Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  She sighed and finally shut off the water when it began to cool.

  When she was dry and dressed, she left the dressing cubicle and went out into the locker room to put her soap and shampoo away.

  Gallo was sitting on a bench in front of their section of lockers, pulling on socks, shirtless, the light playing down the gleaming black metal of his new arm. He was humming under his breath, smiling to himself, and she didn’t think the faint pink stain on his cheeks was solely from the heat of the shower.

  “What song is that?” she asked.

  “Something old. My sister used to sing it.” He continued, a few low bars; even without knowing it, Rose thought it sounded soft and romantic.

  She stowed her things and turned to lean back against the locker fronts, facing him. “A love song?” she teased.

  He grinned, and his blush deepened. “Maybe.” He sat back and braced his hands on the bench, meeting her gaze unselfconsciously. Blush or no, he wasn’t embarrassed; he’d always been sweeter and more honest than any of them deserved.

  Rose smiled. “You look happy.”

  “I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.” He breathed a disbelieving laugh, and reached to scrub his new hand through his damp hair. “That sounds dumb, doesn’t it? With this.” He lifted his hand and regarded it. “And with everything that’s going on.”

  “The world’s been shit my whole life,” she said. “You’ve got to find happiness where you can.”

  “Guess so.”

  “Is he good to you?” she asked, going serious. “I’m so glad you’re happy, but he didn’t seem to know you existed before you got hurt.” She hated even saying it, but if Tris was indulging Gallo out of guilt, if he wasn’t sincere, he was going to have to reckon with her.

  Gallo didn’t seem bothered. His smile was soft, and fond, and reflective. “No, it’s not just guilt. He’s – well, I wear my heart on my sleeve, everybody knows that. But Tris is more guarded. He knew I existed.” He sounded sure, and she supposed she had to take his word for it. “But he’s buried a lot of people in his career. I think he was afraid of getting too close, and then…” His metal fingers tapped along the bench, eloquent of all that could happen when you got too close in this line of work.

  “He’s a secret romantic, huh?”

  “He’s…God, Rose.” His sigh was positively lovestruck. “You have no idea. He’s so…so.”

  She could feel the bitter edges of her smile. “I know the feeling.”

  His brows drew together, concerned. She’d told him about Beck, a little. He at least knew that she mourned him.

  But then his expression cleared. “Speaking of feeling…and secret romantics…”

  Her face heated immediately. She knew, from the sly twist of his smirk, exactly where this was headed. “Oh, Frankie, don’t.”

  “Don’t deny it! He carried you. It was straight out of a movie, I swear.”

  “Stop.” But she was chuckling, his glee infectious.

  “Carried you in his big, strong arms. How were his pecs?” He pantomimed resting his face on them, cheek cupped in his own hand. “The stuff of dreams?”

  “Francis.”

  “He’s totally in love with you.” He looked shocked after he’d said it, his brows shooting up. “Shit. I didn’t mean–”

  “He is, isn’t he?” Rose wasn’t shocked, not at all. She’d known for a while, even if she was only just now acknowledging it.

  Gallo winced. “I know he doesn’t try to be obvious. But tonight was…”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  He tilted his head. Come on. “Do you like him?”

  “He’s a good leader.”

  “Rose.”

  She sighed, and managed to breathe out some last thread of tension. “Yeah. I do. I don’t–” She bit her lip.

  “It doesn’t mean you love Beck any less,” Gallo said, his smile understanding – as understanding as he could be, without crawling inside her head and seeing all the dark clutter there. “Wouldn’t he want you to be happy?”

  She gave him an unimpressed look.

  “As happy as possible,” he amended. “I mean, obviously, Lance is no Tris–”

  She shot him the bird, and then they both laughed.

  “He does care about you,” Gallo said, when they’d settled. “I think it might – help you, I guess. Giving him a chance. Just…maybe don’t break his heart. If you can. He’s a good man.”

  She nodded. “He is.”

  They shared a last smile, and when Gallo stood, and offered a hug, she found herself stepping into, and hugging him back.

