He draws a line along my waistband with his tongue, and up the center of my stomach to my chest. He lifts my shirt and sports bra, taking a ripe nipple into his mouth. After a nibble there, the arch of my spine, he kisses up my neck, to my earlobe.
“Brilliant Grace.” He removes his boxers, and in one deliberate motion, he peels off my black pants and tosses them aside. “Mmm . . . sweet Grace.” He guides my legs apart and French kisses me between them. I moan, too loud, as he rubs my clit. When I squirm, nearing orgasm, he stops, snakes up my body. “Ssssexxxy Grace,” he hisses with a grin, and I bring him closer, his weight keeping me safe, whole, filled . . .
“Wanted Grace . . .” He waits, hungry, his dick centimeters from its furnace. “May I fuck you?”
“Yes, please. I’d love that.”
He plants himself deep. “My Grace.”
I cry out with another thrust, and my body responds with jolts of pleasure. “Fuck . . . I love the way you feel inside of me.”
“Oh, yeah?” He digs deeper until he’s kissing my cervix, then he puts his lips to my ear. “Grace . . . my Grace . . . I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, baby. And I love the way you fuck me.”
I drag my nails along his back, and he groans.
“Promise you’ll never leave me, Gideon.”
“I promise I’ll never leave you, Grace. Never.”
His sweet promises make me come. He fucks me until he can’t any longer, then he pulls out, caught in a moment of pure bliss before making puddles of love juice on my belly. And when the tidal wave subsides, he drops beside me for a breathless kiss, which makes me want more of him.
“Hot damn, girl.” Breathing heavy, he wipes me up with a rag, then tosses it aside. “We need to find some condoms.” He grabs our blanket and covers us, cuddling up next to me. “You turn me on way too much.”
“Is that a thing?”
He chuckles, nips my neck. “I’m serious. I’ve never had a woman turn me on as much as you do. And . . . we should be careful, right?”
I run my fingers along his sticky skin while my heart thumps, and I catch my breath. “Yeah. But I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true. You’re perfect.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“I do.” He takes my hand, grins. “Did that turn you on? Hearing your name like that?”
I glance away, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. But not just because it’s my name. Because it was you saying it.”
“Hm . . . good to know, good to know. I’ll keep that in my arsenal.” He winks.
“You must have quite an arsenal.”
“That’s all you, baby.”
“I really doubt that.”
“Shh . . . just go with it.”
We share a laugh, then drift into silence with him spooning me, the perfect calm after the raging love storm. But dark thoughts reappear like cockroaches when you turn out the light. Emotion rises in my chest, and when I sniffle, Gideon lifts his head. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“Are you sure you’re not worried about catching anything from me? I mean, I could be carrying all sorts of colorful STDs.”
He rolls me toward him. “I said I love you, Grace. That means shit to me. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make me any less attracted to you. Besides, it’s a little late to worry about that, don’t you think?”
“I guess.” His words comfort some, but there’s irreparable damage beneath my surface that makes me question them.
He places soft kisses along my neck. “I love you. All of you. Even the broken pieces.”
“I love you, too.” I sob into his shoulder as dawn lights up the sky behind our tower, and for the millionth time, I ask myself how I got so lucky.
“You ready?” He leans over, snatches a strip of toilet paper from the roll nearby, and tosses it into my lap. “No more tears.”
I wipe my face, and he helps me to my feet, blindfolding me with warm fingers. He walks me toward the east window, then there’s the wrinkle of plastic before he removes his hands, placing them around my midsection instead. He rests his chin on my shoulder. “Open.”
I do, and my body grows tingly, and the trickle of receding emotion returns in a wave. Across the highway from the water park is an enormous white water tower that once said Selam County on it. I take in the new masterpiece. The exquisite, magnificent graffitied work of art isn’t just a bunch of letters that make up my name; it’s a beacon. A symbol that love prevails. That even when you’ve lost it all and you’ve got nothing left to lose, you’ve still got something. Murray’s Law says so, and I believe it to be true. Now, more than ever.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“Seriously, Gideon? This is absolutely breathtaking.” I turn around to hug him. “It’s amazing. I don’t like it—I love it.”
