She smells and tastes so fucking good that I mentally draw up short. She must take that for issues with my shoulders—that are giving me hell, but I don’t give a shit right now; priorities. Either way, her concern is touching but entirely unwarranted and unwanted. She forces me to stop again when she realizes I don’t just intend to turn this into a three-minute romp, her concern about lack of personal hygiene touching—but even under different circumstances entirely unnecessary. I’m hard-pressed to snark at her that since she saw me tear a guy’s heart out of his chest and eat it, that her pussy will hardly make me run scared, but thankfully, she’s more than happy to drop the point after giving her token objection. It wasn’t a lie on my part—or desire of a different nature that made me say I didn’t mind—but once I bury my face between her thighs, once I feel her react and not hold back, I feel like a missing piece of me clicks back into place. It’s as if for the past nine weeks I wasn’t completely me; as if when she got away, she took a part of me with her and carried it to safety, keeping it warm and safe until, now, she can hand it back to me again, negating some of what happened in the meantime. Position and her general level of distraction also comes with the advantage that I don’t have to school my face; that I can grimace and scowl and do God knows what, and as long as I hit the right spots in the right rhythm, she doesn’t care. Said like that, it sounds selfish and uncaring, but it’s the opposite; it leaves me to deal with my own shit but supported by the conviction that nothing has changed between us.
Something else also hasn’t changed, I realize, when I feel myself grow harder the more she loses herself in her own lust and need. It’s not like I was afraid that part of me was completely dead, but let’s put it this way: nothing like wanting to fuck your wife—and being well able to—to make you slam a door on all the shit that happened to you that you really didn’t want to.
She’s panting heavily, reveling in post-orgasmic glow as I kiss my way up to her neck, loving how eager she is. I bury myself deep in her, no slow-going or build-up needed now that she already came all over my face and fingers. It feels so fucking good that for a moment I’m afraid I’ll lose it right there, becoming an embarrassing two-pump chump. A moment of distraction is all my fucked-up mind needs to start to sabotage me with a reel of best-of impressions of the past weeks, but feeling Bree grind up against and tightening around me makes it easy to push that away once more. But my shoulders are killing me and I feel like the more I lose myself in her, the harder it gets to keep myself in check, so I end up pulling out of her so I can spoon her and continue that way. Why holding her in my arms makes me feel protected, of all things, I can’t explain, but it does. Maybe it’s because I’m so fucking starved of normal human contact that feeling her entire body alongside mine pushes all the right buttons.
I know that, once we’re done, I will have to tell her what happened—but first I need to be honest with myself.
Thank you for loving me enough to risk your life to save mine.
Thank you for being your arrogant, overconfident self that let you walk into certain danger without hesitation.
Thank you for being you, for taking everything in stride and being happy to roll with the punches rather than overthinking things.
I owe you my life—but at the same time I’ve never been as resentful of your health and well-being as I am now. Given the choice, I would always go through hell to spare you the trip—but I had no choice, and it was never a me-versus-you situation, and right now I’m choking on my bitterness. It’s not your fault. But there’s a part of me that’s blaming you simply for being lucky—and I hate myself for that.
Please, forgive me—for everything. I can’t, so you’ll have to, for both of us.
I more feel than hear her come, and that’s my signal to let go, ending my silent diatribe—
Only that with the physical release comes a similar if much more violent mental one. One moment I feel amazing—the next I feel like shit, the weight of the world and everything that happened crashing down on me all at once. I can’t breathe; I can’t even think. All I can do is lay there with the woman who is my everything in my arms and feel myself dissolve.
I don’t try to stop it. I don’t even try to channel it into a more controlled, measured stream. I welcome it.
It feels like a complete annihilation of everything that I am, of everything that I ever wanted to be, and it leaves me as a crying, sobbing mess.
I can tell the exact moment when she realizes that I’m not just panting with exertion. She stiffens, likely getting ready to turn around so she can hold and comfort me, but I realize that’s not what I want—or need. I just need her to be there—the one constant in my life. I need her to accept me—as I was, as I am, as I will be. And because she is who she is, I’m beyond certain that she does. And that’s enough.