  “You smell nice,” she said, her face smushed into his bare chest. “Is that vanilla?”

  “Tris likes it.”

  “Mm. Thanks for the blackmail material.”

  They headed down the hall together toward the Walker wing of the barracks, where each of them had their own small, but private room.

  Gallo went to Tris’s door, and threw her one last smile over his shoulder before he slipped inside. Rose heard the low rumble of Tris’s voice as the latch engaged.

  She was happy for her friend. Her sweet, decent, loyal friend, who’d set out to befriend her when the rest of the cadets wanted to wipe the floor with her. He deserved to get what he wanted. She wondered, with an inward smile, if he’d shown Tris his collection of posters. She thought there might have been an action figure, too.

  She turned toward her own door – and stopped with her hand on the latch. Lance was two doors down. The overhead cage lights caught the brass gleam of his name plaque there. Sgt. Lance du Lac, Gold Company.

  He wanted her to be sure.

  She was.

  He was in love with her, Gallo had said.

  He was. She knew that.

  It felt strange, to be on the flip side of the coin. By the end, she hadn’t questioned Beck’s love and devotion, but at first, before he’d ever caved to her kisses, she’d known that she loved him more.

  At least for a while.

  Nothing was ever really known, was it?

  She took a deep breath, turned, and walked down to Lance’s door. She knocked.

  In the ensuing wait, silence reigning from the other side of the door, she doubted – but only a little. She wasn’t sorry for knocking, nor for the offer she’d make if he answered. But maybe he’d gathered the composure he’d abandoned back at the mayor’s mansion. Maybe he’d thought better of his own vulnerability, and he wouldn’t–

  The door swung open.

  Her breath caught.

  Lance stood with one hand braced in the doorjamb, barefoot, in Company issue sweatpants and a tight, white t-shirt, his dog tags gleaming against his chest. His dark hair damp from the shower, slicked back; his skin glowing golden, his biceps testing the tiny sleeves of his shirt.

  He was glorious. Gorgeous.

  And he looked at her with a kind of held-back hope, a doubt, a fear to want, that twisted her heart in her chest.

  “Hey,” he said, quietly, his voice a little rough.

  She said, “I won’t regret it.”

  He studied her a long moment, holding her gaze, asking – and then his gaze shifted down to her lips. “You’re sure?” he asked, airless.

  She had to bridge that distance, because he was so afraid of overstepping. She took a deep breath. “Lance, I’m sure.”

  A breathless moment hung between them.

  Then he reached for her.

  Oh, thank God, she thought, as he caught her wrist and reeled her in – into the room, into his chest, into his arms. He kicked the door shut, hooked an arm around her waist – but then he was all of tenderness as he cupped her cheek with his free hand and kissed her.

  His lips pressed hard to hers, and his thumb flexed against her jaw. She felt the flicker of his lashes against her cheeks, the press of his nose to hers. Felt his rough exhale as his tongue probed the seam of her lips. Question and c
apitulation at once.

  She fisted her hands in the front of his shirt – felt the heat and heft of the muscle beneath – and opened to him. Invited him. He sucked in an audible breath through his nose, and his tongue flicked deep into her mouth.

  Rose dropped the last of her mental armor, and surrendered to it: to the simple, wonderful pleasure of his slick, hungry kisses, kissing as good herself in return. She mapped his chest and stomach with her hands, feeling the way his hard, sculpted body flickered beneath her touch, the way he leaned into it and kissed her harder, deeper, their breaths coming ragged in the space between kisses.

  He touched her in return. Stroked her ribs, her waist. Cupped her breasts, briefly, through her loose cotton shirt, and groaned against her lips when he felt that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Then he dipped down and slipped his hands beneath the hem of her shirt, so he could get to her skin. His calluses caught at her, rubbed rough and thrilling across her stomach, and up to her chest, until he could finally touch her breasts skin-to-skin.

  A low, involuntary sound built in her throat, and his tongue dipped deeper in response. He circled her hardening nipples with his thumbs, until they were drawn up tight and aching.

