Kismet

by Beth D. Carter

  However, I am freaked out.

  “We have to get out of this parking structure,” I order sharply. “Or it might be our crypt.”

  “Evie,” he says. “That earthquake, the ones you’ve been feeling, it’s all a precursor.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My mission here in Los Angeles is to find people and get them out before the next earthquake comes.”

  I blink and shake my head a little, trying to clean out my ears because I know I must have heard wrong. “Next one?”

  “Yes,” he confirms. “The next ‘big one.’” He arches a brow at me. “Your supersight didn’t tell you this?” he asks with the tiniest hint of sarcasm.

  “No, my superpowers don’t necessarily give me the insight to the universe,” I tell him. “I didn’t see the virus coming, I didn’t predict the first earthquake, and had I known another was coming, I would have reconsidered visiting Los Angeles as a vacation getaway. My visions don’t work that way.”

  But I have to hesitate for a fraction, because maybe I did see the earthquake, in a way. In that dream, the one that brought me here, Hyde melted before my eyes, and the ground shook under me. I thought it was a nightmare, but now I realize I could have been seeing the distant future.

  “Who are these people you need to save?” I ask him, trying to push those images from my mind.

  He frowns at me. “You believe me?”

  “I have no trouble believing you can predict the future. After all, that’s what I do.”

  “I can’t,” he answers testily. “And I doubt very much you can.”

  “Then how do you know another earthquake is coming?”

  “The USGS told me using neat little gadgets called technological advancements,” he said with that sarcastic sense of humor he’s got.

  “Har-de-har,” I mumble, my mind suddenly flashing to somewhere far away. Actually, now that he mentioned it, I remember something I learned not too long ago. “Is this about that equipment buried in the fault line?”

  That surprises him. His brows shoot up as he nods.

  “When I passed through St. Louis I heard talk about the one there,” I continue, answering his unasked question. “But I didn’t realize it was set up here in LA. Do you have a Richter scale number to scare my panties off?”

  “Nine point two, or larger.”

  “Oh,” I say, slightly at a loss. “That’s a pretty big number. If you can get that accurate, then why the hell wasn’t the one six years ago predicted?”

  He levels me with a dark look. “The next time I sit down to dinner with a geophysicist, I’ll get that answer for you.”

  I stuck my tongue at him. That caught him off guard, and I think I saw a small, very tiny smile.

  “And how are you going to get these people out?”

  “Midnight, two nights from now, emergency air lifts will be in position to take every person out. The devastator is due to hit in four to six days.”

  “Of course it is,” I grouse, blowing a stray piece of hair out of my mouth. “Saving an entire city with how many men?”

  “There are six of us searching LA County. More teams in other counties.” He shrugged. “We save who we can.”

  “And you call me a superhero? Do you know how big LA County is?”

  “A little under forty-one hundred square miles,” he answers me readily. All I can do is blink at this. “But most of that has been deemed uninhabitable or nature has reclaimed the land. Our focus has been the city and the outlying communities.”

  “What’s the square-mile area of LA?”

  “City or county?”

  “City.”

  “Four hundred sixty-nine point one.”

  “And the population of Los Angeles before the virus hit?”

  “Nine million eight hundred sixty thousand, give or take a couple of hundred.” He shrugged. “The virus hit before the census count, so that’s a very rough estimate.”

  “Wow, you must read a lot.”

  “Enough.”

  “You’re very concise with words, aren’t you?” I ask and lick my dry lips. Why did I forget my lip balm?

  I see his gaze fall to my mouth, so I lick them again, just to see his reaction. But I’m disappointed when he shakes his head and turns it to the side as he runs his hand over his blunt-cut hair. The movement makes the muscles in his arm bulge, and I feel my mouth go dry.

  I can’t seem to help myself. Years of seeing him just out of reach has left me weak, so I touch the side of his face, tracing the contours of his cheek. He jerks away sharply, frowning.

  After a moment, he turns away.

