Hardy

by Theresa Beachman

  Heat flared through him, white hot as she dipped in his arms, her knees buckling. He caught her round the waist, loving the small animal sounds she made.

  His cock throbbed, almost painful and his muscles locked. The sight of her, undone in his arms dissolved the last shred of his control. He thumbed the smooth skin of her clit once again and she sank her teeth into his shoulder in a muffled cry of pleasure as he groaned his release, his come jetting across the backs of her hands and the smooth sweep of her abdomen.

  Slowly, he came back to earth. He skimmed the back of her neck with his fingers, nuzzling the base of her throat, waiting for his own breathing to calm. Outside, the shush of rain cocooned them from the rest of the world. He never wanted it to end.

  She raised her head from against his heart. “We should get moving.”

  Hardy opened one eye and cricked his neck to glance at the window. Rain streamed in filthy rivulets. “Yes. We should.” He smiled.

  She shook her head and peeped up at him through dark lashes. “That is the dirtiest grin I’ve ever seen.”

  He growled. “Let me show you just how dirty.”

  * * *

  Hardy finished packing some supplies into a British Rail backpack he’d found stashed in a locker.

  Georgina came up behind him. She gaped at the contents. “More beans and mini sausages. How long before we’re were sick of beans and mini sausages?”

  Her cheeks were still splotched pink from this morning, her hair mussed and sexy as hell. He could’ve easily spent the day with her, stretched out against the satin of her skin. Or longer.

  Shit.

  He tugged her close, burying his face against her throat, taking deep breaths of her scent. He wanted to remember. To store it for later when he might need the memory. He kissed her neck and she giggled and collapsed against him. Hardy wrapped his arms around her and snagged her close. Her nose bumped his neck.

  “We need to go,” she said.

  “I know… I just…” Words evaded him. It was all he could do to cling to her for as long as he could, before reality tore them apart once more. Where did the world get off giving him this woman now, when he didn’t know if they’d live to see the end of day?

  She sighed softly, the pressure of changing air electrifying his skin. “We have to.”

  Reluctantly, Hardy released her.

  Taking a step away from him, she shrugged his thermal fleece back on over a navy-blue British Rail sweater she’d found in one of the staff lockers. She zipped it up. Gave him a quick spin and giggled again. “What do you think? I hear bag lady is very ‘in’ this season.”

  Hardy quirked an eyebrow. “A very sexy bag lady.” He hefted the backpack onto his shoulders. Checked his body armor with a quick sweep of his hand. Standing at the door, he took deep breaths of air, ripe with the scent of burgeoning spring. The rain had finally eased to an opaque mist that obscured the landscape and muffled the sounds of the world around him.

  Protecting them but also concealing any threat.

  He turned to Georgina.

  She was standing behind him, smiling. “I’m ready.”

  He’d fought so many times for all of the Command Base. For his friends. Foster. Sawyer. Garrick. But this time he was fighting for her.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  Fuck. He was done for.

  32

  Georgina shadowed Hardy in a crouch as they ran up the approach road to the bridge. He ducked and weaved between abandoned cars and trucks at a brisk pace that soon got her warmed up despite the dawn chill. Morning was still only cranking up and the world was milky and ethereal, balanced briefly between dark and light. Soon the sun would break through, burning away the last vestiges of the night and, she feared, the fragile connection between them.

  She’d surprised herself. This morning. Washing Hardy. She’d never been so forward in her entire life. She smiled down into the collar of his fleece, grateful he couldn’t read her mind.

  Maybe it was all adrenalin. Almost dying. Escaping the Chittrix. But even if that was what it was, she’d take it, thank you very much. She’d take the comfort of him wrapped around her, making her feel cared for and cherished for the first time in her life. No one had ever looked out for her before. She was always the one doing the caring. She liked this role reversal. A lot.

  Even if it was only for a short while.

  She pushed the thought away. She’d worry about the future at Brackla.