He kisses my hand, then drops to one knee in his dark green boxer briefs, holding a sparkling band. “Grace, I . . .” He fumbles for words, and I clasp my hands at my chest, bracing myself on the railing behind me.
“We can’t technically get married, or anything,” he begins, “but I promise to love you and care for you, and do the best I can to keep you alive from this day forward, as long as we both shall live.” He reaches up and takes my shaky hand. “And I hope you can promise me that, too, Grace. I love you with all my heart, and I don’t ever want to be away from you.”
I pull him to his feet and into my arms. “I’d do anything to keep you alive. To stay alive and be with you for as long as possible. Of course I promise.”
He slips the ring on my finger—a near-perfect fit—and we hold each other tight for a moment. When I can see through my watery veil, I examine the gorgeous sparkling symbol of our love. One teardrop-shaped diamond in the center, encircled by twelve tiny diamonds.
“No one’s ever given me a ring before.” I laugh, cry, then laugh again. “Thank you so much.”
“You deserve it. I’d do anything for you, Grace.”
“Aww, you’re too good to me.” I give him a peck on the lips. “It’s a beautiful ring. Where’d you get it?”
“Remember the retirement home I told you about? Where I got the IV stuff for you?”
“Oh, yeah. There?”
“Yeah, the last time I went.”
“That was two weeks ago.”
“Yeah?” He gathers me up into his arms.
“Why are you just now giving it to me?”
“I . . . well, I was nervous, I guess.” He stares off into his thoughts for a few seconds before answering. “I haven’t felt like this about anyone in a long time. I don’t want to fuck it up.”
“How would you do that? I don’t think that’s even possible.”
“Anything’s possible, baby. Especially now.”
Three
Hunger is a constant, rumbling gorge that never stays filled. It reminds me how much I once took for granted “cozy, safe, and fed” all those years. Foster care was a luxurious utopia compared to this.
“You okay?” Gideon shuffles a deck of cards, then starts to deal.
“Just hungry.” I sit up on our bed pallet and face him, cross-legged. “What are we playing?”
“War? I was never into cards that much. Kinda wish I’d learned more games now.”
I straighten my stack. “Yeah . . . it’s hard not to think about everything we took for granted or missed out on before.”
“It is. I mean, I grew up poor as shit, some days with no electricity, just learning how to survive. That part I’m familiar with. But I wish I’d gotten to experience more before it all went to hell.” He flips over a two of spades, and I take a mental snapshot of his strong, tattooed hands. Two more of my favorite Gideon appendages. Those hands have performed much magic.
“What do you wish you could go back and do most?” I drop my own card, a six of hearts, then collect them both, shuffling them to the bottom of my stack.
“Skydive,” he answers.
“No w
ay.”
“Fuck, yes. I am so damn mad I never got to. I planned to do it on my twenty-first birthday, but that probably won’t be happening now.”
“When’s your birthday again? January sixth?” I play another card, a ten of diamonds.
He drops a king of diamonds, takes the pair with a wink. “Ninth, remember? And yours is the ninth of October, right?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry, I forgot.”
“No big deal.” He plays another card. “What about you? What were your dreams and aspirations?”
“None, really.”
“No dreams? You didn’t want to be anything when you grew up?”
“Not since I was a little girl. Before . . . well, when I was about eight. That’s the last time I remember having any sort of dream like that.”
“What was it?”
I grin and shrink, embarrassed.
“Don’t be shy. Tell me.”
“A singer.”
“Oh, yeah? You can sing?”
“I guess.”
“Sing something for me.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Aw, come on, Grace.” He tosses his cards aside, rests his elbows on his knees, chin at his knuckles. “We’re the last two people in the world.”
“But . . . I’ve never sung in front of anyone before. Ever.”
“Hey.” He takes my hand, leans forward to kiss me. “I won’t hurt you, remember? Don’t be scared.”
