Hardy

by Theresa Beachman

  She reached for his back, her fingers grazing his leather belt, and he slowed, waiting for her to draw level.

  “Okay?” His voice was a deep grumble from somewhere in his massive chest.

  “Yes.”

  He squeezed her hand briefly then they climbed the last flight of stairs up to the fourth and final floor, side by side. Georgina scanned the space. This landing was wider than the others, offering access to the roof space as well as to the wards. The fire exit to the roof was ajar, a short flight of concrete steps visible through the moonlit gap.

  She turned to enter the ward but froze as a loud scratch pierced the semi-darkness behind her.

  Hardy’s flashlight swung away from the door, illuminating the opposite side of the landing. She clutched his hand harder. The noise had come from there.

  Shrill clicks and burrs rose up and perforated the air.

  Chittrix.

  20

  Hardy snapped off his flashlight, shrouding them in darkness. His heart rate escalated, driving blood to his legs as the scratching of thick, heavy claws on the roof continued, interspersed with harsh chittering that grated against his nerves.

  Run or fight? Foster was downstairs, injured and vulnerable. He was relying on them to get back in one piece. Engaging the enemy would be stupid. The Sweeper was downstairs with Mabe. He didn’t even know how many Chittrix there were up here.

  Georgina was frozen next to him, her hand clamped to his like a vise. Protective instincts took over, and without thinking, he grabbed her waist and tugged her against his body, pulling her deeper into the shadows. She fitted snugly against him, the curve of her backside nestling at the top of his thighs perfectly.

  Before he’d clicked off the flashlight, he’d spotted a supply closet to the right of the ward entrance. Blindly, he explored along the wall until his fingers closed around the door handle.

  His lips moved in a silent prayer against the silk of Georgina’s hair. Open, damn you.

  The handle rotated.

  Thank fuck.

  He inched it open as a jagged shadow appeared across the landing. The Chittrix was over eight feet tall, jaws working in a silent yawing motion. A second shadow joined it and then a third. Georgina stiffened in his grasp and he tightened his grip to prevent her bolting.

  “Easy,” he breathed in her ear.

  Slowly, so slowly he backed into the cleaning closet, Georgina clasped to his body like his shadow.

  The closet was full. Long, thin poles—probably brooms—stabbed his back as he retreated. Something immoveable was behind his boots. A bucket?

  Didn’t matter.

  They were going to fucking fit in the closet.

  He forced his body into the space, the acrid scent of bleach filling his nostrils as he reached out and closed the door.

  Blood roared in his ears, so loud he was sure Georgina must hear it, but it didn’t drown out the sharp clicks cutting through the air. Closer. The wet snap of mandibles.

  Hardy grasped the inside door latch and wedged his boots against the doorframe, tipping back slightly to give himself greater purchase, tilting Georgina back into his lap in the process.

  He lowered his mouth to her ear. “If they’d heard us, we’d be dead already.”

  Her head twitched. She gripped his thighs, her fingernails digging in like claws.

  The outer door shuddered as something heavy smashed into the metal frame. Georgina jerked involuntarily, pressing herself as far back into the safety of his body as she could. His fingers almost slipped on the smooth inner lock, slick with sweat, but he maintained his grip as something pulled at the door.

  Holy fuck.

  He contracted his hands into solid knots and pressed harder with his legs, his back muscles screaming as mop and broom handles gouged his spine from behind.

  The fucking door was going to stay shut.

  Sweat trickled, salty and stinging, into his eyes. He blinked and prayed. The wooden door bowed and creaked, then a rasping call broke the deadlock. The door sprang back as the pressure on the other side was released. The noise of skeletal limbs retreated, their scratching fading.

  Hardy held his breath counting the seconds till red spots danced behind his eyelids. Strident screams sounded, followed by the heavy beat of leathery wings out on the roof. Air pushed under the crack at the bottom of the door, thick with dust that clogged his throat and lungs.

