The grin blossoming on his face is a thing of true beauty, as is the snicker that he tries to suppress. “Seriously? I gotta tell Burns. They are not going to live that one down.” He’s already getting up, gossip superseding the need to help with laundry—story of my life. Then he pauses. “Thanks, Sadie, for sharing that with me. I owe you one.”
“Sure thing.” I try myself at a sultry drawl but it comes out as a squeak. “I got lots more salacious stories,” I quickly go on, trying to even out my voice. “You wouldn’t believe what people get up to when they think they are unobserved. I’m locked in here almost 24/7. I know everything.”
I can tell that my claim amuses him, and there’s that mischief again. A small part of me hopes his thoughts run along the crazy-train rails that my mind has been locked in since last night. Realistically, he’s already plotting petty revenge on certain other members of the gang, and I’ve just signed up to become his scheduling mastermind. Fine with me, I realize—and something I’m quite comfortable with. Plus, I’ll get away with a laugh and a good-natured reprimand if we get caught, while he’ll be in deep shit. Come to think of it, I may leverage that against a few people as well.
Chris leaves me to my laundry to go do whatever he shouldn’t get up to, I’m sure. Craning my neck, I try to catch a glimpse outside but the window is caked with snow. I hope that lets up soon so fewer people are locked inside. The stink level is getting bad even up here, and I’m yearning for some fresh air as much as for a tasty hamburger. Either would get my mind off stupid things I shouldn’t consider.
I was right; two weeks into November, and I find myself in the enviable position of information broker. The level of practical jokes has skyrocketed since the wake, and I can’t be the only one happy when the weather turns dreary but dry, allowing for regular activities outside to resume. At first, finding myself accosted at all times of the day by people asking favors of me comes with the great advantage that I’m less bored, always have someone to talk to, and can push quite a few of my chores on them. But not all pranks are well executed, and while my parents seem oblivious of my involvement, I notice that Pia has started watching me intently, so I do my best to appear extra innocent—and when that doesn’t work, I make sure to make myself useful elsewhere. The garage is a good place for that since it only makes sense that I join Bree and Martinez where they keep having their chats—she’s given up pretending to want to learn anything about cars, and he’s happy to have me lending a hand instead. Then there’s that morning when Collins and Santos are in deep shit for wanting to dump a small avalanche on Burns and Taylor, but for whatever reason Andrej decided to open the front door first, and I decide it’s wise to patrol the garage at least until I need to get dinner started. Right now the cars are little more than carcasses in need of being sanded down for their new paint jobs, and Chris is more than happy not to be the only one stuck with safety goggles and a face mask. And because I’m not half bad at what I do, it makes sense for him to ask me to keep helping, and a week later we’re quite the smoothly-working team and the first of several layers of matte paint is drying on the vehicles. Gone is the awkwardness from earlier in the month, and I’m a little stunned to realize that we’ve become actual friends. I’m no longer his friend’s annoying little kid, begging for a task because she’s bored. All of the guys indulge me, but this might just evolve into my first adult friendship. I know things have definitely changed when the stories he tells me while we work turn more raunchy, but never in a suggestive or uncomfortable way. It’s more like an endless slew of, usually hilarious, tales of trouble that he got into, often with Burns, but also a lot of the other guys.
And then, in true me-the-bumbling-idiot fashion, I have to go and ruin it all.
Really, it should have been nothing, or nothing except an accidental touch. We’ve been working on installing the roll cages inside the cars to make sure that they survive some rough tumbles without turning into scrap-metal pancakes, which does require the odd hanging inside and out of the chassis. I reach for something and miss, and just as I’m losing my balance and mentally ready myself for a crash onto the concrete floor, some scrapes, and without a doubt some much-deserved laughter, Chris makes a grab for me, his strong arm wrapping around my middle to steady me. It’s not the first time we’ve touched—it happens when you physically work together, and while a lot of that has had more of an effect on me than it should, it was all harmless, momentary, not even teasing. But this is full-on physical contact, and not only does he save me from harm, it’s the first time that I feel just how strong he is; how physically there, like a boulder. The momentary spike of adrenaline does its own to wipe my mind clear of everything that’s not the physical sensation of his body touching mine, even through layers of fabric on both sides. He pulls me to my feet and lets go of me once he’s sure I’m not going to fall again, and I rationally know that his hand doesn’t linger but it still feels like that to me, igniting another hot streak across my lower back and hip. I look up and find him studying my face intently as he tries to gauge whether I’m hurt, and of course my mind messes up the signals even more.