My stomach spins, and I drop my cards. “Oh, boy.” I laugh, then steady my breaths. My hands shake as I think of songs and dredge up the courage to sing one of them. I pull on my camisole and my sweats, because singing with clothes on seems less mortifying somehow.
“Okay, I’ve got one.” I sit cross-legged, hands in my lap.
“Awesome.” He leans back on an elbow.
“It’s ‘Agony’ by Azedia. Heard of them?”
“No.” He makes himself comfortable, propping his neck up with a pillow. “But that doesn’t matter.”
Shaky and warm, I clear my throat, take a breath, and begin. After the first three lines, that great bird spreads her wings and takes flight. When she soars beyond the clouds, strong and graceful, crisp and vibrant, as if she’d never missed a day of song, I brush away the wall of tears with a knuckle and give her everything inside of me. She gives me something in return when I remember how much I love this—the shape of the notes and how they blanket my tongue, fill my mouth, my lungs, my soul. An inner universe, sparked to life. And when the last note reverberates to the torn canopy above us, I weep. It feels so good to sing. It’s been twelve years.
“Wow.” Gideon claps. “That was fucking beautiful. Oh, my God.” He takes my hand and pulls me across the mess of cards to hold me, and show me the bulge in his pants. “That was a huge turn-on. Holy fuck, girl. You can sing.”
My cheeks warm, and I look away.
“You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed by. You have just become New America’s first Apocalypse popstar. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” I giggle and do a pseudo bow, dipping into his lap to take his penis from his boxers and into my mouth.
He clutches the back of my head, wrapping strong fingers around my long hair. “Mmm . . . You’re really good at that, too. Debatable which you’re better at.”
I stroke it, tease the head with gentle licks. “I’m going with you tonight, right?” I peer up at him and grin.
He chuckles. “Yeah, baby. Whatever you want. You’re in charge.”
“I love it when you say that.”
“I know you do. You’re a leader. A strong, beautiful, talented, independent woman who’s amazing at sucking my dick.”
I spit on the shaft and use my hand while I suck him off, and in minutes, Gideon explodes into my mouth, that hot sweetness I’ve grown to love. My pussy throbs for him, but swallowing his cum is enough reward for me—this time. It won’t be much longer until I’m begging for more of him inside of me.
My sexual appetite is insatiable, which is weird. I never was a sex-crazed fanatic before . . . but Gideon is hot as hell and fucks me soooo good, and I’m crazy in love with him, so maybe that’s it. Or it could be that we’re all alone and it’s the end of the world, so what else are we gonna do? Or maybe . . . I never had a teenage relationship with a boy, so I’m just now getting out all those years of sex. Maybe all of the above?
Gideon doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s ready and willing, ninety-nine percent of the time. Only twice has he stopped and suggested perhaps the stairwell to our hideout wasn’t the best place to fuck me doggy-style. I argued that, with the angle of the steps and the boarded-up sides, it was perfectly logical.
But Gideon’s a gentleman. Even when he fucks my brains out, he treats me like a lady, a princess. Like someone you don’t just fuck in a stairwell. I’ve tried to reassure him I am more than okay with fucking him in a stairwell, but I guess there’s your proof that even though the world is dead, chivalry is alive and well.
I’ve gotten good at not dwelling too long on things that happened, though I wonder if I’ve just detached from it all. I sometimes think about the men, but not when Gideon and I are making love. Even when we’re straight fucking, it’s different, because there’s a love driving it that can’t compare to what I experienced at Riverbend.
When I see those men, is when I’m trying to sleep, with the sunlight in my eyes on a bed of pillows, worrying that Gideon might not wake up again as he guards. I’d never voice that fear, though, because it would kill him. But it’s hard for me to sleep, always. I wish we could sleep together. But one of us always guards while the other sleeps. We can’t take any chances.
We have a three-nod rule. If you nod off and startle awake three times, that means it’s time to wake the other person up and switch. I can go about five hours to Gideon’s six.
“You tired?” I ask him.
“A bit. You?”
