by Charlie Hart
On the surface, Banks is so fucking pretentious, high brow, as different from me as possible, but something's happened over the months we’ve been married to Tia.
We’ve changed.
Thank God.
We’re better men now. Stronger. We have something bigger to fight for than ourselves, bigger than the stories of our pasts that brought us here, to the lottery. Dead sisters and buried lovers and old resentments and unfulfilled dreams.
Now we have a fucking future that is brimming with hope and promise and love.
So much fucking love, it overwhelms me.
As Tia enters the room with Giles, Emerson, Fallon, and Salinger, everyone’s faces are flooded with relief.
They fucking care if I live or die and that means more than I could put into words. But I guess my face says it all.
“You crying, Hux?” Sal says, nearing my hospital bed, giving me a hard time. But that sucker has tears in his eyes too.
I may have held his upbringing against him for a long ass time, but I’m over that shit that held me down. His family, this bunker, their resources fucking kept me alive.
“I love you like a brother,” I tell him, not caring if I sound weak. Truth is, admitting that makes me feel fucking strong.
“I know.” He runs a hand over his jaw. “I love you too.”
Maybe it takes a near-death experience to make a man realize what he has to live for, but I don’t think that is what happened to me.
I glance over at my wife and know the truth.
I fell in love.
And real love is louder than a battle cry, stronger than a war. It fought through the demons in my heart and fucking won.
Maybe the good guys do end up first, after all.
“So, what’s this about a revolution?” I ask.
Salinger lifts his brows, and I see there is still a knot of worry in his eyes. He is carrying a hell of a lot right now. “The Director is dead and so is Warren Thorne. It means anything could happen.”
“What does that mean for us?” I ask as Miriam rolls into the room.
She smiles like she’s been waiting a long ass time to answer. “It means it’s time to make some announcements.”
Chapter 17
Tia
Once Huxley falls back to sleep, I find Salinger in the conference room with his mother.
“I’m sorry,” I say, standing in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt. “I just…”
“No, come in, the broadcast is about to begin,” Miriam says. “How are you holding up?”
She motions for me to sit in a chair next to Sal, and I take a seat, wishing I wasn’t in a sterile meeting room, wishing to be in my bed at home, under my familiar blanket with Salinger's body nestled next to my own.
“It’s been a long twenty-four hours,” I say rubbing my eyes.
Huxley was in surgery for most of the night and the better part of the morning. After we arrived at the bunker, everything was in an uproar, and rightly so. Two massively important political figures had been shot within hours of one another, and my hands held the gun for one of them.
My father’s held the gun for the other.
Footage from the government office showed my father pulling the trigger and killing The Director.
Salinger’s father.
Miriam’s husband.
Until information is leaked about what my father was doing at his research facility, I won’t know my fate. I’m both anxious and ready to see what is revealed.
It will either grant me pardon for what I did, or be my indictment, but so far no one has called for my arrest.
“The broadcast will be starting in a few minutes,” Fallon says, entering the room with my other husbands. “You need anything, Tia?” he asks, coming up behind me and massaging my shoulders.
“No, I’m okay. I just want this over.”
“We all do,” Miriam says. “After tomorrow's press conference we can begin the process of our new way forward.”
The new Director is going to be announced tomorrow. But no one wants to make the proclamation until after this broadcast.
It might change things.
Everything.
A flat-screen monitor is lowered, and a news show begins. Our eyes are all trained on the screen, and I press my hand to my belly, praying for good news.
“It’s going to be okay,” Miriam assures us. “This broadcast is being shot live by highly ethical reporters.”
“You’re sure?” I ask.
She nods. “I may not have found a cure, but my work has allowed me some leverage. This report is made possible tonight on my personal dime.”
I swallow, not having fully realized how deeply invested Miriam was in all of this. Her motives were pure, and for that, I am so grateful.
I look at Miriam now and see that she is a woman I’d like to emulate one day. She is brilliant and wise and smart and deeply moved to protect the welfare of others. She may have an edge to her that makes her a difficult woman to get to know, but watching her leadership makes me want to be a stronger woman.
A stronger mother.
“Thank you,” I tell her, both relieved and terrified with what the truth might hold.
But finally, knowing the truth will be revealed, no matter how hard it is to see, fills me with a sense of calm.
Huxley and Emerson were broken by what they saw at the labs. I can’t even begin to imagine the horrors. But maybe seeing the atrocities my father committed is just what the American people need; the people of the world, at large, need to see. Maybe we need to be broken, so we can make changes and build ourselves back up.
I glance at Salinger and Fallon, my husbands, knowing there are still many people who view our relationship as ethically wrong. But maybe we need to shatter our ideas of family in order to create new ones. As long as it is motivated by love, who can sit in judgment?
Banks comes into the room and sits down next to me as everyone seems to collectively draw a breath as the dramatic introduction music to the broadcast begins.