  “Get your stuff together,” he orders in a low voice. “Let’s go.”

  I’d like to pretend the wild emotions surging through are just a figment of my imagination, but that’d make me a liar. I may, on occasion, like to bury my head in the sand, but not this time. I was meant to save this man for a reason, and turning my back on digging deeper into my response to him just won’t cut it.

  We exit out of the small hiding place, being extra cautious. Kris has his gun out, ready with the safety off. I pull out one of mine and do the same. Kris eyes my piece with a touch of surprise, and I flash him the sight of my other to let him know I will watch his back if need be. I won’t be a hindrance.

  The morning is bright, and already I start sweating in my dark clothes. They are meant more for protection than convenience, with padding that helps when and if I impact hard surfaces. Like if I get jumped, for instance. I’m nothing if not prepared.

  The landscape hasn’t improved. Again I’m slightly shocked to see the devastation of the city before me. Because of the virus the entire Western seaboard had become this wasteland, shut off from the rest of the nation simply because there hadn’t been a way for help to arrive. The world had been dealing with other problems.

  Kris takes off, moving swiftly and silently through the broken streets piled with rubble.

  “Hey, are we going the right way?” I call to him.

  He ignores me.

  “Hey, Kris!”

  He stops, which makes me stop. I stare at his stiff shoulders. He holds up a fist, which I know means silence. But it’s broad daylight, and the bad guys have just come off a night of intense searching, so I’m figuring right now is the best time to not be so quiet.

  I march up to him and then around him to look him in the eye. “How do you know this is the right way?”

  He sighs as his arms fall to his sides. “Did you not understand the do-not-talk gesture?”

  I wave that comment away dismissively. “Answer my question.”

  I see his lips thin. “The plan was to meet up with Hyde at the rendezvous point. I’m heading there now.”

  He goes to move around me, so I put my hand on his chest to halt him. He responds immediately by jerking back, so forcefully that it throws me off balance, and I stumble a bit.

  “Don’t touch me,” he warns.

  I blink. “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t like to be touched.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What part don’t you understand?”

  “Um, the whole I don’t like to be touched part?”

  He stands there giving me this disdainful look, like I’m a moron because I don’t get how someone can’t stand having a touch on his chest. So to test his claim and maybe piss him off, I poke his shoulder with my index finger.

  He knocks my hand away. “Cut it out, Evie.”

  Of course, that’s a challenge I just can’t resist. I respond by pushing him, hard enough that it catches him off guard, and he stumbles. And just like that we engage in a duel of sorts. I won’t call it fighting, because clearly we aren’t trying to inflict damage on each other, but there is definitely a dance of something impassioned between us.

  I try a karate chop; he responds with a block. I go with a sweep kick to his ankles, to which he jumps. Back and forth we go at it until he manages to capture my arms, entrapping me and p
ulling my body into his. For a man who doesn’t like being touched, he doesn’t seem to mind all me touching him.

  Of course our little fight hadn’t been out of anger or hate, but out of something intangible. He pins me with those dark eyes of his, and the world slowly fades away. Seriously, I forget everything. The danger we’re in, the race against time—I even forget Hyde Galloway.

  I ease my hand free and hold it up close to his face and wait. When he doesn’t move back, I let my fingertips brush his lips, testing their fullness. He is so beautiful, though I suppose not every woman would say that about Kristian Seek. His features are a bit too fierce, too defined to be called classically handsome. His skin is tanned, complementing his dark hair and eyes, and against my fairer complexion, he stands out like a bold beacon.

  Our gazes meet and hold, and there is a breathless moment as his features transform from skittish into curious. Heat gathers in his eyes, and he goes from calm and collected military man to stalking panther in an instant. He reaches up with one hand and encircles the back of my neck, yanking me into him.

  His lips crash down onto mine with a savage intensity that blinds me for a few seconds. Had he been anyone else, the almost clumsy, ravaging kiss would have pissed me off, and I would have kneed him right where it counts. But this is Kris. I know why his kiss isn’t sleek with seduction, why he doesn’t know how to woo me with nibbles and caresses.