“I’m okay. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
He yawns, then gives my knee a pat. “I think I will take you up on that, sweetheart.” He stretches out on the blanket, flexing as he does so, hands clasped beneath his head.
“You are one beautiful man.” I lean in to peck his lips. “Rest.”
“Thank you, baby.” He takes the rubber band out of his hair and sets it aside. “Please don’t wander.”
“I won’t.”
He knows me too well.
Sometimes, when he wakes up, I’m gone. Not that I’m too far—nearby in the park somewhere—but Gideon panics, then holds me forever when he sees me again. I’m not the only one who’s dealing with post-trauma.
Gideon drifts off to sleep, and I inspect what’s left of our food stash. A half-jar of peanut butter, a sleeve of saltine crackers, three cans of sardines, a bag of Cheetos, dill relish, and a can of Beanie Weanies. I’m almost positive I hated most of these things in my past life, but now, I couldn’t be more grateful for them.
I open the can of Beanie Weanies and a bottle of water, lay out four saltines, cut the weenies with Gideon’s pocket knife, and lay the slices on the crackers. With the spork, I scoop relish from the jar, dropping little bits of dill deliciousness onto each. After a second’s thought, I decide against an added sardine on top.
As I eat my meager meal, I watch Gideon sleep. The gentle rise and fall of his broad, inked chest, the peace on his handsome face, the high, chiseled cheekbones that swoop to a thin jawline, and the thin lips and thick, black eyelashes he says came from his grandfather.
It took me a while to pinpoint, but after a few weeks at the hideout, I’d asked him about the slight down-angle of his eyelids at the corners. I could tell there was some nationality other than Caucasian, and I was correct. His great-grandfather, who was one of the last of the Chippewa Tribe, had married a Polish woman. Their daughter was Gideon’s mother, and she ended up marrying a German. Gideon’s a mutt, just like me, though it’s harder to tell. Nonetheless, he’s a gorgeous man, and it’s easy
to get lost in him, whether he’s awake or asleep. I wonder if he loses himself in me while I sleep, too.
After finishing my food and downing the rest of the Chardonnay, I stand to check our perimeter. When Gideon first got here, he was staying in the kitchen. But once he had me to care for on my death bed, and he had to leave me alone at night, he moved me here so I’d be safe. That whole first night he had me locked in the bathroom while he scavenged for supplies to weatherproof our hideout. It took him an hour to pick the bathroom door lock when he returned, the whole time wondering if he’d find me dead, or turned, in there.
The following morning he hung black tarps with zip-ties, laid out a row of pillows, and wrapped me up in a blanket, naked, while he foraged for medicine and clothes. He fought off a slew of elderly undead to score my saline, some other drugs and medical stuff, plus shoes and clothes that fit. He already knew he loved me then. I already knew I loved him, too, even in the state I was in.
I examine my ring for the hundredth time. This is crazy. Never did I ever think I’d be committed to anyone like this, especially a man. But now . . . this is a new life, and I’m a different version of me. The me I am now doesn’t need a ring. What it symbolizes, and the man who gave it to me, are enough. But I still cherish the tangible symbol of our love and look forward to finding one soon to give Gideon in return. Maybe tonight, after my sleep shift.
Four
The view up here is amazing, though there’s no denying how screwed we are. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of living corpses swarming the streets in every direction, out to the horizon. From this height, I swear I can see almost all the way to my house through one of the “windows” cut in the tarp—our south window. Through our north window is our entrance and exit, and a vast parking lot beyond the ticket booths. Our east window frames my water tower and the beautiful graffiti art Gideon did himself before giving me my promise ring, backed by sweet promises I hope he can keep.
I sneak over to our bed and our west window, which overlooks the rest of the park. I scope it out, fighting the urge to touch Gideon as he sleeps. I’ve never been in love like this before, to the point of near-obsession. And if I’m being honest with myself . . . real, actual obsession. It pleases me as much as it worries me. If anything were to happen to Gideon, I’d be lost.
Murray's Law: Urban Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (The Night Blind Saga Book 2) Page 2