  Reflexes won and he coughed, releasing his grip on the handle. He swallowed and lowered his feet, then stood back up, gently placing Georgina on her feet. Blood rushed back into his lower limbs in a tingling rush.

  She turned her head and her lips brushed against his ear. “Is it safe?”

  Fireworks erupted throughout his body, connecting straight to his groin. Hardy lifted his head from her hair, seeking focus. It was still too early to leave the relative safety of the closet. “No. Wait.”

  He stared straight ahead, anything to distract himself from the warm feminine curves fitted snug to his body. Blood surged south against his will and his cock pressed painfully against his cargos.

  She adjusted her position, and he cursed mentally, sure she must be able to feel the hardness of his erection. Every brush of her body was sheer torture. Where was a cold shower when you needed one?

  Seconds ticked by far too slowly to the crash of blood against his eardrums. He cupped her waist, still straddling her in a protective embrace but as the silence lengthened, his grip relaxed. There were no more sounds of life coming from the landing. The Chittrix were gone.

  Georgina swallowed. Was the enforced closeness affecting her too?

  “I think they’re gone,” she whispered, her voice wavering. She reached for the door handle and eased it open.

  Hardy aimed his pulse rifle through the gap. The landing was empty. Only milky moonlight greeted them.

  He released her from the safety of his arms and she took a cautious step away from him. For a split second he felt bereft.

  She turned to face him, color flooding her cheeks. Shit. She felt it too. “Okay?”

  Her gaze skittered away from him but she gave him an affirmative nod.

  What the fuck did that mean? He wished Foster wasn’t unconscious. For all his chat about booms and ladies, Foster was the one person he would’ve asked what was going on and what he should do about it.

  He forced a business tone to his voice, made his face neutral. Foster was relying on him “Lets hurry up and find what we need and get back to the others.”

  * * *

  Across the landing the entrance to the ward was blocked, and he could only get it partly open. Even when he leaned against it, it wasn’t budging. After several shoves, he’d only made a small gap. It would have to do.

  Georgina went to go through first, but he placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. “No way. Wait here.” Pulse rifle digging into his spine, he eased into the ward beyond.

  Once she followed, he grabbed her elbow and steered her away, but she twisted to see what had been blocking the door.

  A desiccated cadaver was wedged between the door and a rack of filing cabinets. The head hung at an impossibly low angle, almost severed from the body by the passage of time.

  Hardy took a side step to block her view. Old habits died hard, even though she was a nurse and had probably seen hundreds of dead bodies.

  She put her hand on his forearm and gave him a wan smile. “It’s okay.” Then she lifted a sheet from a bed and draped it over the withered remains. “Poor soul.”

  She wiped her hand across her mouth. Even after months of hell, she hadn’t lost her humanity and the sight of the body had touched her. A pang lanced through Hardy’s belly. When was the last time he’d been distressed by the death he saw on a daily basis? He’d become immune, a necessity for survival, but it had numbed him to so many other things. The good as well as the bad.

  She turned on her heel and headed deeper into the Orthopedics department. He followed, tracking her like an armored shadow
into the main ward where she headed straight for big double doors ajar at the end of the room.

  Emergency Plaster Room.

  “Here.” Georgina sidled through the gap without waiting for him. He tailed her in, tracking the flashlight beam around the clinical room. His eyes widened. It was messy but otherwise untouched.

  Georgina grinned over her shoulder as she opened a medical cabinet that rattled with supplies. “Get your backpack open.”

  21

  Their packs full, Georgina hurried downstairs with Hardy. At his insistence she headed back to Foster and the others straightaway, while he took extra time to secure the linking corridor between the two hospital wings. She left him piling chairs against the double doors. Nothing that would stop an adult Chittrix, but the noise would alert them if anything decided to force its way through.