  At the top of the embankment, Hardy paused, waiting till she drew level with him.

  He extended his hand behind him, and she slid her fingers between his. His hand fitted hers perfectly, his fingers locking against hers.

  “You good?” His voice was muted in the morning air.

  “I am.” She surveyed the dip of the land at her feet. So far still to go.

  The last tendrils of mist had dissipated and the bridge was visible, silent, devoid even of birds.

  To her left, the road wound southwest back to Bristol and on to London. On her right, the road rose into the air, curving across the River Severn and onward to where her hopes and dreams lay. Janie. She stole a glance at Hardy. And maybe something else, with him.

  Unaware of her thoughts, he pressed a firm hand to her back. It was time to go. “Ready?”

  She shook her head, her mouth suddenly too dry to speak. Flashes of the day before, of Chittrix swooping up both sides of the bridge in a spiked formation of death stormed into her mind uninvited, annihilating the happy glow of only moments before. What on earth was she doing?

  Hardy squeezed her hand. “There’s only forward.”

  Then, before she could protest, he guided her on to the first section of the bridge, winding his way between empty husks of cars. Leaves squelched beneath her feet, the noise reminiscent of the wet noise of laser fire obliterating Scutters.

  Hardy coughed. “You’re cutting off my circulation.”

  “Sorry.” She released his fingers and flexed her own wide before taking his hand again in a looser grip.

  She focused on her feet, not daring to look at the edge of the bridge. If she didn’t look, they couldn’t come. Right?

  Instead, she counted her paces, focusing on Hardy’s worn boots.

  “How long is this bridge?”

  His response was instant. “A mile, give or take.”

  A mile. She gritted her teeth till the muscles in her jaw popped. It seemed to go on forever, hundreds of miles of dead cars and concrete pillars stretching high up into the sky.

  With a sharp inhalation, he pulled her down into a crouch between two cars.

  “What is it?”

  “I need to think.” He scraped his palm across his face.

  “Why?”

  She levered herself up. The decaying road stretched in front of them. Georgina frowned…then she spotted it. Ahead, the concrete disappeared abruptly, a torn edge suspended over nothing.

  The bridge just stopped.

  The air around her thinned. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the world to change. Praying for an act of God, she cracked one eye open.

  It was still there.

  A gaping hole in the bridge’s infrastructure, only bare struts continuing onward on each side, bridging a sheer drop of over a hundred feet.

  33

  Hardy contemplated the missing section of bridge.

  He scanned west. The Prince of Wales Bridge, yesterday’s devastation, was a thin line on the horizon. Specks still dotted the sky above. Chittrix. He lifted his SIG and checked the clip. Damn. He rammed it shut and ran his forearm across his forehead. Their options were running out.

  His voice was rougher than he intended. “Going round could take weeks, depending on what we run into.”

  “Yes, but—”

  He gestured at the Sweeper on his shoulder. “The Sweeper’s dead. We’re nearly out of ammunition. We have food, but that’s it. We’re not equipped for this kind of road trip.” His voice lost its power. “I’m sorry. W
e’re already more than halfway. We cross here.”

  Georgina stared across at the other side. “We could swim?”

  She was clutching at straws.

  Hardy glanced over the side of the bridge. Gray water slipped by over a hundred feet below. Dark shapes writhed in the shallows. He didn’t even want to think about what might be down there. “Probably even more dangerous.”

  “Right.” Georgina pushed up to standing, her hands on the front of her thighs. She approached the broken edge with hesitant steps.

  Hardy tracked her, his own pulse cranking up notches as she stepped close to the brink.

  Concrete rubble and warped metal spilled from the ruined bridge in a rough tear, leaving only the bare metal skeleton. Two thick metal beams were all that connected the two sections, like a railway line without the connecting rails.

  Georgina shuffled forward and hunkered down at the very limit. She splayed her hand across the first exposed metal strut, measuring the width. “About six inches.” Her fingers shook.

