Young Writers Society

With Nyssa's help, Viggo escaped from jail. Now, while the manhunt is in full swing, they are waiting it out.

To know more, read Chapter 9.2.

Viggo was walking down the beach. His plans of taking long jogs along the ocean had been swiftly thwarted. After seven years of being cooped up in prison, he wasn’t up to jogging in sand. Running on hard surfaces like asphalt or dirt pathways was barely doable.

Oh, he was getting better. In the beginning, he had cramped within the first ten minutes. Two weeks in, he could hold on for a full half an hour before his legs started to feel like chunks of driftwood. Not nearly long enough for him to go through the marathon he forced on his poor body twice a day. So, he jogged along the pathways until his lungs and heart were about to burst, and he just had to stop. Then, he walked as far as he dared before making the trek back home.

Nyssa was always up when he arrived back at the house. It didn’t matter how late or how early. Whether in the light of dusk or dawn, her lit window was the first thing he saw as he came upon the villa nestling in the cliffs. He would walk up the well-hidden path and there it would be, shining a beacon, invisible to all but him. Dense shrubbery shielded the light on every other side. There was another path up front, but the tall pines provided good cover.

He knew the house was a rental. Its freshly-painted sign read, Walker, and they went by Ellis. He was Josh Ellis and Nyssa was his wife, Abby. Nice names. Very all-American. She looked all-American too, her hair a shade lighter, very well-dyed, her makeup fresh and tasteful. She managed to look a good ten years older, but well-aged in a way that could only indicate real money. She was good at this.

Viggo wasn’t. He couldn’t have deceived his way out of a paper-bag. He was so afraid of being recognized that he froze whenever he chanced upon someone. Even his early-morning and late-night runs on the beach made him feel exposed. His physique, his build were too recognizable. He only risked it because he needed the small illusion of freedom.

Nyssa didn’t push him one way or another. She didn’t comment. She just watched. She watched him a lot. She watched as he jogged in or out the house. She watched as he worked out in the basement. She watched as he put himself through training sessions that could only be described as punishing. She didn’t ask what he was punishing himself for.

It was unnerving, the way she saw right through him. The house was proof of how perfectly she understood him. It was all he could have hoped for: off the beaten path, within a stone’s throw of the ocean, full of air and light, spacious, functional, with lavish bathrooms, a basement full of work-out equipment and a huge kitchen.

He loved it, felt safe in it. He hadn’t thought he was capable of those feelings anymore. He loved coming back from his runs, drenched to the bone, and seeing Nyssa’s lit window beckoning him home.

Home. If felt like it. Nyssa had breathed a whisper of soul into it, just to make him feel warm and welcome.

Viggo always took a deep breath as he climbed up the doorstep. He needed to protect himself. This was all temporary. He would be alone again the moment Nyssa felt safe enough to leave the nest. Those mornings when she was never anywhere to be seen yet were the perfect moment to remember that.

Later, after his shower, they ate breakfast together – quietly, because Nyssa wasn’t a morning person. He tried to feed her more pancakes and she tried not to fall asleep in her cereals. Then he headed downstairs to exercise while she settled down in the living-room with her laptop. He sometimes wondered what she was typing but he wouldn’t ask. He had lived and breathed justice for too many years, he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of someone breaking the law – and Nyssa’s smile was way too gleeful whenever she grinned at her screen.

Even that, those silent hours in the morning, the knowledge that she had a wicked edge, was part of belonging to a home with someone, part of the routine and the familiarity. And that was what made it all come together, the scent of her following him everywhere: cool bracing mint, luscious golden honey, the lightest undertone of citrus and Nyssa, like mint tea and home.

Christ…Home.

He was walking too briskly. Sweat dripped off his face in a rivulet that felt like tears. It was dawn, the sun was rising. Viggo didn’t give a shit. Prison had taught him to be in awe of every little thing, to gawk at butterflies and sunsets, but his mind was on the people following him in the bushes.