  Kris always stood to the sidelines, never daring to touch, so his kiss is awkward, wet and clumsy. But it erupts a fire in my belly that I’ve never felt, and before long I take over. I reach up to hold his face still and then proceed to change the kiss, bringing down the intensity from demanding to sharing. I swipe my tongue over his, capturing it and dancing with it. A groan rumbles from his chest, and the hands that grip me turn gentle. He is eager to learn and quickly adjusts to the rhythm, nipping just so and mating with my mouth instead of raping it.

  A hand slides up to cup my breast. His thumb and fingers squeeze through my shirt and sports bra, finding my nipple. Though the pinch is muted due to the layers of material, it still sends tingles of electricity through my body. I halfheartedly wonder what his touch would do to me if clothes weren’t in the way.

  When we finally break apart to come up for air, his dark eyes are dilated, and he pants like he’s just run a marathon.

  I hold his face in my palms and feel the slight stubble of beard. The piercing hairs are oddly sensual, and I move my hands back and forth to dig them in deeper. He reaches up to hold them still against his cheeks and stares down at me reverently.

  “I’m hard,” he whispers in awe.

  I raise an eyebrow and sneak a peek at the evidence. Ah, yes, he is. And what a delicious hardness it is.

  He groans and briefly closes his eyes. I’m assuming this is a good groan. I lean forward and nibble on his bottom lip and then kiss my way around to his ear.

  “I know,” I whisper, taking the lobe between my teeth and sucking gently on it. I let my tongue follow and trace the shell of it. He shudders beneath my ministrations. “I’m so glad I’m your first.”

  He tenses immediately, though my mind is slow to pick this up. All I want to do continue, to let my hands and lips start exploring his magnificent body, but just as I’m about to suggest something more supine, he pushes me from him. I blink and stare into eyes that are as hard as flint.

  “What did you say?” He growls at me.

  “I-I…Kris, what?”

  “Don’t ever fucking touch me again.” He backs up, breaking away from any intimate setting we’ve created. “You know nothing!”

  I blink at the vehemence of his tone, and the world suddenly crashes back into focus. I take a deep breath, trying to bring my erratic heartbeat under control. I want to reach for him again, to haul him back into me, but strangely my arms seem to have a mind of their own. They just hang heavily, useless at my sides.

  “Kris,” I say, and I give a mental wince at how needy my voice sounds. “Please. What happened?”

  He lifts a hand, an oddly pleading gesture. “Don’t, Evie,” he mutters. “I’m not in the mood to be toyed with.”

  “I’m not toying with you!”

  He pins me with that fathomless gaze of his. I can feel its touch sweep me head to toe. “Fuck,” he mutters, this time to himself. “What is it about you?”

  I simply stare at him, hardly breathing.

  “I look at you,” he continues, “and I grow hard.” He cups himself. “This thing has never gotten hard for anyone before! And now you come along, in this fuck-all city to kiss me, seducing me with those eyes of yours, and it gets hard!”

  And then he goes against the very words he spoke to me by grabbing and shaking me before hauling me back into his body. He slams his mouth onto mine, but this kiss isn’t kind or sweet or pleasant. This kiss is dark and hurtful. It’s a kiss designed for punishment, like he’s trying to kiss away that part of me that arouses him.

  His lips force mine apart, and his tongue sweeps in, dominating mine with sheer rage. Hands come up to hold my head still, though I’m not trying to get away. Under the savagery, I can feel his bewilderment, the almost little-boy-lost sense in this desperate attack on my mouth. I know he is trying to force away the response that I have invoked in him, though I’m not quite sure why.

  Abruptly he pulls back and stares down into my eyes. The pressure of his hands has brought a smattering of tears to my eyes.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” he asked, and my heart breaks a little at the confusion that leaks into his voice. “How are you doing this to me?”