  Hardy examined the length of the beam. It was approximately twenty feet from here to the other side, with only a thin cable at waist height for balance. She backed away from the edge and collided with him. He spoke into her ear. “We can do this.”

  He curled his arms around her and tugged her close. She was quaking.

  “I can’t.” Stress made her voice tremulous.

  He sighed. He fucking hated this. “We have no choice.”

  * * *

  Hardy went first, edging along the beam, his feet bumping along beside each other in an old man’s shuffle. “Follow me.”

  He kept his focus straight ahead, while Georgina inched on behind him, the drag of her boots a noisy reassurance. A tremor pinged through the metal, firing bolts of adrenaline into his heart. He gripped the cable that the wind buffeted against his hip and almost lost his balance. His heart stalled. The cable swung too fucking easily, only an illusion of safety.

  “Don’t lean on the cable,” he ordered, as he risked another step. “And don’t look down.” He fixated on the destroyed edge of the bridge now only fifteen feet away. His lungs contracted to tiny constrained breaths.

  Wind brushed past him, catching his arms, pulling at his backpack, whispering in his ear about how far it was to the cold river below. Georgina gasped behind him, but one of her boots bumped his heel, so she was keeping pace.

  He reached behind, his fingers brushing soft fabric. “We can do this.”

  Slowly, he crept forward, his foot sliding a few inches along the beam. Each time waiting for Georgina to repeat the movement behind him.

  They were doing this.

  A dark shape burst from beneath his foot, exploding up toward his face. Hardy recoiled, his arm sweeping in a protective reflex.

  The dark shape clipped his head then flew away in a flurry of feathers.

  A bird. A fucking bird.

  But the damage was done, his balance shattered. He flung his arms out to stabilize himself.

  His fist hit Georgina.

  He snatched his hand back and sank to his knees to catch the beam, air whooshing from his lungs in a loud rush.

  “Hardy!” she screamed, and the beam juddered as she stumbled, trying to regain her stability.

  Hardy dropped flat to his belly and swiveled, reaching for her as she tumbled, loose hair streaming like shafts of light around her head, her mouth stretched wide in terror. Her fingers missed his, inches of air separating them.

  Fuck, no.

  He lunged, his thighs gripping the beam, his free hand pinching the edge of the metal by his fingertips. His fist closed on fabric.

  Her hood.

  He’d caught her fucking hood.

  He flattened his cheek to the freezing metal and clenched his fingers tight. Pain lanced through his shoulder as Georgina spun below him, her legs spread wide. “Oh my God. Hardy.” Her voice was thin and brittle as she stretched for him, her hands clamping onto his forearm. Her nails carved into his muscles, but the pain was good.

  “Don’t move!” He flexed his arm, lifting her in a slow, trembling boost, till her blanched face was level with his, her pupils dilated so far his reflection was visible. “I’ve got you. I need you to grab the bar.”

  She nodded, hyperventilating through ashen lips. With a final effort that tore through his muscles, he bumped her up against the metal strut.

  “Grab it now,” he commanded through gritted teeth.

  “I can’t.” She clung to him, her nails puncturing his skin.

  “You can.”

  She shuddered. “No—”

  “Georgina. Look at me.”

  She twisted her head, but her eyes darted from his face to her feet and the sky in a dizzying ricochet.

  “One arm at a time. I’m still holding you. I still have you. Now.”

  The longest second of his life howled past him on the wind and then—thank fuck—she released one hand and slammed her arm around the beam, her legs swinging in a wide, dangerous arc through the thin air. “Good.” He reached for her waistband, snagging his other hand into her belt. The leather was reassuringly solid after the flimsy fabric of her hood. “Now the other one.”

  She gasped two sharp breaths then let go of his arm, looping both her arms around the metal like a snake. Hardy yanked immediately, hauling her hips up, dragging her lower body onto the strut. He rested his hand against the dip of her spine, his muscles shredded from the lift. His forehead hit cold strut and his legs seized around the hard edges, his heart cracking his ribs.

