by Mark Tufo
"Luke," I protest again, thinking I should push him away, but my will falters.
"Bix," he mocks softly, before the mouth I know so well covers mine, silencing me. The arousal wins out.
His lips are gentle. Probing. Eliciting that same carnal response from me they do every time. We’ve been friends for the past five years. Ever since I’d been assigned to his group of hunters. Our more intimate relationship had only blossomed about six months ago. But if I’d known then what unimaginable delights this blonde giant was capable of giving, I wouldn't have waited so damn long.
My hands run through his thick hair, pulling his face closer to mine. His day old stubble is rough against my cheek, and his skin emits a sweet muskiness, part soap, part sweat, and all Luke. That scent awakens the nerve endings between my legs with a throbbing desire.
His breath catches in his chest as I press my body into his, feeling all too well the evidence of his arousal. Growling in the back of his throat, he lifts me with his big hands and plunks my rear down hard on the table. Wrapping my long legs around his waist, I pull him against me and grind shamelessly, wishing there weren’t layers of denim between us.
The kiss deepens as he crushes my lips with his need to have more of me. His tongue probes mine, and the groan it raises from me is primal. I pull at his T-shirt, yanking it over his head, not giving a damn that I rip it in the process. His bare chest is warm and smooth against my hands, and his muscles spasm at my touch. My obvious effect on him fills me with a euphoria that just deepens my need for him.
"God, Bix. I love you," he moans against my lips. His hands and mouth cover me everywhere, like his admission has fueled his desire. But the effect it has on me is quite the opposite. It's as if someone has suddenly doused me with a bucket of ice water. I go still under his frantic touch. A knot forms in my belly, displacing the hot need. Irritated, I push at his chest, trying to form a gap between us.
Why did he say that?
As if just realizing what he said, he pulls away from me slowly. His eyes reflect the hurt at my instant rejection.
"I told you never to say that again," I whisper through my swollen lips. Struggling to untangle myself from his arms, I try to move away, but he won't let me. His strong arms hold me in place.
"I don't care what you told me, Bix. It’s true. And I'm tired of trying to hide it. I love you. What's so wrong about that?"
"Let go of me, Luke," I plead as my eyes drop from his. I don't want to look at his eyes anymore, for in them I can see the undeserving truth of his words.
"Bix, it has been a year and a half for Christ's sake. Let him go already." I can hear pleading, frustration, and concern in his voice, but all it does is piss me off.
"I said let go of me." I shove hard against his chest. He stumbles back a couple of steps, but he doesn't try to stop me as I slide off the table and walk away on unsteady legs. I head for the bed, grabbing my backpack from where it’s been sitting on Luke's floor since our return from the field yesterday. I had spent the whole night here in his arms, making love and feeling content. But now that one single word changes everything. I need to get out of this room and away from Luke. Away from my still thrumming desire. He says nothing as I stay long enough to scoop my winnings into my bag, avoiding eye contact with him. Turning my back, I stride to the door and yank it open with enough force to send it crashing into the wall. His soft voice follows me into the hallway.
"Run all you want, Bix, but I'm still gonna be here. I'm not going anywhere; you may as well get used to it. Just as much as you need to get used to the fact that Sam is never coming back."
Chapter 31
The Grand had undoubtedly been the epitome of elegance back in its prime. Back when we had first arrived. Wide hallways and mahogany floors decorated with luxuriously soft Persian carpets. Expensive leather chairs and sofas had been placed strategically in side alcoves, all for the comfort of the hotel’s well paying guests. Commissioned artwork had adorned the cream-colored walls with their decorative crown moldings and white marble columns.
Little remains of that elegance. Eight years of the Grand being used as a base for our eclectic group of survivors has diminished its beauty.
The carpets are now stained and mildewed from dirty boots and inadequate heating and ventilation; the floorboards underneath are rotted in spots. The remaining leather seats are tattered and shabby from years of use. The cream paint is blistered and peeling from the walls like old wallpaper. The paintings are long since gone; ripped and torn from their gilded frames. It isn't much to look at any more, but it’s our home. Rebuilt and fortified, it has kept us safe for the better part of these last eight years. Ever since the world has gone to hell in a handbasket.