  She was grateful for the few minutes alone as she jogged back to the others. Her skin was hypersensitive, and as she ran her clothes chafed sending a pleasurable shiver through her body. She ticked off the sequence to set Foster’s leg in her head but it was a diversion. A deflection. An effort to stop thinking about Hardy and the protective embrace of his muscled body in the closet. She’d been a parent to Janie since she was sixteen. Time and adversity had dulled the memory of the love and security from her parents. But when Hardy had held her, despite everything, she’d felt safe. For the first time in years, perhaps for the first time that she could consciously remember.

  And something else.

  She chewed on her lip, remembering the hard jut of his cock against her backside. Hardy wanted her. Heat arrowed between her legs. She’d given up on any hope of a relationship when the world was razed to the ground. Life was survival now. She’d genuinely believed there wasn’t time for romance but in the last two weeks the axis of her world had shifted. She’d seen happy couples in the Command Base. She’d paid them little attention. Her focus had been Janie. Still was, but was there room for something else, something just for her?

  She was becoming increasingly preoccupied with the big sexy man even though this was not the time or the place.

  She almost cried out with relief when she rounded the corner of the ER and Natalie jumped up from her seat to greet her.

  “You’re back!” Natalie tugged her ear buds free and tinny music filled the room. Her face crumpled. “Where’s Hardy?”

  “Don’t worry he’s just coming.” Georgina dumped the backpack on the counter closest to Foster, grateful for the busyness now required of her. She unpacked the supplies, laying them out methodically. “How’s Foster?”

  “Stable. Unconscious.” Mabe slid from his perch on the end of the gurney, like a hairy guardian angel. “Any luck?”

  Georgina shot him a smile. “I got what we need to fix his leg and even better.” She waved a box in the air. “Good job antibiotics don’t go out of date for at least a decade. There’s more than enough here. Let’s get him sorted.”

  She wasted no time, connecting an IV line to the back of Foster’s hand to deliver intravenous antibiotics. By the time Hardy joined them, Mabe was wiping a table with disinfectant.

  “How can I help?” Hardy’s voice was strong and clear. No hesitation. No indication of what might be going through his mind, or that moments ago he’d been stuck in a closet with her with a raging hard on.

  She tapped the pink bottle of sterilizing solution. “You can start by washing your hands.”

  Turning her attention back to Foster, Georgina administered a dose of morphine. A sigh escaped him and for the first time in forty-eight hours, his face relaxed, the tautness across his cheeks and forehead melting away.

  Natalie went a shade of green at the sight of the needle. “I think I’ll go see if there’s any hidden biscuits in the staff kitchen.” She gave Georgina a faint nod and hurried away. Mabe followed, Barney peeking out of his shirt pocket. “Shout if you need me,” he called over his shoulder.

  Hardy returned to the table, his sleeves rolled up, large hands scrubbed clean, studying her with those golden eyes. He stood beside her, his hands grazing her elbows. Before she would have been intimated, a large man looming over her. But his presence was a comfort.

  She shooed him to the other side of the table and gave him the job of prepping the plaster. She took her time removing the makeshift splint. It’d done a good job and even though Foster’s skin was now shaded black and green, when she felt along the lines of the lower leg, the positioning of his bones was good.

  She swabbed his skin clean with gentle strokes, her hands steady. Hardy imbued her with confidence.

  Happy with the position of the fracture, she methodically wrapped Foster’s leg in swathes of cream bandages soaked in plaster mix that Hardy passed to her. She pretended not to notice when his fingers grazed hers.

  At last, she stepped back and blew a lock of hair off her forehead. Her hands were gloopy with Plaster of Paris up to her elbows and more white paste had dried in a smeared thin film across the disposable apron she wore. Foster’s leg was encased from his toes up to his knee, his cargo pants cut off at the top of his thigh.

  Hardy winked at her. “He’ll go ape when he wakes up and sees what you’ve done to his pants.”

  Georgina gave him a weary smile. “I’m just glad he’s going to wake up.” She dropped the scissors into a metal dish, and cricked her neck. “It’s guesswork without an X-ray. I can’t guarantee he won’t walk without a limp.”