  He licked his lips and raised his voice over the sough of the wind. “Georgina.”

  “Yes.” Her voice was a squeak.

  “We’re going to shuffle along like this. You and me. On our bellies. To the end. You understand?”

  “Uh huh.”

  He turned and reached ahead, his muscles quivering, and grasped the metal several inches from his nose. He clenched his jaw and tightened his grip, and with a slow exhalation, dragged himself three inches along the beam. Progress.

  “Georgina. We’re moving. Your turn.”

  34

  Georgina crawled commando style onto the concrete, spreading her legs in a broad V shape that hugged the ground. Only when she was at least six feet past the exposed beam did she allow her head to drop. Stones dug into her skin as she breathed in the glorious dust from the road’s surface while she waited for the world to stop swimming and her breathing to slow. Her fingers opened and shut against grit, driving grime under her nails. Dirt had never felt so fantastic.

  Seconds later, Hardy picked her off the ground and pulled her into the safety of his lap.

  She buried her face in his neck, clutching the back of his head, hot tears burning her skin and soaking his hair. Uncontrollable sobs racked through her. “I’m never crossing another bridge in my life.”

  At last, when her heart was no longer threatening to break her ribs, she released her grip and sagged against him.

  Hardy stroked her hair. “We made it.”

  “Just.”

  “We’re surviving, that’s all that matters.”

  Georgina stared at the sky. He was right. No more free rides. She extricated herself from his embrace and stumbled onto her feet. Behind her, the broken bridge loomed and wavered. She turned her back on it. If she never even saw another bridge again, that was just fine.

  Ahead, the landscape of Wales stretched out before her. A glorious mishmash of quietly decomposing industrial buildings, close to hills turning green on the horizon. Everything was so far away and the reality of finding Janie in Scotland came slamming down on her.

  Her shoulders slumped and she shadowed her eyes with her hand to hide her tears.

  “Hey.” He was behind her, his arm circling her shoulder. He waited till she stopped sniveling and handed her a paper tissue that smelled of him. She blew her nose noisily then stuffed it in her pocket.

  He cupped her shoulder. “What is it?”

  She wave
d a hand at the rolling hills disappearing into the distance. “Everything’s so far away now. Nothing’s close anymore.”

  Hardy followed the direction of her wave, his eyes narrowing against the bright light. “One day at a time. We’ll get there. Brackla first. Then, your sister. I promised.”

  “You really believe that don’t you?”

  He shot her a crooked smile. “I’m sure I’m meant to say something meaningful here but…it’s just the way I am. Always have been. Maybe that’s one of the good things about how I was raised. I learned there wasn’t anything I couldn’t work through. Persistence pays off.”

  She hugged her arms. She wanted to believe him. Needed to believe him. “That’s a good way to look at things.”

  “Perhaps. Foster has his own personal rants on the subject. You can ask him about that when we’re in Brackla.” He pulled her into a bear hug and kissed the top of her head. For a second she closed her eyes and soaked him in. His warmth. His scent of soap and man. His belief that there was always a way.

  Finally, he released her, his arms slow to drop from her body. “Thank-you,” she murmured. She turned to the journey ahead. At the wide expanse of grass, reclaimed by nature. The faint remnants of the motorway in the distance. One step at a time. The ground was solid under her feet. She could do this. She wasn’t ready to give up yet.

  “Come on.” She took off jogging down the hill. Blue motorway signs loomed ahead with town names she couldn’t fathom.

  She sounded one out. “K-i-l-g-w-r-r-w-g. ” She stared at the sign. “I think they had something against vowels.”

  Hardy scratched his jaw. “No fucking idea. Let’s just stick with going west.”

  The slip road swung off to the left, taking a circuitous route to the motorway. She worried at her lip, conscious of the time it would add to their journey. “Straight ahead?”