Bare bulbs flicker with dull light every five feet or so, adding to the dilapidated look and providing just enough illumination to help you avoid the weak spots in the floor. Most of the carefully monitored solar electricity is used for the kitchen or common areas. I’m actually glad for the low lighting at the moment, since it hides the hot tears burning in my eyes.
Why did Luke have to say those damned words again? Why did he have to bring up Sam? And how dare he tell me to get over it. Yeah, I'm well aware it has been a year and a half, but does he really think grief has a time limit? Just saying Sam's name in my head makes my heart tighten painfully in my chest. Wiping at the tears with the back of my hand, I scold myself for my weakness.
"Stop being a fucking crybaby and pull yourself together, you stupid bitch," I mutter to myself before stumbling upon the shadow lurking in the hallway by one of the rooms. I start at first, but the soft voice of Mrs. Darby floats through the murkiness.
"Is that you, Bix, dear? Are you talking to me? Sorry, I didn't quite make out what you said for I'm sure it couldn't possibly be what I thought I heard. You know me and my hearing."
In spite of my hurt and anger, I can't help but snort at the old lady. Mrs. Darby has the eyesight of a hawk and the keen hearing of a dog. Nothing happens in the Grand without her knowing about it. She plays the feeble old lady well, but it's a complete bullshit act. This is just her way of admonishing me for what she calls my “potty mouth.”
"Sorry, Mrs. D," I call to her ruefully. "Didn't mean for you to hear that."
"Hmmm, yes, well if I had a dollar for every time you apologized for your unladylike behavior, I'd be a very wealthy woman. Is there something bothering you, dear?"
The kindness in her voice almost unravels me. But never one to show my pain, I replace it with anger like I always do.
"You mean other than the fact that we live in a shithole of a world, with fucking leeches around every corner wanting to feed on our insides? That most of our families and the rest of the world are already dead or infected by those fucking aliens? And that the few of us left still have to live with our share of dickheads and morons? Nah, nothing much bothering me at all, Mrs. D." Then I add in my best smartass voice, "Excuse my French."
I can feel her disapproval through the gloom.
"I may be old, young lady, but I know sarcasm when I hear it. And wise enough to know when someone is hurting. Why don't you come in, and I’ll make us some tea. I think I may still have a little honey stashed somewhere. Although don't tell Cookie. She'll be up here demanding every last drop, and you know how persuasive she can be."
"Ha!" I sneer. Persuasive would not be the word I would have used. I have faced blood-sucking parasites and crazed killers over the years with less reservation than standing up to Maria "Cookie" Sanchez. She’s the only one in the Grand that can still make me shiver in terror with as little as a look. Mrs. D doesn’t have to worry about me telling Cookie a damn thing. I avoid her at all costs.
I soften a little at her offer of tea. I can be a real bitch at times, and I really don't deserve Mrs. D’s sincere concern for my welfare.
"Thanks, Mrs. D, but I can't. Not right now. I promised Amy a visit, and I want to catch her before she leaves for movie night. You know she’d never miss that.
"
Mrs. Darby's soft laughter floats through the gloom, and I know she has forgiven my rudeness.
"Yes, Amy does get a little excited for movie night. Tell her I said hello. And tell her I have some new socks for her. You know how she loves new socks."
"Will do," I agree and move on, glad she’s not insisting on the offer of tea. Of all the things I’m feeling right now, sociable isn’t one of them.
I pass by others lounging about in the halls; some greet me with warm smiles and quick questions. I nod at everyone, but I don't stop to talk like I know they want me to. I don't blame their curiosity. They live behind these walls 24/7; their only contact with the outside world is the news we bring back from our trips. Being a hunter goes hand in hand with curiosity and admiration. Hunters are key to the Grand's survival. The others that live here know that and most don't have a problem showing their appreciation. We’re the providers of our extended family. The ones who scour the city, looking for any supplies that can be used. The ones who face the leeches, crazies, and cannibals on a daily basis, clearing the way for our transporters once a cache has been found. The ones who track down what is needed to survive, although that’s becoming a lot harder to do.
