cousin to introduce her to. People knew Roger Bend, and she had no doubt that they would view him as the villain and her the innocent. It never occurred to her to ask for their help. She would never ask for anyone’s help again. It destroyed a person when one took the proffered hand and then it ripped out one’s heart.

Tara Larson drove up to her home after closing the gate at the end of the lane. Murphy and Law cavorted alongside the vehicle, and a number of cats in a myriad of colors poured around the side of the house across the porch. She knew them all, their personalities and their stories, had named each and every one. The fox with the broken foreleg gazed out at her from the kennel tucked under the shade of the jasmine vine, relaxed and unworried, and the fawn curled up on the doormat bleated in hunger. She had a variety of birds in various sized cages, all in different stages of recovery. She never kept a wild animal once it was healed, but sometimes they visited. Renaud the fox was in a kennel so the dogs wouldn’t play too hard with him while she was away, and the door wasn’t even shut tightly. He had accepted the safety of the roomy crate when she had offered it to him. The fawn had probably run the property line with the dogs, and she hoped its mother would come back sooner than later before it totally bonded to her. The cats regarded Murphy and Law as protectors, and the minor squabbles among her guests invariably settled the moment she came into sight. Tara Larson was nearly fully engaged in her revised reality. When she died, she would hope that the domestic creatures would survive under the terms of her will or have passed on before her. The latter was unlikely given the state of her heart. She knew it was in fragments and didn’t know how it continued to power her body.

After unloading the groceries and feeding the rest of the menagerie, Tara Larson pulled the fawn onto her lap while she sat in the rocker near the front door. She pushed the long nipple attached to the soda bottle into its mouth and contentedly watched it suckle a full half litre of formula before it dozed off in her arms. Tara Larson closed her eyes and rocked, ignoring the soreness between her legs and the unceasing pain in her heart.

* * * *

Kyle found the wandering road to Knoll House after inquiring at the post office.
        
The bird-like woman behind the counter had been quite willing to oblige.

He was bemused by the woman’s interest, which was quickly followed by detailed directions. The caution that people weren’t welcome at Knoll House even though the lady who lived there was a nice little thing, who always supported the stores in town and never bought from the outsiders, although she was a bit odd one might say, was offered as an afterthought.

He left his vehicle at the gate and walked the rest of the distance. The two large dogs he had seen in the pictures raced toward him, bellowing threats and assuming aggressive stances, but Kyle calmly forged ahead, and they separated and fell in beside him, providing an escort of sorts. He saw several cats sprawled on and around the porch, and in a chair by the door, rocking with what appeared to be a baby deer on her lap, was Tabitha. Kyle came to a halt at the foot of the one stair up to the porch and spoke her name. She stared at him without a hint of recognition, and his gut tensed.

“Tabitha, I’ve missed you so much, sweetheart,” he told her, “I couldn’t stay away.”

Tabitha set the little deer down and waited until it got its feet under it.

She then stood up and said, “My name is Tara Larson,” before turning to open the door. She went through it, and it closed behind her.

Kyle shook his head and followed her. He found himself in a warm, inviting space, full of wonderful cooking smells and the underlying taint of turpentine. He looked around for Tabitha, but there was no sign of her, and his eye was drawn to the stairs. He climbed them and looked into what clearly was the master bedroom, sheer curtains billowing at each window and a plump counterpane covering the small bed in the center of the room. A heavy armoire stood against the windowless wall. A glance into the empty bathroom left the last room Tabitha must have gone into, and he found her there, surrounded by paintings, scrutinizing one on an easel positioned to make the most of the amazing late afternoon light that flooded the room.

“Tabitha.”

She looked at him and repeated, “My name is Tara Larson.”

Kyle stepped into the room and was struck by the immediate assault of the canvasses. They were primarily nature scenes, and the colors blazed or conversely muted and blended together, but they all reached out to him as if seeking something. He looked away to see her watching him, still without apparent recognition, and reached out to her again.