  “Let me go, Kris. You’re hurting me.”

  He abruptly releases me, and I blink back my teary vision. We stand there, not quite sure what to do next.

  “Don’t touch me again, Evie,” he tells me, and this time I swear he is begging. I don’t have the nerve to remind him that it is he who prompted that last kiss.

  Chapter Five

  “Are you going to ignore me forever?” I demand, beyond exasperated.

  After our kisses Kris stays silent, only talking with hand gestures. Sure, I get the gist of what he was saying, but I don’t like having to mind read. His movements are stiff and angry. I watch him, however, and the more I see, the more I realize that Kris deliberately keeps himself stiff and angry. But why?

  I know his head has to be killing him, but he doesn’t ask for more medicine. He won’t even let me change the dressing, instead pulling off the tape and gauze himself, then applying a fresh pressure bandage without using a mirror. The accuracy of his hand makes me wonder how many times he’s had to do this before, and I realize I don’t really want to know the answer.

  I know his mind has to be focused on two things: his mission and his partner. I figure nowhere into that equation.

  “I’m not ignoring you,” he replies over his shoulder.

  “Oh really? Then slow down, for fuck’s sake!”

  I am tall but he easily tops me by a good five or six inches. It’s not often that I have to practically run to keep pace with someone. We move along at a steady, brisk pace.

  “Kris!” I repeat, exasperated.

  He turns suddenly, and I almost run into him. He glares at me.

  “What?” I ask. “I asked you to slow down. You chose to ignore me.”

  I smile at him, conveying what I know to be my alluring femininity. Kris blinks, and his gaze lingers on my lips, so I know he’s not immune to my charms. But when I look into his eyes, I see a darkness that has nothing to do with his brown irises. Something has hurt this man; something has scarred him. My heart swells with compassion, and I want so much to take him into my arms and banish all his demons. But I know he won’t let me; at least, he won’t let me right now.

  But just then I get a vision, and I must push aside the tenderness I feel growing toward Kris. I see a little girl, perhaps only nine or ten. She has long black hair and dirty clothes; she looks Latina from my vantage point. She walks in front of an o
lder man with even dirtier clothes. They have a ragged look about them, a desperate, almost hungry air surrounding them. I know they are looking for food or for items that will help them survive. I just don’t understand why they would cling to a city with nothing in it. Why not leave here, go somewhere with the resources to keep children fed and to jumpstart a new life? I’ve seen migration a lot in the past six years. In the northern part of the country live mostly people who can prevail using their hunting and survival skills. Loners. Down South are people who are part of large communities, families who have banded together to eke out a living. And the East Coast has the cities where people have gathered for the protection and handouts the government provides. To me, the West Coast is nothing but a wasteland of once-great cities, something to read about in history books.

  All those thoughts swirl around in my head as I watch the little girl come around a bend, her father pausing to look at something. I see the man with the sledgehammer creep to the spot where the girl walks, his sledgehammer gripped firmly and poised ready to strike. I see the girl round the corner, and I see the sledgehammer fall. Her head is bashed in, blood spurting in every direction, coating the evil man’s body in his obvious delight. He swings again as the father rushes forward, connecting with another deadly strike.

  I stumble and then lean over as dry heaves rack my body as the picture of the now dead girl rolls through my mind again.

  “Evie!” Kris growls in my ear. I can feel him holding me up even as my body slides down into shock and horror. How can someone do that to a little kid?

  With considerable effort, I pull myself out of the trance, though I can’t stop the replay scrolling through my brain. Kris keeps hold of my arm as I start scanning the direction to go. My little spidey sense starts leading me, and I struggle against Kris’s hold.

  “We have to go this way,” I say. I start off but come to an abrupt halt as Kris yanks my arm. “I got a vision.”

  “The plan is to meet up with Hyde if we got separated.”

  “No, we have to go this way,” I insist stubbornly, shaking off his grip.