Only that now it’s the third day that we’re snowed in with lots more snow to come, and our esteemed leader has declared this as the perfect time to hold the wake that’s been overdue for months. I’m not one to hate any kind for celebration, even the somber ones, and I’ve said goodbye to way too many good people in my life, even before the shit hit the fan—but this? This is just depressing.
Lewis is the problem. My problem, at least. I’ve done my very best to steer clear of her while we were out on the road, but since we got here, we’ve started to ease into a distant but okay kind of friendship. She’s never hidden the fact that she thinks I’m a pig, and I’ve always been upfront about the fact that I couldn’t give two shits about her opinion. Spending some quality time with driving lessons and realizing that she really means it when she says she wants to learn has helped, as has our shared prison detail of late watch shifts thanks to the incident of getting drunk on that truck during our Cody raid. I have to admit, I was wrong about her; she’s okay, as long as she can keep her judgment in check—and again, not caring much if she can’t. But that’s not what gets me all riled up inside.
What I have issues with is the fact that, somewhere along the way, she got it into her head that she needs to cut out her heart in order to fit in. It’s not that hard to guess where she picked up that lesson, although I can tell that Zilinsky is equally upset, her attention snapping to Lewis every few moments or whenever someone new steps forward to share stories about one or another of the people they’ve lost. Lewis is standing ramrod straight, her face so white that she could give the snow outside a run for its money. She’s not the only one who hasn’t spoken up yet, but she’s the only one of the civvies who refuses to give in to the emotions that are choking all of us up. She doesn’t even smile when Burns drops an—admittedly stupid—remark that has all of us grinning, if with a slightly mournful tint to it. There are a few among us who really are as dead inside as they appear, who have lost too many people to show a normal level of emotion now. Lewis is obviously not one of them. I don’t get why she thinks anyone would think her weak or girly for shedding a few tears; it’s normal, healthy even. I also don’t get why Miller doesn’t drag her somewhere quiet and give her an outlet for all of the pent-up emotions that threaten to choke her. If I’ve ever seen a woman who deserves a release, it’s her. It’s so bad that there’s not even a thread of raunchiness to my thoughts, and that’s saying something, both about how not-so-stealthy those two have become, and how insufficient my right hand is for company.
My attention inadvertently wanders to Sadie. The kid’s sniffling quietly, but whenever someone gets to the—usually stupid, not-for-kids—conclusion of a story, she’s quick to smile, although she doesn’t manage to hide how much she’s hurting. Everyone gets that. Nobody would hold it against her. I’m sure there’s not a soul in the room who’d contend that, for her, it must be hardest—sure, she didn’t lose her parents while none of us has any family left in all likelihood, but most of us are close to twice her age and have learned to deal with loss. No kid should have to go through shit like this. She should be doing kid stuff, like… I don’t know. Go to college, in her case, I realize. She must have graduated—or been close to—when the world turned to shit, so she never got that endless summer between high school and yet more school that’s perfect to make the best memories of your life, to laze the days away in the endless sunshine, to go for a swim with your best buds, to have a fire and s’mores at the beach…
I can’t help it; the image of Sadie in a two-piece swimsuit comes up in my mind, and from there it’s only a short distance to imagining peeling her out of that sorry excuse of a handful of fabric…
That’s usually the point where I force my mind to grind to a halt as nothing good lays down that path. I don’t lack material for wank fantasies, and she’s not even forbidden-fruit material; she’s fucking Miller’s goddaughter and Bert’s kid, and if I’m honest, I also respect her too much to do that to her. She’s also a prime example of what’s no longer available to most of us, not until next spring, and depending on how much this country has gone to shit, maybe never. I may be a stupid fuck sometimes, but I’m not into giving myself painfully blue balls, thanks a lot.
But, shit, Lewis is depressing me, also because she’s both the exception and forever out of reach. I get that she needed the shit-ton of reality checks that she got, but enough is enough. If Miller is too screwed up to judge where teaching her to survive turns into simple emotional abuse, I’m going to speak up and set her straight.