Eight years have passed since the alien invasion. Since over half of the world's population were turned into blood-sucking parasites. Eight years of the city being picked over by us and the other small groups of banded survivors.
Most of these groups we avoid like the proverbial pervy uncle at the family reunion. But there is one civilized group in the city, much like us, that we’ve struck up a trading system with. And just like we call the Grand our home, they’ve done the same at St. Joseph's Hospital on the other side of the city.
It took a while to earn each other’s trust, but we have our bartering system down to a science now. We trade them crops that we grow in the hotel's Olympic sized swimming pool and roof top hot tubs; they give us fish in return which they breed in their harvesting tanks. When we need medical supplies, we trade them the gut-burning hooch Jonesy brews in the hotel bar. Quid pro quo. We help each other survive.
But then there are the other residents of the city not quite as neighborly. The ones that will slit your throat for a can of beans. Or worse still, strip the flesh itself from your bones. Meat is a rare commodity and in high demand. And these people have taken to finding their meat supply elsewhere other than from the dwindling animal kingdom.
They’re the ones who scare me most of all. Far worse than any leech. More cunning and intelligent than the invaders, but their humanity long forgotten. People that were once our fellow survivors now turned to cannibalism. It’s enough to give anyone nightmares.
I climb the gloomy stairwell to the fifth floor, trying to clear my mind from all my terrible thoughts and anxiety. I need to get myself under control. Somehow Amy always knows when I'm upset, which in turn causes her to worry. And I don't want to upset her any more than I know she already will be.
The fifth and sixth floors, which have the bigger suites, house all the families with children that call the Grand home. Not only does it make sense, but any dangers that might possibly attack below will have to get through three floors of seasoned fighters before reaching the civilians. That's where Amy's room is as well. For some reason, visiting here always makes my heavy heart feel a little lighter.
I barely make it to the top of the stairs before I'm almost knocked ass backward as a bunch of kids flock me like seagulls at an ocean side McDonald's. How they always know I'm near is a mystery, but it's like they have a sixth sense about me. I growl in pretend anger as they swarm me and try to push them out of my way, but they don't take me seriously. They just laugh harder and crowd me, each trying to out yell the other.
"Did you bring us treats, Bix?"
"Did you kill lots of leeches out on your patrol?"
"Did you find any cats or dogs this time?"
"Is it true you guys met an infected bear?"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa...one at a time, okay?" I say, giving into my laughter. I slowly push my way through to the hall, but they hang off of me like spider monkeys, all gangly arms and legs.
The yelling and questions continue until I finally hold up my hands in surrender.
"All right already! I'll answer two questions. No, we didn't see any cats or dogs and seriously, an infected bear? As for treats..." I pull the MRE cookies and candies out of my bag and throw the silver packets down the long hall. They release me, squealing in delight as they rush to claim their share of the goods. Their pure joy at the treats makes me laugh. Cookie would have a conniption if she saw me throwing food around like that. She guards the pantry like some pirate captain with his treasure chest. That thought alone makes it all the more fun.
Still chuckling to myself, I head toward room 512, which is Amy and Olivia's room. Liv is lounging outside the door, smoking what she calls Jonesy's “crap-ass excuse for tobacco.” It’s some kind of concoction of herbs and flower petals and smells like shit, to be honest. But Liv swears even though it’s a poor ass imitation of a real cigarette, smoking it is the only thing that keeps her sane. She gives me a lopsided grin, squinting one eye against the haze circling her head.
"You know you spoil those fucking little rug rats," she says, her voice low enough so they can't hear and pointing at them with her cigarette.