  “Rose,” he murmured against her cheek. Her jaw. “Sweetheart.”

  She strained up on her toes, pressing into his hands, his wonderful, knowing touch. “I’m not sweet,” she protested, breathlessly.

  His teeth grazed her earlobe. “Agree to disagree.”

  She stepped back – the way his face fell would have been hilarious if it wasn’t both touching and sad – but only long enough to pull her shirt off over her head, and shove down her sweats and underwear in one efficient movement. Then he went goggle-eyed.

  “Not sweet. Take off your clothes.”

  “Shit,” he breathed, and complied.

  She knew a moment’s fleeting regret that, in her haste, she didn’t get the chance to properly admire him. She had the impression of shifting, bunching muscles, smooth, sun-starved skin, and coarse, dark hair on his chest, arrowing down his belly to his cock – the sight of which left her reeling in a good way.

  Then he kicked away his own sweats, sat down on the side of his bunk, and reached for her.

  She climbed into his lap gladly, thrilled by the hard steel of his thighs beneath her own, swaying forward to grip at his shoulders, bare now, flexing under her hands. His cock brushed her belly, and she ground forward into it; watched his eyes flutter shut in response, watched the tendons leap in his throat. His skin twitched beneath her palms.

  He was so sensitive. And that was before she took hold of his cock.

  “Jesus,” he hissed. He banded an arm around her waist, dragged her in even closer so she didn’t have much room to work. He reached up with his free hand, tangled it in her wet hair, and hauled her into another kiss.

  She lost herself to it, for a little while. Her hand loosened, and her body took on that numb, melting feeling, like she was drunk.

  She whimpered when he finally broke away from her mouth and trailed hot, slow, open-mouthed kisses down her throat. “What do you want?” he murmured. His hand closed over hers, where she still gripped him loosely. They stroked his cock together, fingers overlapping and interlaced. Rose tipped her head to give him better access to her pulse point and swiped her thumb over the head of his cock, smearing the moisture there, feeling his breath hot and unsteady against her throat. “Rose. What do you want?” he asked again, and set his teeth at the join of neck and shoulder, a gentle press that couldn’t be called a bite.

  Everything had gone cotton-candy soft in her head, her body awash with sensation. She wanted more of that. More acute pleasure; didn’t want to think of anything except feeling good. “I want to get fucked,” she said. “I want you inside me.”

  “God.” His hand lifted from hers – and slipped between her legs.

  The first touch – the pads of his fingers skimming down her wet folds – left her cursing, and clutching at his shoulders with both hands again. She tipped forward to press her forehead to his, neck impossibly weak now, and spread her thighs wider, silently asking for more.

  He gave it to her, fingers pressing more insistent, dipping down, spreading the wetness that welled there. “I can fuck you,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I can make it good for you.” His index finger found her entrance, and pressed in.

  “Oh.” This was what she’d wanted – what she needed. The slow, delicious stretch as he slipped in inch by inch. All the way in to the knuckle, and then a clever flex of his finger that left her gasping.

  She wanted more, though.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “I’m ready. You don’t have to” – another flex – “be so careful.”

  He shifted his face so he could kiss her, another heated coupling of lips and tongues as he pressed in with a second finger. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t.”

  But he prepped her anyway, gently insistent, until he was three fingers in, and she was all but writhing in his lap. “Lance.”

  “Alright, alright.” He tipped her back across the bunk, cupped the back of her head and set it gently down on his pillow, like she was something fragile and precious. That little act, and the look in his eyes, nearly undid her. She couldn’t handle tenderness; she wanted him to be rough, to turn loose of all the pent-up ardor she felt rippling beneath his skin.

  “Please,” she said, and heard the desperation in her voice. “Lance, I can’t – please.”

  He looked nearly pained, just a second. A flash of longing and hurt that she didn’t want to think about. But then he spread her thighs, and settled between them, and his gaze was hot and devouring as it skimmed across her body.