Still, none of that is an excuse for the bullshit that suddenly comes out of my mouth, where I’m standing between the chassis of the Jeep and Chris right in front of me. “Will you be my first?”
I want to cringe all over, but whatever sent my mind on a bender also locks down my muscles. And it seems to be infectious as all he does is narrow his eyes as he squints at me, possibly wondering when he missed me hitting my head really badly. “You mean, like, sex?” His voice is low and throaty, but not in a bedroom kind of way. More deer-caught-in-the-headlights.
I want to laugh. I want to crack a joke and pretend like I didn’t mean it. Heck, at this moment, any reaction would be great, but all I manage is a nod. My mouth is too dry to work, which is probably a good thing, considering what I just blurted out. No, this doesn’t come out of nowhere, of course. Ever since he caught me standing in the bathroom, my mind has churned itself into the ever same, insanely frustrating ruts—and now, somehow, all that has come to a head. But I utterly lack the words to admit my feelings, such as they are, even more so as this is quickly turning into a next-level nightmare. So I blurt out the next best excuse—or reason, or whatever—that comes up in my addled mind. “As a favor.”
Sheesh, where is the zombie incursion when you need it?
I don’t require experience to know I’m making things worse by the second. I can see that plain on his face in the twist of confusion with an increasing amount of horror mixed in. Part of me hopes that he’s still suspecting that I’m pulling a practical joke on him. God, I wish that were true. I lick my lips in an attempt to buy time, and it must be more the motion than anything else that makes him focus on my mouth, which in turn sends my thoughts spiraling even further—
Focus, girl, for fuck’s sake! Now that the cat is out of the bag, I better go and catch it before it ruins everything. “That came out wrong,” I try to explain. Now he’s frowning, which isn’t much better. “Or it didn’t.” I sigh, mostly because now I’m also becoming exasperated with myself. “I get it if you say no. And please, don’t feel obligated. But, you know. I have been thinking.”
I stall as I’ve never gotten beyond this point in my fantasizing. Never had to, and never expected to need to. That gives him ample opportunity to speak up, and he does. “About sex. With me.” He says it like it’s an utterly ludicrous concept. It probably is. I suddenly realize that, just maybe, I’m really seeing things where there is nothing. Maybe he’s not even into women? I never got that vibe from him, but you never know. There’s that stereotype, and it must exist for a reason. Or, more reasonably, he’s just not into me. Maybe I’m not his type. Or it’s because I’m too young and inexperienced, and the idea of having sex with someone he knew since she crapped in her diapers isn’t appealing to him at all. That must be it. Yes, it’s disappointing but also a relief. Phew, I really just dodged a bullet there. Awkward tale
to tell the grandkids one day, yay! Not our grandkids, obviously, for many impossible reasons. Someone else’s grandkids. Is this even a thing?
“Uhm, never mind,” I say, just as he mutters, “Where exactly is this coming from?”
He’s still standing there, way too close, and doesn’t use the excuse I just gave him to laugh this off and forget all about it. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Hopeful? Terrified? It means I have to say something, and finally, my mind comes up with a reasonable explanation. “Look, I know this sounds weird, and it’s probably inappropriate.” So far one-hundred percent the truth. “But I don’t know who else to turn to with this.” Also not a lie, although we’re getting on thin ice here. I force myself to go on, hoping that my pressed tone conveys determination as I spew the rest out in a rush. “Uh, the thing is, I’m not stupid, and contrary to what a lot of people keep telling me I know that it’s not a safe world out there anymore, if it ever even really was. The thing is, I don’t want to lose my virginity to some guy who happens to kill my parents and rapes me.” There you have it—the perfect disaster of a speech. I did not go to debate club for two years for this, but that’s what happens. If there’s a list of things any guy least wants to hear when getting propositioned, rape must be number one.