“Tonight we have exclusive footage from inside Saint Augustine’s School and Research Facility.” A man in a dark blue suit and tie stands outside the home where I spent twenty-one years of my life. His words carry an ominous weight and I squeeze Salinger’s hand as I take in the scene before us.
The man holds a microphone and there are dozens of women and children outside the building, watching. I recognize some faces as a camera pans over the crowd, and I tremble as I take it all in.
These are the people I lived with, many of them were prisoners, held captive beneath the building where I naively went about my life.
How innocent I’d been.
How much I’ve grown. Tears pool in my eyes, gratitude swelling my heart that I was able to get free. That they are free.
If I had never taken the chance, never ran from my father’s clutches, the one that held me in so tight, none of these people would be free today.
I’d have never entered the lottery.
My husbands’ lots in life wouldn’t have changed.
Banks would not have met Emerson, a meeting which led him to the cure.
Fortune favors the brave.
“This is a state of the art, government-funded laboratory, run by Warren Thorne.” the announcer explains. “Thorne was shot and killed by his daughter, Christina Thorne late last night, shedding a thorny light on what was believed to be a safe house for women and children.”
A camera follows him as he enters the school, going down empty corridors and zooming in the classrooms. But the school isn’t what anyone is interested in.
It’a when he stands outside the entrance to the lab, that my breath hitches and my pulse quickens. That’s when I reach out for Banks, needing his hand in mine.
“It’s okay,” he says calmly. “No one can hurt you now.”
My father is dead. I’ve killed two men now.
Earlier when Giles came into my bed while I rested, I asked him what that mak
es me, now that I have so much blood on my hands.
He cradled me in his arms, smoothing down my hair. “Tia, it makes you a survivor.”
Now, as images begin to flash across the screen, I know I am not the only survivor.
“Viewers, what you are about to see is not suitable for all audiences. Viewer discretion is advised as we open the doors to a crime scene, reported on first hand, in an unprecedented attempt to reveal the true nature of Thorne’s practices.”
As the report continues, any guilt I may have harbored over killing my father is washed away. I gasp in horror, cover my mouth, drop my eyes. The images on the screen are more horrific than I’d imagined.
Banks pulls me against him as it continues. “You don’t have to watch this.”
“I need to,” I whisper.
Salinger and Fallon curse multiple times as the broadcast continues, each obviously in shock by some of the savagery being reported.
The reporter looks into the camera and says, “We have word the President of the United States is just about to comment on this state of affairs.”
I hold in a breath as the camera switches over to the Oval Office. The President is sitting formally behind his desk, his expression grim. I barely hear his words that are obviously scripted, and full of denials that the government had any knowledge of my father’s activities.
“Bullshit,” Salinger mutters.
“Quiet.” Miriam increases the volume.
“...we will not be seeking charges against anyone for the death of Warren Thorne. We will, however, be seeking to form an alliance with Alaska, who as we’ve recently been informed, has made large strides in finding a cure for the population crisis. Any country that strikes out at the State of Alaska, will be declaring war on the United States of America...”
I don’t hear the rest of his speech because my brain is overwhelmed with the implications of what was just said.
“What does that mean?” I ask, already knowing, but needing someone else to say it out loud so I know I’m not dreaming.
“You’ve been exonerated,” Banks says.
I breathe out heavily, tears forming in my eyes as Giles and Emerson come into the room, each carrying one of Huxley’s nieces. Mason is with them as well.
Seeing the girls sends a new shock of heartbreak though my chest. The things they have had to endure could bring the strongest man to his knees. It’s too much to think about.
I press a hand to my belly and Miriam catches my movement.
“Your babies will survive, Tia. You don’t need to fear what so many other mothers have had to carry.”
I pray she is right. But even though the cure runs through my veins, I’m still carrying six babies. I know I’m going to have to start taking Banks’ advice and resting more. I have no doubt that it won’t be too long before he puts me on bedrest. A small inconvenience for the hope I carry.
The broadcast returns from a commercial break and we all turn to the screen.
“With the death of the Director, one question remains,” the reporter says, now standing in front of Saint Augustine’s. “Who will take his mantle in Alaska? Predictions on how the Alaska Board of Trustees will vote have been made. Tomorrow's press conference will reveal the new head of Alaska, and with the proclamation, the President of the United States made from the oval office tonight this vote matters more than ever.”
Suddenly, it’s Salinger’s face on the television screen as the reporter describes in detail my husband’s qualifications for the position. We all knew this would be apart of the broadcast.
Still, it’s startling to see his face on the screen. Even more startling to see photographs of me from the night of Lottery; to see photographs of all my husbands along with Salinger’s. If Sal is given this title, he would be the first polyandrous leader.
We’d be making history.
But more than that, our state -- our country would have a leader who is more than qualified. Salinger was made for this job.
And while the reporter mentions a vote, it is already decided. If Salinger wants the position of the Director, it’s his.
But that is a decision he must make on his own.