  “Look at you.” He smoothed his hands up her belly, and cupped her breasts. “You’re gorgeous.” He wet his lips, and she feared he would lean down to kiss her breasts, to play with them some more. He wanted to go slow; he liked foreplay, and now wasn’t the time for that.

  Biting back a huff of annoyance, she sat up, and gripped his cock.

  “Shit.”

  “You’re very romantic, and it’s very sweet–” she started.

  His gaze snapped up to hers, and the flare of heat in his eyes rendered her silent. He put a hand to the base of her shoulder, and pushed, though gently, until she’d lied back down. He kept his hand there, over her hammering pulse, and kept his gaze locked with hers, as he smoothed his other hand down the inside of her thigh, spreading her wider. As he let his cock drag through the wetness along her folds, teasing her. The blunt head pressed at her entrance – and then pressed in.

  He was big, but it didn’t hurt. The stretch and pressure freed up something inside her, something packed-down and clawing and raging. Her breath left her lungs on a harsh scrape, and she felt the heated rush of his breath as he bottomed out, and they were locked together.

  “We’ll do it your way tonight,” he gritted out. “But it’s my turn to set the pace next time.”

  God. She pulsed around him. Heat flooded her stomach.

  He dropped down over her, braced on his arms, and started to move. Pulled nearly all the way out, a slow drag, and then thrust back in again. He did it again, again; put his face in her throat and breathed raggedly there while he picked up a rhythm – brutal and fast, just like she’d wanted.

  Rose dug her nails into his biceps, locked her legs around his waist, and held on for dear life.

  She’d known he was strong, but now she could feel it. In every flex of his biceps, and hips, and back. It was good the bunk was cast plastic bolted to the wall, because a real bed with a headboard would have rattled and banged against the wall. She could feel him deep inside her, sparks crowding her vision, lighting up her nerves every time he hit that place, each time he was buried to the hilt and his hips slapped bruises against the insides of her thigh.

  It was good. So good. Pleasure wound with painful tightness in her belly. She was making little wounded sounds with
each relentless thrust, struggling to meet him stroke for stroke, pinned down by his weight above her.

  So good, so good…

  Release slammed into her. Hard, wrenching spasms that left her shuddering and gasping. She closed her eyes and tried – and failed – to catch her breath as he thrust a few more times, and then tensed up and came with a low moan. Her sex gripped him, pulsed around him, as the heat of his release spilled inside her.

  Thank God for department-mandated IUDs.

  His arms gave out, and for a handful of seconds, he lay full atop her, heavy and crushing. Not that it mattered; she couldn’t breathe anyway.

  “Oh,” she murmured. “Oh, God, oh…oh…”

  He pushed up again, so he hovered over her on shaking arms, his face a wrung-out blur above hers.

  “Rose?” His brows drew together. He reached with one hand and touched her face. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” Her voice came out choked. Lance’s hand, she saw as he withdrew it, caught the light, his fingertips wet.

  Because she was crying, she realized. A truth that, once acknowledged, broke her completely.

  “No,” she said again, and closed her eyes, and then covered them with her hands for good measure. But it was no use. The tears had started, and couldn’t be stemmed. They slipped between her fingers, and rolled down her temples, and a sob hitched in her chest. It was terrible, just terrible – and then it got worse.

  “Sweetheart, come here.” Lance slipped free of her, and his hands found her arms and pulled her upright.

  “No,” she protested, weakly, but went unresisting when he sat back against the wall and pulled her into his lap. He bundled her in close – cuddled her – with her head tucked beneath his chin, and his arms warm and strong around her. They were sweaty, skin slipping and sticking, but he didn’t seem to care as he rubbed her back and murmured soothing noises against her hairline. She tried to fight the tears – but finally gave into them. Better to get them out and be done with it. She pressed her face to his warm, damp chest and let them come, messy, breathless sobs rattling her whole body.

  She cried for Beck, for his stupid bravery, and his blind thirst for revenge, his utter devotion to a cause that had taken him from her.