Catharsis never feels good, not when you’re in the moment. And it’s not like a minute of sniffling and crying changes anything. But just like that first breath of free air after climbing out of my cell, this is another one of those moments where you just know: what happened is in the past, and the only way is forward. Such a simple motto—and something I must have ridiculed a thousand times on inspirational quote cards and pictures—but right now it feels like the ultimate truth. It also comes with a flip side that might even be the actual relief I’m feeling: I’m allowed to move on. I do not need to carry all this shit with me for the rest of my life. One key piece for that to happen is still missing: I need to tell her. And that’s what I’m going to do now—not everything, but enough.
And once I’m done; once I get dressed and go back out there to face the world again; when I take control of my life and command of these people gathered here—I will not look back. I will never forget what happened, but I’ll be damned before I let this hound me for the rest of my life.
I will get my revenge, and I will let that be the cleansing fire that burns up all the darkness inside of me, all the stains on my soul. And, with luck, once I get there I’ll feel this for real and it won’t just be platitudes layered on hope. I’m more than ready to deal with the fallout—and except for a few bits and pieces, I’m certain Bree will be with me all the way to the very end.
And all is right with the world again.
Talk in the Dark
Talk in the Dark: A conversation that happens during the first night just after GF#10: Uprising. Nate's POV
Talk in the Dark
The foremost emotion on my mind is elation.
Elation that it’s over. Elation that I have my life back; free will and choice are intellectual concepts that you only ever value when they are being taken from you. Taking them back doesn’t feel like you’ve gained something, just that you’re no longer missing something essential.
I didn’t allow myself to exactly plan for this to happen, and not in this way, so there’s no disappointment inside of me at the lack of triumph. I’ve been through enough shit in my life to know that wins like this don’t feel good. At best, they make it easier to stare down the demons that drive you on until the very last step, but that’s it.
Relief comes next. Relief that, right now, I only have to deal with the shit that I want to deal with. That I’m not just free, but have a small army at my beck and call. It took Zilinsky exactly ten minutes after I tore that asshole’s head off to assume command of the disorganized mess our assault left behind and whip everything into a frenzy of cleanup and securing assets. One look at my face when she saw me standing in the corridor outside the prison cell wing, and the central room that has been used as a joint kitchen and prep room is now our headquarters, complete with sleeping room for thirty plus people. Sure, it’s crowded as fuck and stinks to the high heavens, but solitary confinement of any kind isn’t in my foreseeable future. She and Romanoff have also taken over securing our prisoners and working out who of the previous slaves is of any further use to us, or is best taken care of in another way. She’s also negotiating with the scavengers—Harris chief amon
g them—what to do with the camp now. None of the leaders of the other factions spoke up—not a single word—when she seamlessly integrated them and their people into our cohort. I’ve seen a few of them watch her, a look of bewilderment on their faces. I get the sense that their admiration has easily doubled over the past hours, considering the actions my left and right hand—Zilinsky and my wife—have set. As usual, I get a certain kick out of that. Part of being a good leader is inspiring loyalty in your followers, and that includes having competent subordinates to delegate your business to. That both women would pound me to a bloody pulp if I ever referred to them as such just makes the deal all the sweeter.
Elation, relief… both emotions I’ve yearned to call my own again for endless weeks, but both are fleeting at best. As long as the entire citadel is alive with people going this way and that to drag out bodies, clean up the debris from the fight, reinforce broken-down doors, and all the other myriad of tasks, it’s easy to concentrate on the positive only. We have food, shelter, and security—that’s a huge change from where I was twenty-four hours earlier, and all anyone can ask for in this day and age.