Or I should, but what I do instead is sulk in the background, frustration and grief as my companions. And I can’t even hit the booze to help with that, which would be a bad idea, anyway, but has often been my way out.
Hours later, the festivities are over, with most of the guys staying in the kitchen to continue stuffing their faces. It’s still snowing, but even if we can’t do rounds, someone still has to clear the porch and check on the buildings to make sure that the above-ground part of our hideout isn’t about to become history. I volunteer before Zilinsky can ask. She doesn’t look surprised. Clark and I are the only smokers of the group, and we have a silent agreement going between us to share the load of freezing our balls off outside for the coming months. Since he’s all cozy in the corner, sharing beers with Taylor and Santos, it’s my turn. My escape, really, and I end up staying out there as long as I can possibly stand it, much longer than required. I feel slightly less put through the wringer when I stalk back inside and head straight for the bathroom, trusting that someone has a bucket full of hot water waiting for me so that I can rescue what’s left of my fingers and toes. Judging from a brief glance on my way in, almost everyone’s asleep now, leaving me a few more minutes of much-appreciated privacy—
Or so I think as I step into the bathroom, and come face to face with the soft, elegant curves of a woman’s back. A young, very naked, and currently unaware-of-my-presence woman—and this time, all the self-talk in the world doesn’t help. The light frost burn on my face and hands is uncomfortable enough that you’d think my dick would be dead for the night, but I feel myself get uncomfortably hard the second my mind registers that in front of me isn’t one of the three women in the house who would instantly castrate me if they saw me get a boner in their presence, and halfway out of my layers of clothes it’s impossible to hide.
Rationally, I know what I should do—turn around and get the fuck out immediately, and do my very best to forget this ever happened. Stupid as I am, what I actually do is hold my breath and stay as still as possible as not to alert Sadie to my presence, and I take in every glorious inch of exposed skin in front of me. Not sure anyone can really fault me for looking—girl’s got a body that’s hard to ignore, even though she never dresses to accentuate it. Living rough as we are, the slightest swell of a breast or well-rounded ass packed away in functional garb is like a Playboy centerfold, really. If I had a type—which I really don’t, and I’m not afraid to admit that—she’d be a perfect fit with her long, toned limbs, moderately good nutrition and youth preserving what curves Mother Nature gifted her with. I’m actually surprised that her tits are larger and fuller than I tried so very hard not to imagine, the perfect size for grabbing and squeezing, deserving of all the attention I could ever lavish on them…
I’m a hundred percent sure that I haven’t made a sound, but she notices me nevertheless, and that’s where the wank-fantasy vibe ends. She both jerks and shies away at the same time, her mind split between the innate need to hide as much of herself as possible while honed instinct makes her want to reach for a weapon that’s not there, because what danger could she possibly be in, here of all places? There’s also that innocent, caught-in-the-headlights look unique to young, inexperienced women finding themselves completely bare in front of a much older, more experienced guy. I’m not proud of it, but I have walked in on Lewis a time or two, and while she wasn’t happy to be equally naked in front of me, there was a confidence in h
er hostile stare that made it obvious that she refuses to be intimidated by my presence. Sadie is lacking that, and it’s that realization that finally cuts through the haze of lust and jerks me back to the here and now. Shit, but the last thing I want is to make her uncomfortable, and even less so in a sexually charged way—that she in no way reciprocates, as is quite obvious.
I do my very best to ignore my stiffy—and hope to hell she didn’t notice—as I catch and hold her gaze, making sure to show her that her chin is the absolutely lowest end of my focus. “Sorry to startle you,” I say softly, as if I was talking to a shy animal. Guess in a way I am. “I’ll go wait in the kitchen until you’re done.”
I only wait until my words register, not forcing her to acknowledge them. But try as I might to disband it, the seconds-long clip of her lithe, nubile body is forever seared into my brain.
5 SADIE - NOVEMBER
I AM GOING TO DIE.
There’s no way around it. It’s hours later, and my pulse is still racing. No, I didn’t drop by the kitchen to tell Chris that I was done in the bathroom. I toweled off in record time, pulled on my clothes fast enough to rip a seam or two, and headed straight to my sleeping bag, where I’ve been hiding ever since.
