It’s almost time for me to abandon our snooping quest when one of the bouncers at a small moonshine hovel drops a line that changes things, assuring me that Dispatch’s chief of security has a good idea about the latent resentment possibly turning into a powder keg in the future—and he even drops her name: Rita.
I have no illusions who he is talking about as soon as the name registers, and I can’t help but smile. Zilinsky goes so far as to spit on the ground, giving me a baleful stare when she sees my reaction. Oh, yes, we are thinking about the same person. I’m glad to hear she’s still alive and kicking. To be honest, I didn’t give her much of a chance, but then it’s usually the underdogs who surprise you. Although, it’s pushing it quite a bit to call her an underdog. Suddenly, McGillis hanging around to warn me off makes a lot more sense. Rita must have sent him. That means she likely has no intentions of talking to me, which is fine with me for a lot of reasons. Facing Hamilton in the atrium of the Green Fields Biotech building left a stale taste in my mouth, independent of the rebar almost ending my existence. Rita Connel is almost as much of a black stain on my conscience as all the men I’ve gotten killed.
Now it also makes sense why Dispatch is what it is—she likely would have had zero interest in rejoining the army after it dropped her like a hot potato, but she knows what she’s doing. I don’t doubt that she has an open channel to whoever is organizing the defense of the settlements, doing her best to mitigate how her people are treated. Also, not getting great reception there means they are only too happy to come running to her to be her raucous little foot soldiers should she need them.
That’s a thought for another day. Now I need to make sure I don’t get flayed alive.
“You’re not going to have a chat with that bitch, right?” Zilinsky grumbles while she follows me out onto the tarmac, joining me for part of the way before I can drop her off at our little encampment.
“Not deliberately, no,” I assure her, still smiling. I think I have a good idea why she hates Connel’s guts, but I’ve never asked, and now doesn’t seem like the right time.
“On the off chance that you change your mind, mend fences with Bree first,” she advises, making me miss a step.
“Are you giving me relationship advice now?” I ask, not having to feign surprise.
Zilinsky grimaces. “In this, what I care about is her, not you,” she tartly informs me. “She deserves better than to feel like she’s just another pretty face to you, since she isn’t.” As if that needed to be spelled out.
I’m ready to brush her criticism off, but it leaves a pervasive feeling of unease in the back of my mind after I leave and aim for the whorehouse. Am I being too dismissive of Bree? To me, my feelings and intentions concerning her have been set in stone for long enough that it is ridiculous to consider that she doubts them. Then again, what I love about this woman as much as it annoys me is her penchant to go off on tangents. Ever since the outbreak of the zombie apocalypse, her place in my life has been utterly unchallenged. Left up to me, I wouldn’t have looked at or talked to Madeline, and both Emma and Sadie are two of the most asexual creatures—not just women—in my mind. Most of the other survivors we’ve met were either male or afraid of us, another absolute no-go for my interests. In Aurora, I noticed a few of the local girls eyeing me in consideration but unlike Brandon Stone, they quickly got that they were not met with interest. Sure, here in Dispatch, I could probably get laid in under ten minutes—and maybe rekindle the odd old fling, if I dared do that around Zilinsky, which I do not—but why should I want to?
In hindsight, maybe it would have been smarter to be a little less cryptic when I told Bree to meet me at the brothel and nothing more. Then again, some of the best sex we’ve had was with her being angry as hell with me, so I can’t exactly find it in me to regret putting her in that headspace. It may be debatable whether I deserve her or not, but thankfully, that’s usually not where her paranoia is running rampant.
I’m one minute early, which is a good thing since the moment I see Bree waiting at the reception, I can tell that she’s not in a good mood. She glares at me with all the indignation she can muster, which is quite a lot, I have to admit. I can’t help it—as much as I know it’s wrong to get a kick out of being able to annoy her that much, I love it. Secretly, she must as well, or else she wouldn’t be here, or follow our hostess to the room she shows us. I’m surprised Bree only lays into me for a few seconds. It sounds like token protest more than anything, which is something I can relate to. She trusts me, and whatever her paranoia might have been whispering to her all day long, that hasn’t changed. Now it’s my turn to affirm that trust is well placed, even if I am a royal asshole.