But as night falls and the storm rages on outside, things quiet down, and I find myself utterly incapable of doing the same. I’ve already spent the entire evening sitting around, listening to people’s merry recounts of the past years, forcing myself to eat food that tastes like shit in tiny bites that, while absolutely unappealing, I want to wolf down in as huge gulps as my body will let me. I know I’d just hurl it all up again—that’s why I pace myself—but it’s a near-Herculean task. I idly wonder if it’s like this for Bree since she lost her sense of taste, but doubt it. And it’s not like I’m not hungry—just not for pork stew with potatoes and rice.
I can’t fall asleep even though my entire body is screaming for rest, my limbs leaden with exhaustion and overexertion. The injuries I sustained yesterday and today are bothering me but more from having gotten cleaned out and stitched up properly than the cuts themselves—a welcome change. I feel like shit from the drugs still coursing through my system, withdrawal slowly setting in. Instead of tossing and turning, I lay there, staring up at the dark ceiling above, listening to the sounds of too many people sleeping in too-tight quarters all around me. Like Bree’s soft snoring next to me, all that should be comforting—and on many levels, it is—but I’m too wound up to give in to sleep yet. So eventually, I give up and tiptoe out of the room, moving deliberately and slow, less as not to step on anyone but because I need to teach my body how a silent, deadly hunter should behave again.
I find myself in one of the upper corridors that run behind the stands of the arena. Huge sections are missing for easy access to the aboveground areas, creating balconies that are secure from the torrential downpour that’s going on, only the odd spray whipping my face when gusts of wind find their way inside. I’m not surprised that as I come to a halt, I’m not alone. Hamilton is leaning against the opposite side of the balcony, staring out into the darkness without glancing my way once, but I know he must be aware of my presence. Fat chance of anyone or anything sneaking up on either of us anytime soon. I hesitate, trying to decide what to do. I came up here to be alone, and I’m sure that the next hole in the wall over will be unoccupied. Nobody is fucking stupid enough to stand here in the middle of the night with icy winds slapping water in their face. Make that nobody except someone who has been locked up long enough that what constitutes discomfort for everyone else is an actual relief to me now.
I mirror his pose—arms crossed over my chest, legs crossed, casually leaning against the wall with one shoulder. It only looks casual—I can spring into action at the hint of a thought. It sure beats hunching over and curling up in a corner—an alternative part of me finds very appealing, but I’ll be damned if I even consider going for that. He doesn’t make an attempt to strike up a conversation so I keep my trap shut, instead staring silently into the rain, and the arena beyond.
The view from up here is an improvement, I wryly note to myself.
I know I should still be mad at him—and on some level, I always will be. How convenient that I can let Bree deal with the baggage that has been mounting up between the three of us, instead of getting my own hands dirty? I know her well enough that she will see it as a partial betrayal, but she’s enough of a hypocrite to be happy to play judge, jury, and executioner all by herself, if she so wishes. Judging from her reaction when she realized just how great Hamilton’s life must have been over the past year, it looks like she is content—and very gleeful—to stop at the jury part. It’s a compromise I can live with; now it’s up to them to make it work. That very idea makes me smile, although it’s closer to a pained grimace. Yeah, right—because that’s going to work so well. It will require a level of maturity that I know they are both capable of, but love to ignore in proximity to each other. Why, I’ll never quite understand; I get why Bree is toting around her list of real and perceived grievances—and let’s be honest for a moment: Hamilton did a lot to earn that—but it has long since turned into near-religious zeal rather than rational, thinking-based need for revenge.
His animosity toward her is something I don’t quite understand—and it rears its ugly head a few minutes into our companionable silence. “Have you already stuck your dick into that diseased, mutilated cunt?” he asks, not bothering to glance my way still.
My initial reaction is exasperation—less at the slur; Bree’s more than capable of defending her honor. Considering recent circumstances, I’d go even as far as saying she’s much better at it than either of us. No, it’s that sense of being forced into the role of parent while the kids tear into each other that makes me want to grab them and bash their heads together until one of them yields. As such things go, I can’t, and it wouldn’t get me the results I’m looking for, anyway. So what I do instead is shrug and allow myself a smug little smile that I know Hamilton won’t miss, which will aggravate him further.
“First thing I did after I got out of here.”