And God, do I wish it was simple embarrassment that keeps my cheeks feeling hot enough to blister!
With only four women in our group, it’s an unwritten rule that when we need to clean up, we do so amongst ourselves. All of the men are mature enough to keep to that, or in the few occasions where that wasn’t quite feasible, turned backs and the utter lack of sneak peeks has been the way to go—and that’s always been with Pia and Bree only. I honestly don’t think Pia sees herself as different from the guys, and Bree seems to have found her own, special brand of abrasiveness not to make it an issue. With so much work to be done always, it’s never been a problem for Mom and me to have lots of quiet time on our own to take care of necessities—until I got stupid enough to set myself up for this. I knew I was just supposed to drop off some warm water for Chris for when he came back inside, but for whatever reason I figured it was the perfect occasion to heat up a second bucket and clean up…
And, well, that ended catastrophically.
Of course I knew why I did it. The wake upset me deeper than I thought it would, and a part of me must have figured that a warm washcloth would be comforting. And then it reminded me of summer camp, and then I realized I will never meet the girls I made friends with there ever again because they are all dead, and I will never again be camp counselor for the smaller kids because they are all dead as well—
And then there he was, half-naked himself, staring at me as if I was the sun in his endless, cold world of night. Well, that’s a little too dramatic, but I can say, hands down, no one has ever looked at me like that. Certainly no man. Who obviously liked what he saw. Although, I’m not letting that part get to my head; I’m well aware of the fact that the male physiology does whatever the fuck it wants sometimes, independent of the attached guy’s intentions. I live with an entire horde of guys—morning wood is a thing.
What’s way more upsetting than the momentary embarrassment—and hey, cut me some slack; I’m a seventeen-year-old girl, of course getting caught completely naked is the end of my world, at least for a day or two—is how it made me feel to stand like that in front of him. It’s confusing, and intimidating, but not in a sense that I was afraid he’d do anything I didn’t want him to. I know I can blindly trust everyone in our little bunker both with my life and with my virginity, for better or for worse. Even if my parents weren’t there—and both Nate and Pia didn’t keep insisting on scaring me straight, if you want to call it that—I’d know better than to explore when doing so might cause more problems than it’s worth. Mostly. Absolutely, I’m quick to correct myself… but my heart isn’t a hundred percent in it anymore.
I can’t sleep but I’m still exhausted—emotionally as well as physically—and my frazzled mind runs in a million directions while I wait for morning to come, both yearning for and dreading the moment I have to get up and face the music. My hands stay plastered to the sides of my thighs inside my sleeping cocoon, far away from any interesting parts, but that doesn’t mean my imagination doesn’t run wild whenever I don’t keep it firmly in check. I hope that gets better once it’s all chores, all day long.
Turns out, it doesn’t, even when I put extra focus and effort into scrubbing pots and doing the laundry. I make sure that I’m never alone, and it’s tantalizingly easy to always have a chaperone around. Chris is late to get up, and unlike me, he has a perfect poker face. By the time he trudges up to get breakfast, no less than three people have asked me if I’m okay, and both Mom and Pia have done that annoying palm-pressed-to-forehead temperature-check thing, ignoring my insistence that I’m fine, just a little tired. Nobody asks that lecherous fake viking if he’s okay, but then, why would they? I know that I’m not the only one who knows I could sneeze in his face all day long and he wouldn’t stand a chance of catching a cold. Even thinking about snot, my mind quickly wanders to what else I’d like to do up close to his very fine physique…
But it’s not just reason and my parents that eventually make my thoughts grind to a halt, then back off rather quickly. So what, he got a good eyeful and he liked what he saw—but that doesn’t mean anything, particularly not with someone like him. I’m not being prejudiced when I call him a player; of all the many younger friends of my dad’s, he’s the single one I’ve never seen with female company, and I’ve heard plenty of stories. Boy got ‘round—a lot. Why would he want to land with inexperienced little me? I’m not delusional; I know that, like everything else, good sex is connected to skills and experience, and I’m utterly lacking in both departments. More than anything else, that realization puts a damper on my raging hormones—which is a good thing, as later that day, I find myself folding laundry on my own in the kitchen, and Chris so happens to drop by for a snack.
