their crimes in the public arena. She needed for
those men to be judged and found wanting of basic human decency,
only then could she pick up the pieces of her life and move
forward.
However, if he was correct in his
assumptions, the Bureau would be more interested in the national
security elements, rather than justice for one eighteen-year-old
girl. There would be no official arrests, no public trials, because
the information she could provide and the covert op that would
garner evidence of involvement in human trafficking by wealthy and
powerful military leaders, heads of state, and billionaire moguls
would be an invaluable asset in the hands of the U.S.
government.
It was somewhat of a moral
conundrum as far as Matthew was concerned. Olivia was running away.
She didn’t want to face her former life or its inhabitants and it
was a sentiment Matthew understood well, but couldn’t agree with.
At the same time, he was the last person to give advice on how a
person should move beyond their personal traumas. He was still damaged, still sick in the head, no
matter how many therapists he had talked to as a teenager. His
records had been sealed and for all intents and purposes he was fit
for duty, but he knew his own mind. He knew his own limitations and
biases. He supposed it counted for something, his knowledge of his
own shortcomings afforded him the semblance of perspective when
dealing with his job.
He entered his hotel room
and set his briefcase down on the table provided. He emptied his
pockets, careful to stack any loose change by denomination and
place them in a row by size. His keys, wallet and watch were also
placed with care. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and hung it up in
the closet. Next, he sat and removed his shoes and socks, followed
by his shirt and tie. Finally, he removed his belt, wound it, and
placed it on the table with his other things before he removed his
underwear. He lined up his shoes under the bed and placed the other
items in the hotels dry-cleaning bag. It
was his nightly routine and he took comfort in the repeated
actions. Order was important.
He stood naked in the warm, slightly humid,
Texas air and ignored the tingling sensation of his penis becoming
more erect. He knew why he was getting hard and he wished he
weren’t. He’d been unable to resist the temptation of perusing his
interview notes, despite the promising information he’d garnered
through researching Rafiq in greater depth. That much of the girl’s
story was filled with violence was regrettable, that the violence
was a direct result of sexually charged circumstances was
contemptible, but the way she recounted the story with such devious
and manipulating zest and obvious arousal was enough to put him
over the edge. It pushed all of his buttons and on the heels of his
distaste was the undeniable quickening of his pulse.
He wouldn’t do it though. He wouldn’t
fantasize. He wouldn’t masturbate. He wouldn’t seek out sexual
gratification. Doing so, would be a step in the wrong direction for
him because he knew it would lead to the debilitating guilt that
inexorably followed.
Instead, he got down on the floor and
proceeded to do as many push-ups as he possibly could. He was tired
and his muscles protested. Two in the morning was not the time for
exercise, his muscles screamed at him, but it was better than the
alternative. He pushed himself until sweat ran down his back and
his stomach quivered, until his arms threatened to give out…until
there was not a chance in hell he could inspire his lust. Then he
took a shower and got in bed.
He slept peacefully and without dreams.
Chapter Seven
Caleb couldn’t sleep. He’d
done everything he could think of, he’d taken a hot shower, he’d
masturbated, and he’d sat in Rafiq’s library and looked through his
books. He couldn’t read, but some of the books had pictures in
them. He’d walked around the house and discovered the snacks in the
kitchen. He’d eaten all the
those men to be judged and found wanting of basic human decency,
only then could she pick up the pieces of her life and move
forward.
However, if he was correct in his
assumptions, the Bureau would be more interested in the national
security elements, rather than justice for one eighteen-year-old
girl. There would be no official arrests, no public trials, because
the information she could provide and the covert op that would
garner evidence of involvement in human trafficking by wealthy and
powerful military leaders, heads of state, and billionaire moguls
would be an invaluable asset in the hands of the U.S.
government.
It was somewhat of a moral
conundrum as far as Matthew was concerned. Olivia was running away.
She didn’t want to face her former life or its inhabitants and it
was a sentiment Matthew understood well, but couldn’t agree with.
At the same time, he was the last person to give advice on how a
person should move beyond their personal traumas. He was still damaged, still sick in the head, no
matter how many therapists he had talked to as a teenager. His
records had been sealed and for all intents and purposes he was fit
for duty, but he knew his own mind. He knew his own limitations and
biases. He supposed it counted for something, his knowledge of his
own shortcomings afforded him the semblance of perspective when
dealing with his job.
He entered his hotel room
and set his briefcase down on the table provided. He emptied his
pockets, careful to stack any loose change by denomination and
place them in a row by size. His keys, wallet and watch were also
placed with care. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and hung it up in
the closet. Next, he sat and removed his shoes and socks, followed
by his shirt and tie. Finally, he removed his belt, wound it, and
placed it on the table with his other things before he removed his
underwear. He lined up his shoes under the bed and placed the other
items in the hotels dry-cleaning bag. It
was his nightly routine and he took comfort in the repeated
actions. Order was important.
He stood naked in the warm, slightly humid,
Texas air and ignored the tingling sensation of his penis becoming
more erect. He knew why he was getting hard and he wished he
weren’t. He’d been unable to resist the temptation of perusing his
interview notes, despite the promising information he’d garnered
through researching Rafiq in greater depth. That much of the girl’s
story was filled with violence was regrettable, that the violence
was a direct result of sexually charged circumstances was
contemptible, but the way she recounted the story with such devious
and manipulating zest and obvious arousal was enough to put him
over the edge. It pushed all of his buttons and on the heels of his
distaste was the undeniable quickening of his pulse.
He wouldn’t do it though. He wouldn’t
fantasize. He wouldn’t masturbate. He wouldn’t seek out sexual
gratification. Doing so, would be a step in the wrong direction for
him because he knew it would lead to the debilitating guilt that
inexorably followed.
Instead, he got down on the floor and
proceeded to do as many push-ups as he possibly could. He was tired
and his muscles protested. Two in the morning was not the time for
exercise, his muscles screamed at him, but it was better than the
alternative. He pushed himself until sweat ran down his back and
his stomach quivered, until his arms threatened to give out…until
there was not a chance in hell he could inspire his lust. Then he
took a shower and got in bed.
He slept peacefully and without dreams.
Chapter Seven
Caleb couldn’t sleep. He’d
done everything he could think of, he’d taken a hot shower, he’d
masturbated, and he’d sat in Rafiq’s library and looked through his
books. He couldn’t read, but some of the books had pictures in
them. He’d walked around the house and discovered the snacks in the
kitchen. He’d eaten all the
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