He snorts and shakes his head, feigning disgust, but I see it for what it really is—envy. In Bree, I have a source of comfort and a confidante who, unwaveringly, has my back. He has neither, and I can tell he needs both right now like the air he slowly draws into his lungs. Guess that’s why my fucked-up brain has led me up here. And I get it—who else could he confide in? Richards is his subordinate officer and very likely the shrink who’d sign the psych eval that would end his career—fat chance he’d breathe a word to him. The others are his men, and from them he needs the support and backup that comes with being in command as they look to him to guide them. Me, he can freely talk to. I’m so far out of his chain of command it’s as if we’d never gone toe to toe, constantly gunning for the same opportunities. And it must help that I have firsthand experience in all the things that are messing with his head right now, recent and not quite so.
I’m not stupid enough to expect appreciation, or even recognition for that, and he’s quick to show neither.
“Bet you also told her every single thing that sick fuck did to you? Typical.”
“Afterward,” I point out. “Might have ruined the mood if I’d dished that out before.”
Now he does deign to turn his head to look at me, but I can’t read his expression—he’s too good at this to show me anything he doesn’t want me to see, even though I can guess what’s going on inside of him. The silent sneer that follows makes me want to laugh again, but I school my face not to betray my mirth. I know that not taking the bait must annoy him further.
But he is smarter than Bree gives him credit for—which is part of his schtick, and I hate that she still hasn’t managed to see through that—a small, nasty smile now appearing. “The edited version, of course. Because when have you ever told her the full truth? You’re such a fucking hypocrite.”
Maybe I am—but so is she, and I sometimes feel that the things we keep from each other are as much a part of the glue that makes us stick together as what we sh
are.
“I’ve told her what she needed to know. And what, when put in context with you, made her very agreeable about rescuing your sorry ass rather than killing you the first chance she got. Would have been very easy as all she’d had to do was not save your life, I might add.” I won’t touch anything that happened here before, but that part is game. I can tell how much it grates that the very woman he so despises is the one who he owes his life to now. Couldn’t have orchestrated things better if I’d tried. I need them both, and working together, and before Bree cut that rope around his neck, I couldn’t have thought of any scenario how that would have worked. Strange how these things sometimes fall into place. It almost reminds me of when Gabriel Greene was stupid enough to try to intimidate her into remaining a placid, scared mouse, and only succeeded in reinforcing her will to help me. I know I can’t take credit for either instance, but I’m vain enough to think I had a hand in setting that up.
As expected, that’s a conversation stopper, and I don’t feel guilty for reveling in the following silence. Let him stew on that a while longer; maybe that will help hammer the message in.
As Hamilton continues to gnash his teeth, I can’t help but think back over the past weeks to when I realized who my most likely ally in here was. I didn’t have a clue until they threw me into one of the open death-match rounds—my third fight, back when I was still reluctant to please the masses but quickly learning that they were, quite literally, my meal ticket. I recognized him as soon as I staggered out onto the packed dirt of the arena, my threat radar going off—but luckily for us both, neither of us was stupid enough to let bygones turn into hot conflict now. Or maybe it was sheer spite to refuse to bow to Cortez’s expectations that made us band up with barely a word needed for coordination and paint the walls and ground red with our opponents’ blood. I’d quickly realized that taking my hints from Hamilton was the smart thing to do—it only made sense with him being the reigning champion and me barely beyond the first rung of the ladder. We started picking them off, together, one by one—and the crowd ate it up, turning what they’d expected to be run-of-the-mill, routine violence into coordinated, staged slaughter. We’d ended up standing back-to-back in the middle of the arena, his right hand clutching my left, raised in triumph that neither of us felt, when he’d uttered the same words we’d so long ago sworn to each other: “Until the fucking end, together.” And seeing how much the crowd ate it up, we’d forced Cortez to accept that we wouldn’t fight each other. Insisting on it, and then dealing with the resulting letdown was not something he’d risk.
Beyond Green Fields | Book 3 | Lost & Found [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology] Page 7