  “He wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for you.” He hesitated. “I know when to count my blessings. So does Foster. Thank you.”

  Heat flared in her cheeks. Was it visible in the dim light of the candles she’d arranged around the room? “You’re welcome.”

  Hardy stared at the floor and scuffed his boots along the floor. After interminable seconds, he looked back up. She released a shaky breath and licked her bottom lip. The unshaven shadow on his cheek, the strong line of his jaw, all of it drew her. Tiredness and something else that she couldn’t quite pin down were eroding the last of her self-control.

  A deep growl rumbled in his chest and he closed the gap between them in less than a second.

  She placed her hand on the hard planes of his chest. Heat radiated from him, intense warmth fueled by the heavy thump of his heart under her fingertips. Her heart tripped from his nearness.

  He dipped his head, his nose bumping against hers, their mouths only inches apart. He snaked his hand round the back of her neck, driving his fingers into her hair.

  This close the honeyed flecks in his irises gleamed.

  His breath was warm on her face. She let her eyes close, soaking in the tantalizing scent and heat of him. Calloused fingers ran along the line of her chin, destroying any of the remaining self-control in her desire-addled mind. Liquid heat spun in her belly as he tilted her face to meet his. “Hardy—”

  “Stop talking,” he whispered.

  His lips crashed against hers. She opened her mouth, hungry for the taste of him. The warm sweep of his tongue against hers detonated in her brain. Her knees softened but his arm was rock solid around her waist supporting her. He groaned, deepening the kiss.

  “Hey, I—” Mabe crashed through the door into the trauma room, his bulky frame filling the doorway.

  Georgina stumbled backwards, pressing the back of her hand to her lips, gasping for air, her body and mind reeling from the intensity of what’d just happened. She rushed to the far side of the room and started clattering about with needles and metal trays.

  “Shit—” Mabe held his hands up in apology and backed out of the room.

  Natalie squawked from behind him as he trod on her feet, protesting. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” Mabe corralled her back out of sight with his large hands.

  Hardy released a long breath and took a step toward her. “Georgina. Sorry, I—”

  She winced at the sting of his words. He was sorry. Right.

  She shook her head, her hand clamped to the tangle of hair at th
e back of her neck.

  Her voice was granite. “Don’t apologize. This was a mistake.” She backed away from him, fire raging through her. What was she doing? Janie needed her and in the space of days, she was allowing herself to be distracted by a man she knew nothing about, however enticing he was.

  This was insane.

  She composed her face the best she could. On trembling legs, she walked past Hardy, fighting to keep her face composed.

  “Let’s just focus on staying alive,” she said, and swept past him, leaving him alone with Foster.

  22

  Georgina lay and stared at the ceiling. Anemic moonlight spilled through the open hospital entrance, highlighting a blotchy patchwork of black mold slowly consuming the polystyrene ceiling tiles. All consuming, just like the Chittrix, devouring everything in their path.

  Her lips still burned where Hardy’s mouth had touched her. His kiss...it had left her reeling…and she couldn’t get it out of her mind. Or him.

  She’d never put herself first. There had never been the opportunity and now? She simply didn’t know how. Duty was the only kind of love she’d ever known.

  She sat up and sighed, the stale blankets she’d found in the supplies cabinets wrinkling around her waist. The chairs she’d pushed together were uncomfortable, the plastic cushions had no give and creaked when she moved. She rubbed her eyes. Next to her on another makeshift bed, Natalie was snoring fit to sleep through the End of the World. Except that had already happened. Georgina grimaced. Stress was making her a comedian.

  Mabe and Hardy were nowhere to be seen, but the low murmur of their voices drifted through the open door. The two men had to be outside talking.

  She slid out from under the blankets, her booted feet scraping the tiled floor as she stood up. Foster’s stretcher was pushed up against the wall. She ran her hand across his forehead, checking his pulse and IV line. The antibiotics were doing their job; his forehead was cool, his breathing regular as a metronome, and his sleep appeared restful.