One look at the jacuzzi, and I can tell that not much appeasement will be necessary. I’m almost disappointed as I watch her shirk her fluffy bathrobe—that looks terribly out of place on her, and not just because her skin must have left grimy stains on it already, only minutes after donning it—before she sinks into the hot water. I would have expected a little more barbs. I join her, and I have to admit, that water feels damn good to be soaking in. Am I a little miffed that she insists on floating in it and chatting instead of getting right to it? Yes, but we still have the other room for four entire hours, and I will put all that time to good use.
We talk for a while. When she asks about Emma and whether I’d known what would happen to us in that blasted town in Kansas, I decide to tell her the truth—for the most part. She deserves it. Actually, she deserves much more than that, but until I know more about who the power players in this world are, I won’t let her see into my cards. Depending on what is going on, plausible deniability might just save her life. It might just be coincidence that my own paranoia feels triggered rather than diminished, but there’s one common denominator besides the serum project in general that connects Hamilton, Connel, but also McGillis to me, and until I have verification that’s no longer something I need to care about, I can’t let my guard down completely. Maybe I can get ahold of Dispatch’s chief of security and ask her opinion on the matter…
But, right now, the only woman I care about is the naked minx floating next to me, and for the next few hours, I won’t think about anything except how to drive her insane over and over and over again.
To nobody’s surprise, my plan works phenomenally well, if I may say so, and by the time we leave the cozy heat of the whorehouse, Bree is in much better spirits. I’m not astonished to find out that while I was hunting for intel, she has already made friends. Is it a bastard move of me to tell Jaymie and Tamara that my spunky spitfire of a woman is not actually as free of flaws as they seem to think her to be? Yes, but I get her return volley served when rather than stay with me, Bree goes off with the girls to have some fun, leaving me in the slightly less preferable company of Zilinsky and Romanoff when I track down my people.
Could be worse. Maybe an hour and a half later, she’s back, sweaty and grinning happily, and very ready to catch up on all the booze that the rest have been polishing off like nobody’s business.
I’ve managed to get a slight buzz going myself, but I don’t intend to further push it. Romanoff has actually managed to be drunk for a few minutes at a time but maintaining that is far from easy with our supercharged metabolism. I wonder if I should note to Bree that what she keeps chugging down like beer is a long shot from it but decide not to rain on her parade. Watching her where she’s sitting between Jaymie and Burns, with not a care in the world, makes me feel weirdly happy. She deserves to have some fun. For the past year, she hasn’t had a day off. Even when she got sick in the winter, she spent her days wrapped up in a blanket, discussing strategies and whatnot with whoever had a few minutes to teach her something. While I think she enjoyed learning and getting first proficient, then good at most things she put her mind to, I know that it’s been a hard year for her, more so than most of us. We’ve chosen a life that’s always been on the line. She didn’t. And seeing her next to two other women who haven’t,
and who she has left miles behind just underlines how much she has changed. None of that is news to me, but seeing rather than knowing does make a difference. I don’t generally think that of people, but I’m actually proud of her.
Just as I’m considering getting up and pulling her away from all the craziness to show her just how deep my appreciation runs—again—a familiar voice pipes up behind me, immediately making my beginning hard-on no longer exist. So much for what might have been Zilinsky’s fear that I’m not over past dalliances. I almost laugh at the wave of resentment coming up inside of me, and I have to admit, it’s not just because Connel is cockblocking me but also because spending a languid afternoon with the woman I want to be with has mellowed me out to the point where tonight I don’t want to think about contingencies and the monsters hiding underneath my bed.