“I’ve come to see you, Tabitha, and explain something to you. You deserve an explanation and an apology, too,” he offered. “May I talk with you for a few minutes?”

She stared back, seeming to consider his words, then shrugged. She sidestepped him and walked down the hallway and into her bedroom. He followed her, and she turned to face him, raising her hands to the buttons on her sundress, loosening them and allowing the garment to slide off her shoulders to the floor. She wore nothing underneath. She was so thin, her ribs clearly visible and her hipbones jutting away from her pelvis. A patch of dark pubic hair decorated her mound, and her breasts sat high on her chest, the dark-red nipples a startling contrast to the rest of her white skin. Kyle warred with an intense desire to fuck her and the need to cover her, care for her. Tabitha backed to the bed and laid back on it, squirming her way up so that her head rested on the lone pillow. She spread her legs and waited. Kyle fought the urge to throw himself on her and accept her surrender, her submission, except it was hardly that. He didn’t know this woman, as she likely didn’t know herself.

“Get up, and get dressed,” he told her. “I’ll wait downstairs for you.”

She followed him a few minutes afterward, wearing the same sundress, and sat opposite him at the table. Kyle wondered where to start. He was beginning to get anxious. Anxious and uncomfortable.

“Why did you do that, Tabitha?” he asked her. “Why did you offer yourself like that to me?”

“My name is Tara Larson, but Tabitha thought you’d take the fuck and leave. There isn’t anything more here to offer you.”

Kyle’s insides turned to ice, and he took a moment to compose himself. He began to explain to her about how he always videoed the women who agreed to participate in his kink, although he got written permission before using the tapes in training. He didn’t tell women beforehand because spontaneity was vastly important for proper training. Most of the women, he assured her, were comfortable being on tape. He deleted any footage of those who indicated differently. He explained that the camera and the lighting were wired together and that he hadn’t bothered to disconnect them because it had just been her and him in the playroom once he had met her. He hadn’t wanted anyone else. He could understand that people might see it as an invasion of privacy, but the women who wanted to participate in BDSM activities essentially accepted forms of exhibitionism and wanted to see the footage. He recognized now that it was wrong because he was trying to stop being an egotistical boor.

He shared that he also hadn’t told her that she had been videoed because that night had been different for him, and he’d deleted the footage without even looking at it and every bit of footage thereafter, knowing it was something he would never share with anyone. Something that he didn’t need to watch. He had
her
. He had known long before that night that she was his and his alone forever. He detailed how his computer was hacked via a virus at Unleashed and how many private files were stolen, including the one he had deleted of her. Kyle saw Tabitha’s tiny flinch when he spoke of that, and it gave him hope, for she wasn’t as disconnected as she had first presented. He hoped she didn’t think of all the additional footage that could have been used.

“I should have taken you straight home that night instead of going back with Andrew. I should have told you I videotaped you. You might have told me then, because I finally figured out what this is all about, Tabitha.”

She sat silently, staring at him. He couldn’t read her, couldn’t read the woman he had lived with, knew intimately, had trained in a lifestyle that ultimately had been to fully meet both their needs. And yet, he hadn’t told her he loved her.

He continued, “I figured out that it wasn’t about seeing yourself that night at Unleashed, although that was an embarrassing, humiliating experience for you. I figured out that you took a long time and a huge risk and not a little courage to give yourself to me, to surrender and submit, but most of all to trust me, to trust yourself for the first time. You told me that in every way, long before the playroom, and I videotaped you anyhow because I couldn’t let myself believe you were the One until I had all of you that night. I didn’t trust
you
. And I ended up making you feel you meant nothing more to me than the other women, although that absolutely isn’t true. But I hadn’t even told you how much I love you, and I regret that the most. I am a coward. Deep down, I was afraid of total commitment.”

He waited anxiously, yet still, she said nothing.