When I look over at him as the broadcast ends, all I see is the nervousness in his eyes. When Miriam mentioned the vote earlier today he resisted. He said he didn’t want the job. That it should go to anyone else. That our family has been through enough. That the last thing any of us needs is more stress.
But I know that is fear talking. And as his wife, I need to be the one to explain that.
“I’m ready for bed,” I tell everyone. “Salinger, will you walk me to my room?”
Alone in my room, we undress slowly. After moving at a nonstop pace for days, we both seem to savor this quiet moment together. Naked, we move to the bed, our bodies curling against one another in a way that is both comforting and sensual. His hand rests on the curve of my belly, and I nestle against him, spooning his muscular frame, feeling safe under his hold.
“We both lost our fathers last night,” I say, my voice but a whisper, my tears falling on the pillow under my head.
“My father was a powerful leader but not a great father,” he says, the words coming out in a fast stream as if he’s been holding them in for far too long. “I hope to be a better dad to our children.”
I roll over to face him, needing to truly understand his resistance. “And what about being more than a powerful leader? Do you want that too?”
“I saw what that title did to my family. My parents were dysfunctional at best, toxic at worst. I can’t let that happen to us.”
“Was it always that way?” I ask. “Or was it after Hannah?”
Sal doesn’t hesitate. “After.”
I rest my palm on his cheek. “That won’t happen to us. We haven’t lost a—"
He cuts me off. “Tia, I know Banks has found a cure, but there are still so many risks. Sextuplets...” He swallows hard and presses his forehead to mine. “It could end badly in so many ways and I know what grief can do to a family. How it can shred it to pieces.”
“We’re not your parents. First of all, we are seven adults working through our pain. If we’ve gotten through the last several months, we can get through anything. You know that as well as I do. So, what I wonder, what’s the real reason you don’t want the title?”
Knowing the question is a hard one to answer, I push on his shoulder, forcing him to his back and straddle him. My knees press against the plush mattress and I savor the moment as his eyes rake over my bare skin. I see his desire and it makes me feel like a goddess.
I take his hands and press them to my hips, needing his firm hands to hold me in place. Running my hand over his shaft, I watch my husband’s cock grow nice and ready. His veiny ridges never cease to satisfy me and he groans as I stroke him. I love that I can satisfy him equally. His fingers move toward my entrance, running up and down me, my slit growing wet from his gentle touch.
My pussy aches to be filled, and his fingers press inside me, my clit is engorged and ripe for an orgasm. He knows what he is doing as he rolls his thumb over my pink nub of desire and I drop my head back, remembering to breathe as he brings me to the place I long to go.
“I need more, Sal,” I moan as he teases me with his hand. He makes a come-hither motion with his fingers against my pussy and my core is on fire as he touches me with a practiced movement. I feel myself dripping against his hand, and a gasp escapes me as he guides me home. The orgasm leaves me breathless and desperate to be filled with him entirely.
He thumbs my nipple, and I whimper as he squeezes it ever so slightly, our conversation on hold as we begin to make love. I lift my hips, my slick thighs a clear sign that I am his to do whatever he likes with.
“I love your tits,” he says, kissing my breasts, taking them in his mouth, one at a time. My pussy is swollen with desire, and it doesn’t take long for me to sink down on his hard cock. As my pussy takes him in, a long sigh escapes me.
H
e is so big; he fills me up so deeply, that even after so many times my body must take its time as I ease down on him. Everything about his body is so primed to fuck, his muscles taut and firm, his cock rigid and always ready. His hands, large and strong, cup my breast, my ass, pulling me closer to the edge. In his arms, I know he’ll never let me fall.
He closes his eyes, and I sink deeply against him. Then I lower my body to his chest, needing him closer to me, needing to look into his eyes as he speaks from his heart.
“I don’t want to fuck it up, Tia. I know our family is tough as nails…” His fingers lace with mine. “But am I? Am I cut out to rule the free State of Alaska?”
Those are words I was hoping to hear.
“Why are you smiling?” he asks, as I grind my pussy against his thick cock. I exhale as he fills me up completely, a smile spread wide on my face.
Our bodies in sync, our hearts in a steady rhythm. We’ve been through hell and back, and I’d go through it again if his love was there at the end of the tunnel, guiding me home.
“Power doesn’t make someone a great leader, Sal. Humility does. And you have that in spades.”
I kiss him then, wanting him to know that I believe in him. That I’ve seen him rise up, time and time again. He has become more than a husband since the day we’ve said our vows. He’s become a real, true man of Alaska.
“You really believe in me?” he asks as we move together, closer to the edge.
“I believe in us.”
He chuckles. “Then kiss me, First Lady of Alaska.”
My eyes shine as I draw my mouth to his. “When I ran away, I never thought I’d end up married to the Director,” I say, laughing despite the pain we’ve witnessed today.
Or maybe in spite of it.
After the storm, we can choose to dance in the rain.