"Nice to see you too," I say, dropping a light kiss on top of her ash blonde head as I pass by. Out of all the survivors in the Grand, Amy and Olivia are the only two I allow to see my vulnerable side. Amy because, well, she's Amy. And Liv because she has been there from the start. Or the end. Whatever way you want to look at it.
She’d been part of the group that found me. The evening bartender just coming on duty at some dive bar when the invasion happened. Captain John Cooper had also been in that bar, drowning his sorrows at his recent breakup. They had been the only survivors out of the dozen or so other patrons. Lucky for Liv, Coop had a gun. Lucky for me, they decided to stick together and look for other uninfected.
Liv had been the one Cooper handed me off to that fateful morning. She was the person who bandaged my cheek and treated my shock. The one who slowly brought me around after the impact of what happened had left me damaged and speechless. Not only did she heal me, but had been the biggest contributor to my now extensive vocabulary of choice words, though she would never in a thousand years admit to that. She was the closest thing I had to a mother for the past eight years.
"Good to see you back safe and sound kiddo," she says, following me into the small apartment and closing the door, blocking out the sound of the still howling kids. "How was the run?"
"Uneventful. Found next to nothing. Area 20 is empty. Picked clean. Hopefully, 21 will have more to offer. We did notice something strange, though. Usually that part of the city is crawling with leeches, since it's heavily populated by ravagers. But not this time. We barely saw any. It was weird. It was almost like..."
"Bix!" The shout from the bedroom drowns out the rest of my words. The door flies open with a crash, and Amy comes barreling through. Her round face is lit up with pleasure at seeing me. But before she makes it across the room, she falters and her smile fades. I can see her brain working overtime as she remembers she’s angry at me, and the smile is instantly replaced with a pout.
"You didn't come see me when you got back. You promised you would come see me as soon as you got back. Remember what we say about breaking promises?"
I sigh inwardly at her anger, even though I know I deserve it. You never break a promise to Amy.
"I know, and I'm sorry, Ames. Just the debriefing with Cooper took forever, and then we had to write up the report, and I was so tired and dirty..."
"You missed Sammy's birthday," she says solemnly.
I falter at her words. I know I did. But how do I tell the childlike woman standing across from me that I’d done it on purpose? That I didn't have the strength or the guts to face a whole day of hashing over memories of the love I’d l
ost. That I’d chosen instead to spend the day avoiding all thoughts of Sam by being in the arms of another man. So I do what I usually do. I chicken out and don't say anything. The slanted eyes associated with her Down syndrome hold no accusation though, only sadness as we share the painful memory. Then, unexpectedly, the smile returns to her small mouth, and her stubby finger points my way.
"It's okay. Remember how he hated birthdays? He wouldn't have wanted us to do anything anyways. Remember, the only thing he said he liked about birthdays was cake."
She starts laughing at her recollection. Liv and I join in.
"Yeah, I remember," I say, my voice quiet. "He would eat the whole damn thing himself and practically bite our fingers off if we came anywhere near it. And he didn't even care that the cakes Cookie made him were like bricks. Didn't even want gifts; it was all about the cake."
I choke slightly on my words, the pain back in my heart. I can't do this now, I think as I swallow the grief and cough.
"Speaking of gifts," I say with an overly bright smile, changing the subject. I pick up my backpack, ignoring Liv's all-knowing look of sympathy and rummage through the bag. Amy's squeal almost busts an eardrum as she starts jumping up and down, clapping her hands excitedly.
"You found one? You found one!" Her voice reaches an octave that I'm sure only a dog can possibly hear as I pull the object out of my bag.
"Oh great," Liv moans. "Just what this place needs...more junk."
Amy doesn't pay her any mind; she is way too excited by the object she yanks out of my hands. To me, the crystal dragon looks no different from any of the dozens of others Sam and I had found over the years, but Amy is enthralled by it.
"Look, it has pink scales. And you can see its pink heart through its chest. It's a girl dragon for sure. Look Liv, isn't it beautiful?"
"It sure is, baby girl." Her smile is indulgent. "Almost as beautiful as you. Are you going to add it to your shelf?"