“Captain Nathaniel Miller. The last person I expected to run into here. Or maybe not,” she drawls, the usual cocky swagger rich in her tone. That’s actually a relief for me, and goes well with what I’d been thinking earlier. Good for her. I still can’t help sneering silently as I acknowledge the barb Connel delivers by using the rank I no longer have a right to. Coming from her, it hits.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as I turn to face her. She’s looking good—lean but without any signs of starvation, and her eyes are clear. She looks like she belongs—and like this place belongs to her, which I guess it does. “I presume your watchdog faithfully reported on us already?”
Her answering smile is full of mirth. “He did. Have a minute?” And that’s definitely an order.
Part of my ego wants to rise up and tell her to go fuck herself, although from what I’ve gleaned about Dispatch, she’s in no way my superior; all she can do is kick us out if we give her a reason, and very few mercs have so far gone down that road. From the corner of my vision I check on Bree. She has noticed the newcomer all right but looks curious rather than mad. The resentment coming off Zilinsky in waves I ignore. I’m sure that by the time I’m back, everyone who doesn’t yet know how Connel and I are connected will be in the know. And, if I’m honest, I am still curious myself about how she pulled things off—and she can likely answer all my questions.
“For you, always,” I say as I get up, mostly because I know Zilinsky will hear it. See, Bree is not the only woman suffering under my charming ways. I can tell that Connel notices how Zilinsky further tenses—but then, she would have had to be blind not to see. I make a mental note to later check in with Romanoff what I’m missing as I’m tagging along with my former comrade-in-arms, brief lover, and maybe even-still friend. That thought makes a different kind of apprehension flare up inside of me: apprehension borne of guilt.
She leads me to the far side, where we can talk in private but are still within the illuminated parts of the tent. My preference would have been to step outside, but I know why she doesn’t; she’d be almost completely blind in the darkness. That’s on me—and, if anything, something I will never be able to make up for. I know she has said in the past that she doesn’t hold it against me, but that doesn’t change anything for me.
I know I’m in a bit of trouble when she turns downright flirtatious as she leans against one of the struts that holds up the vast tarp of the tent, not quite shoving her tits in my face but giving me plenty of opportunity to look. I don’t, because as much as I may enjoy making the women in my life mad at me, I’m not going to invite trouble if I can avoid it.
Because it makes sense for me to break the ice, I try to offer her my best jovial smile. “It’s good to see you still alive. And, I must say, I’m impressed. You’ve built quite the fortress here.” It’s true. From what I’ve seen, underneath all the chaos, Dispatch has a chance to withstand anything short of an orchestrated, large-scale assault. And because ego has never been an issue with her, she doesn’t turn my statement around on me so she can act offended, as if I’ve deliberately left out a “for a woman.”
“I’m quite proud of what my people pulled off,” she lets me know—and sounds it, too. “Suffice it to say, you’ve barely scratched the surface with your snooping around earlier.”
I shrug as if to say that I’ve been simply curious. “I’d have built it up the same, using the flash surrounding everything that relates to the scavengers as a convenient cover. I expect nothing less of you.”
Her smile, though real, turns wry. “My, aren’t you agreeable tonight? I’m not used to this from you of all people.”
I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a barb. If it is, it barely scratches my skin. “This might sound preposterous and kind of lame, but I’m not the man you used to know anymore.”
Rather than protest, she nods wisely. “Sure, sure. The apocalypse put everything in perspective for you.”
In a sense, that’s true, although I attribute the larger portion of the change to the decidedly drunk woman probably laughing her ass off at whatever slurs Zilinsky is belching out in our direction. Far be it from me to dissuade her of her notions, though. “Not being torn between constantly looking over my shoulder and obsessing about my brother’s death helps,” I offer, a hint condescending. She expects that of me. If I sound too reasonable, she’ll realize I’m lying to her face.