He hadn’t been sure it was what he was hearing at first. His blood pounding in his ears? An auditory hallucination? Was it paranoia, this creeping feeling he always had, that he was being watched? No, his heart slowed down, he calmed down, and he ascertained that he was being followed. He always functioned at peak efficiency during crisis.

Whoever was trailing him wasn’t being very discrete about it. Their footsteps were light, but it was more by virtue of being small and light than by deliberate planning. Kids? Why would kids follow him? Why would anyone follow him?!

He chanced a glance over his shoulder and gasped. He was being followed by the ugliest mutt this side of the Atlantic Ocean. It was shaggy, scrawny, so dirty that it was neither gray nor brown. It limped badly – it was a wonder it had managed to keep up with Viggo’s long legs.

The pitiful sight stopped him in his tracks. Maybe the dog saw that as an invitation. It dragged itself toward him. A spotted muzzle and huge brown eyes peeked from underneath its filthy mop. They were trained on Viggo and they dripped with adoration.

He backed off as if he was pursued by the ghost of Christmases past. He tripped and fell on his rear. The dog was on him in a second, its wet snout against his neck, its tongue rasping against his skin. It stank of rotten fish and wet dog. A queasy Viggo pushed the mongrel away. The scent of its fur stayed on him.

“Damn animal,” he muttered.

It wagged its tail.

“Stay away.”

It yapped happily.

“Don’t come any closer, stupid whelp!”

It managed to wag its tail and yap simultaneously. Viggo growled. It growled too, playfully nipping at his sneakers.

“Don’t!”

Since the beast didn’t seem too ferocious, he simply turned his back on it and walked away. The dog followed him. He picked up speed. The mutt did too, until it couldn’t and started whimpering, dragging its leg more than ever.

Viggo wasn’t a sadist. He let the mongrel catch up.

“Stupid dog.”

He decided that ignoring it was the best policy – until the dog started following him up the path to the villa.

“Go away. Go away!”

It tried to go in after him. He blocked its path with his foot, but he couldn’t slam the door before the animal climbed up on his shoe, wagging its tail.

“Let go, stupid.”

It didn’t let go. Viggo lowered his foot and the dog tried scrambling over him to get inside. He lifted it again, cursing at the balancing exercise. His legs were tired. He wanted his coffee and then his shower, then Nyssa and a breakfast.

No, that was wrong. Not Nyssa. Just a cup of coffee, a shower and breakfast. That Nyssa would share his breakfast was just a happy coincidence. He took a deep breath. Even through the stench, he was aware of her. Her scent, fresh and sweet and unique, haunted the house.

And, then, her voice came from much closer than expected, “Did you bring someone home?”

The stupidest blush stole over his face. He felt like a young boy caught doing something foolish. He glanced at her over his shoulder and the sight of her socked him. She was wearing a big male shirt – only that. He could see the outline of her breasts underneath the white cotton. She had gone without a bra – but then, she rarely bothered with one.

He wished he didn’t notice that kind of things.

This had to be what she wore to bed. Viggo tried not to stare, but the shirt reached about mid-thigh, baring her legs. He let his eyes travel down their short length to two shapely feet. Her toes were painted cyan. Very girly. Not an Ally Ellis color. Pure Nyssa. The Nyssa he had once known.

He probably had gone too long without sex if he took such notice of women’s feet. He had been in a state of intermittent lust since breaking out of jail. It had to be his body’s way of handling the excitement of being free. He understood that. What he didn’t understand was how much the sight of her always pleased him.

Her short hair was tousled, she looked younger. He studied the picture she made, and he enjoyed nothing – the pretty feet, legs, the unconstrained breasts – as much as he did the look on her face, all soft, and relaxed, and rested.

Unaware of his hormonal turmoil, she pushed the door further open before he could stop her. The mutt bolted inside.

“Fuck!”

“What’s that?!” Nyssa squealed.

“Grab it!”