Chris keeps squinting at me, likely wondering now if insanity runs in my family. I’m fighting to keep myself from blurting out who, repeatedly, put those ideas in my head but at least I can keep myself from doing that. He must be debating how to let me down gently without pushing me right into weirdo land. I’m not even surprised when he briefly bites his lips—those juicy lips that I so yearn to kiss—before offering a very reasonable response. “Sadie, no.”
Again with the relief—and I should be glad and run with that—but now my stubborn side rears its ugly head, and when I say ugly, I mean ugly. It’s less resentment at the rejection and more a weird kind of competitiveness that makes me jut my chin forward. “Why not?”
Chris blinks in confusion. That makes two of us. “What, ‘why not?’” he stupidly echoes me.
“Why won’t you have sex with me?” I ask, hating how offended I sound but loving my inane determination. “I’m young. I may not be a real bombshell but I know my worth, particularly in a world where you can’t just walk into the next bar and pick up a woman. And I’m not asking you for any kind of commitment. As much as I’d appreciate it if you were nice to me, I’m not even asking for any kind of special treatment. Just, you know. Show me a good time.” I don’t manage to get that out with a straight face and without wincing, so I quickly go on. “Just, one time is all I ask. And it’s not like this is a burden on you, or something you wouldn’t enjoy. So why the fuss? At least you get laid. It’s either this, or nothing at all for months on end.”
He listens to me prattling on, and I can tell I’m not doing a good job selling myself. No wonder, really, and there’s still a part of me that wants to throw my head back, laugh, and pretend it was all a joke. And I would—if not for the mischievous glint returning to his eyes. I’ve seen it a few times over the past weeks, and while I still can’t read it well, it never surfaces when he decides to do the smart thing.
Ladies and gents, I may just have found myself a partner in crime.
Well, not crime; I’m legally allowed to engage in sexual intercourse with any consenting adult, both in my home state and here in Wyoming. Part of me wants to blurt that out as well, but it might just be one more detail to make up his mind in the wrong way, so I wait, with bated breath, for his response.
I’m a little miffed, and somewhat disappointed, when it’s not a convincing, resounding yes. “It’s not that simple,” he offers.
“What’s hard about that?” I want to know. “Your parts slot into my parts. Maybe with a little bit of lube to make things a little more easy going. Like with the WD-40 we use on the cars.”
I wince again but he flashes me a quick grin. Yeah, I can’t be the first to make that joke. Actually, I remember Martinez dropping something way worse and way more suggestive last week.
“I’m not talking mechanics,” Chris insists, trying to be the voice of reason again.
“What then?” I pause as I try to come up with possible excuses he is reaching for. “I know you can’t knock me up, so that’s not an issue,” I insist. “Besides, I’m on the pill.” He gives me a curious look now which makes me relax just a little. “Do you really think Nate missed the chance to pull me aside the day you arrived here to give me a list of people who to turn to—and not turn back to rescue—in case of a dire survival situation?” I say that bit softly enough for my voice to barely carry; I still don’t get why they are all so hush-hush about this, but I know way more about the serum project than most of them. Speaking of age-inappropriate stuff, Nate and I have had a few talks since his brother died—and before the shit hit the fan—that made me feel way more adult than I do right now.
I expect that will ease his mind. Instead, he looks doubtful now. “And exactly what about knowing that makes you want to get close to me?” he asks.
I’m not quite sure I get what he means. “It’s got nothing to do with this,” I deflect. “It just makes you a better candidate.”
His momentarily ruffled feathers smooth over once more, but he’s still reluctant. “What if your parents find out?” A pause. “What if Miller or Zilinsky find out? I’m not even saying I wouldn’t deserve a sound beating and to be exiled in the middle of a snowstorm.”