Rita nods—standing so close to her makes me remember far too many moments when we were on a first-name basis only, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. She frowns, as if her thoughts have taken a similar route, but when she speaks, the teasing of before is gone. “Just so you know, you were officially presumed dead until you signed your name on that unit sheet. From what I hear, you didn’t start into the end of the world under the best of conditions.” I don’t, although I’m burning to ask where she got her intel from—either Hamilton is alive and they have met, or one of my defectors did the deed. It doesn’t really matter, I figure—as long as those are all the unknown variables in play.
“What can I say. I’m too damn stubborn to die,” I offer with a quick grin.
She answers with a smile that is too knowing for her own good. “I was counting on it. As stupid as it was for you to step back onto the stage, as far as I know, things have shifted—a lot. Now a disabled drunk can be a pirate queen, and branded rejects can find new welcoming places in this world.”
I don’t know what exactly it is—either her using the same phrasing that I’ve applied to Bree, or the absolutely unwelcome innuendo—but her welcoming smile is anything but to me. I realize I need to set some things straight before this can get worse. “I don’t think you understand—”
Her smile becomes hard before it turns dazzling. Clearly, two can lie through their teeth, it seems. “I don’t think you understand,” she turns my words around on me. “I’m not offering you a job. Not yet, at least. I am the queen of Dispatch, just so that’s clear. We don’t have an official ruler, and because it works best, to the outside world I play the volunteer in the face of diversity. But this is my town, that I have built with my own sweat and tears, and I won’t let anyone take this from me—not you, or any other asshole running around out there, thinking he’s God. But...” She trails off there, the pause too pregnant to be anything but staged. “If you play by the rules and become one of our champions, the rewards that you’ll reap are impressive. McGillis may have been a good NCO, but I want someone I consider my equal at my side, and he will always see me as his superior officer. I doubt you’ll require the extra protection, but should I be wrong, Dispatch will stand behind you if need be. Interested?” Her smile turns that triumphant kind of suggestive that makes me sick—which is funny, because it was that exact smile that made me fuck her in the first place. As I’ll admit to anyone but Zilinsky, a momentary lapse of judgment. Now it makes me seriously ask myself how fucked in the head I must have been to think the solution for all my problems might lie between her legs.
All that makes it tantalizingly easy to let the fake smile I’ve kept up turn real as I briefly glance toward our table. “As much as the offer sounds like the deal of the m
illennium for a different man, I’m afraid I’m not in a position to even consider it,” I tell Rita—and because Bree, in all her quirky randomness, chooses that moment to be my perfect partner in crime, she waves at us, the motion enough to unbalance her drunk ass and make her fall into Burns, laughing.
When I glance back to Rita, her face has turned into a stony mask, disbelief warring with contempt. “Because of her?” she downright sneers. “You’re seriously shooting me down because you’re sticking your dick into that?”
A better man would have jumped to the defense of the lady he is courting. With what Bree and I got up to this afternoon very fresh on my mind, I instead allow myself a lewd if utterly satisfied smirk. “Trust me, she’s a lot more than meets the eye. And you would do wise not to underestimate her.” Her eyes narrow, as if she’s trying to decide whether to take that as a threat or a warning. Before she can reach a conclusion, I go on, aiming for a much more appeasing tone. “I’m done being anyone’s leader except for those assholes currently drinking each other under the table. I won’t ever wash the stain of guilt off my soul, but this world needs people like them more than me right now. Someone who plays fetch for them and kills the undead that are plaguing their little settlements. All I need is what limited company I want to keep, and something to eat once in a while. You can have your great fortress all to yourself. You’ve earned it—and I mean it when I say that. If you ever need us, we’ll come running to help however we can. Whatever you and I had is long gone. You don’t need me here. Feel free to use me out there. But apart from that, you and me? We’re done.” I want to add a few choice words, but instead decide to pretend like I’m the grown-up in this conversation and head back to my people, leaving her to either follow me, or leave, what’s left of her dignity intact.
Beyond Green Fields | Book 5 | Survive [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology] Page 13