I can’t help but go rigid when he saunters in, but he mercifully ignores me as he goes to forage for leftovers. I force myself to concentrate on sorting pairs of socks, which shouldn’t be such a Herculean task. Not even coming across a formerly light-blue pair with dancing deers on them—Bree’s, obviously—makes me crack a smile. I pray that he soon finds something to stuff his handsome face with and leaves me the fuck alone.
No such luck. He does find some bread and pepperoni, but rather than leave, he stops next to my perch on the bench, briefly eyeing the socks with a look of slight interest. “Do we have anything to talk about?” he asks in a low, husky tone that I think is supposed to be both covert and calming but has a very different effect on me. I’d be thrilled, but he’s not even trying to catch my gaze, which I’m also quite thankful for if it means he may miss the bright red patches on my cheeks. He’s the epitome of polite yet distant small talk. I shake my head and instead try to match one black sock to any of fifty other black socks. It’s maddening! And no, I don’t mean the socks.
He turns to go and I can’t help but heave a sigh of relief—too soon, it turns out, as that sound of air escaping me makes him pause and smirk back at me. It’s only for a second, and I can see him getting a grip on himself and turn his expression into one of bored pleasantness, but I didn’t miss that look of mischief it replaces. “There’s no reason for you to be embarrassed,” he offers—and doesn’t quite sound like he means it, but I have no idea what he’s trying to say instead. “I’m the one who walked in on you, and I’m the one who stood there, staring like a dumb oaf.” Yeah, like I’d forget any time this century! But I don’t say that and just keep staring at the socks. When nothing comes from me, he seems disappointed, but is quick to get over it. “I meant it when I said I was sorry,” he repeats, much more levelly now. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable because of me. There’s no reason for that.” He barks a brief laugh. “And shit, you’re about the only normal person to hang out with around here. Not sure what it would do to my mental health if you su
ddenly started avoiding me like the plague.”
I can’t help it. That remark makes me crack a smile—and relax. No longer is it a burden to hold his gaze, although the memory of last night still makes my entire body run hot. “What about Burns?” I suggest.
Chris smirks. “Nobody would ever call him sane or normal, neither behind his back or to his face. He’d be gravely insulted.”
“True.” Where he’s right, he’s right. I rattle off a few more names and get similar snarky replies—all on point, and none of them in a derogatory way. That is, until I mention Bree’s name and Chris goes still, stiff even. I momentarily wonder if I’ve just undone the good work of the last few minutes, but he surprises me with both his answer, and the fact that he pulls out a chair next to me and starts helping with the impossible sock puzzle.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he starts, his voice low enough not to carry to the next room where whoever may be lurking. “I like her. She’s all right when she doesn’t have a stick stuck up her ass. But yesterday—” He trails off, putting three pairs away before he goes on. “She’s freaking me the fuck out sometimes. I guess it’s to be expected that she got a jump-seat on the crazy train considering that she and Miller actually do seem to have a thing for each other that’s beyond basic human nature…” He trails off, briefly glancing at me in an almost bashful way.
I laugh more at his pause than the subject. “I’m not that naive,” I tell him in no uncertain terms. “I love Nate to death, but that doesn’t mean I’m not aware that he’s a very complicated man. And I’d have to be blind, deaf, and stupid not to know that they’re screwing like rabbits whenever they get the chance. Which, just saying, happens a lot during the day when most of you are busy with one task or another, and often against the western wall of the den.” When Chris just keeps staring at me, I grin. “Right where the bookshelves are? That wall’s part of the cabin, not the bunker. One of the shelves has kind of an uneven stand. Apply enough force on the outside and you have a chance of knocking a few of the books right off the shelf. That, and, you know. The thumping.”
Beyond Green Fields | Book 4 | The Ballad of Sadie & Bates [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology] Page 2