They chased it into the living-room. Nyssa let out a cry of alarm when the dog headed straight for the plush white sofa. She plunged after it and the mongrel went rabid. She jumped out of reach from its yellowed fangs, yelping, “Ah!”

The dog wasn’t hiding anymore. It planted itself on its three good legs and barked in warning. Nyssa, thoroughly spooked, scurried behind Viggo and looped her arms around his neck. “It tried to bite me!”

Her pointy chin rested on his shoulder. He had no control over how much he liked that, no explanation. She just felt so good against his back that it started a suspicious tremble in his belly. He tried to clamp it down, knowing that his hilarity wouldn’t go over well with Nyssa, especially not in the state of near panic she was experiencing.

“Hm hm,” he coughed.

Maybe the mutt thought she was strangling him, which it wasn’t entirely mistaken about. It took a few threatening steps toward them. Nyssa, no longer satisfied with sharing the floor with the creature, shrieked and threw her legs around his waist, “It’s attacking! It’s attacking!”

“No, it’s not.” It wasn’t funny anymore, she was strangling him. “Hush, you’re scaring it.”

“I’m scaring it?!” she cried out indignantly.

“It’s barking because it’s scared.”

She pitched her voice lower, forcing calm into it. “It’s scared?”

He smiled to himself at the hint of compassion in her tone. Much like her scent, Nyssa’s tender bleeding heart was such an integral part of her character that she couldn’t shed it, even in her East Coast lady persona. Although he had never given an East Coast lady a piggyback ride before. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember ever giving any woman a piggyback ride. It was surprisingly…

Well, never mind that.

“It’s scared. It was fine until it saw you. Maybe it had a bad breakup with a woman.”

She frowned at the dog. Her forehead was furrowed, her lips were quivering. “It’s scared of me?”

“It seems like it.”

“Oh.”

She let herself down, which was a relief. Not physically. She wasn’t heavy at all. But the nearness…He was in no state of mind to be so close to a woman. She stepped away, not afraid anymore but out of respect for the dog’s feelings.

“Don’t go.” He grabbed her wrist, bringing her back closer. “I’ll make the introductions.”

“Really?”

When she looked up to him out of those big eyes, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do except nod. “Yeah. Stand here for now.”

She did, carefully folding her arms over her abdomen. He turned back to the mutt. It didn’t look so aggressive anymore. It made eyes at him, then darted quick glances at Nyssa, and back to Viggo.

“Here, dumb mutt. Sit.”

The dog wasn’t completely feral, it sat on its haunches. Viggo grabbed its leg and rolled it on its back. It wiggled with pleasure as he scratched its belly.

“Come closer, Nys.” She did. “Squat down. Pet it.” It froze. It didn’t like having her so close. He kept it still, trying to comfort it, “Come on, mutt. Meet Nyssa. She’s a friend. Get it? Our friend. Be good.”

Viggo let it go and it rolled on its belly. It gazed up to her timidly. She smiled and gave it her hand, which it sniffed before settling down more comfortably. It wasn’t love at first sight, but they seemed to find an uneasy truce.

“It’s filthy,” Nyssa noted. “You’ve got to clean it up before it ruins the furniture.”

“What?! Why me?”

“It’s your dog,” she replied, beaming at him.

“It’s not my dog!” he argued.

“It sure seems to think it is.”

The damn mutt was licking his wrist. “Stupid mongrel,” he muttered. “I don’t know it – him, whatever, he just decided to follow me. I don’t want him,” he added, then bit his lip at the childish excuse.

“Come on, Viggo,” she chided gently, punching his shoulder as she got up. “When did that excuse ever work? I only just met him?” She snorted. “Use the downstairs bathroom.”

“It’s not my dog!” he shouted after her retreating back. Laughter tumbled down the stairs. He focused on the stupid mutt, “You’re not my dog.”

The mongrel just wagged its tail, not intimidated in the least.

To see that it's DEFINITIVELY his dog, read Chapter 10.2.