I know that they have this weird hierarchy of respect going on, but that is just ridiculous. “For what, us having consensual sex with each other? Come on, don’t be such a drama queen. If worse comes to worst, I’ll take it all on me. Which it really is. Can you please make up your mind? This should be an easy decision. Yes or no. Promise, if the answer is no, I’m dropping this right here and now, and we can both pretend this conversation never happened. Actually, I’d be much obliged if that was the case.” And part of me really hopes he will go for that option—and forever break my heart without even realizing it.
He hesitates, and hesitates some more—and you’d think a man agreeing to have sex with a woman wouldn’t need so much grim determination to say so. “I’ll do it.” As excited as that makes me, it also terrifies me. And I can’t admit any of that to him or his answer will instantly turn to a very resounding no. But others have done this before me—as the fact that all of us are alive right now proves—so how hard can it be? Hard and complicated, apparently, as he continues, “Under one condition.”
“Which is?”
“This stays between you and me. And it’s a one-time-only thing.”
I can’t help but smile. “Technically, that’s two conditions.”
“And you’re a deceptive, blackmailing minx,” he tells me, but he’s smiling as well, so maybe he’s getting off on that.
“I’m not,” I protest. “How’s there blackmail involved?”
“Emotional blackmail,” he insists. “You could have just said you find me hot and want to ride my dick. You didn’t need to get out the rape sledgehammer and hit me over the head with it.”
I’m sure he’s deliberately crude to make me change my mind. The truth couldn’t be more different as the very idea of me straddling his lap to, you know, makes me all hot and bothered. And confused, and afraid, but mostly horny. Plus, all bravado aside, I know that he won’t be anything but gentle and patient with me. I don’t think many people realize that about him, but he’s one of those “heart of gold” kind of guys. Our conversations over the past weeks have proven that, more than anything else. I still barely know anything about him, but I know he had a rough upbringing—abusive family members, nobody who really looked after him, the fast-track to a brief life of crime and many years in jail… until he tried to jack the wrong guy’s car and ended up signing with the army instead. That guy was my dad, and he always insisted he knew from the start that Chris was a smart, ambitious kid and just needed a firm hand to guide him. He might not agre
e with said kid getting his rocks off with his kid, but what he doesn’t know won’t kill him.
“How are we going to do this?” I ask, weirdly giddy, and quite impatient, I realize.
He shakes his head, as if he can’t believe he agreed to this. “You tell me, mistress of schedules,” he shoots back. See, bright guy indeed. “You tell me when and where we’ll have the chance to do this right.” He rubs his hand over his face, shaking himself as he steps away from me. His eyes bore into me in a way that makes my knees go weak. “No five minutes, bent over the next hard surface and done shit. If we do this, we do this properly. I can’t wine and dine you and take you to the movies, but what I can do is take my time and make sure to turn this as pleasant for you as possible.”
Ah, now he’s switching gears to play the old first-time-pain card. I do make a mental note to pilfer some ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet and bring a pad for my underwear, but that’s for afterward. I do a quick calculation in my mind. “How long until we have the seats installed in the cars? Because I think it would be easiest if we do it in here, at night, when no one is likely to drop by. We both have a habit of part-time insomnia, so that shouldn’t be too suspicious, either.”
He makes a face as if to remind me once more that this is not his idea, but I can tell that I’ve pretty much worn his latent hesitancy thin. “A week, maybe two. Why, are you in a rush all of a sudden?”
I shake my head. “Nope, just curious.” It also fits perfectly with my cycle—if that keeps to the somewhat haywire thing it has been doing; running for your life and not eating regularly for weeks on the road will do that to you, but being back on the pill has started to normalize things, thankfully. The last thing I need is a bloodbath of epic proportions, although I’m ninety percent convinced he wouldn’t mind so much since he succinctly explained to me earlier what it means that he’s earned his red wings. I’m definitely getting an education here, even if it’s very different from college. Or maybe not. There’s a good chance that I would have checked my V-card already if the apocalypse hadn’t gotten in the way.
Beyond Green Fields | Book 4 | The Ballad of Sadie & Bates [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology] Page 3