Chapter 8
That evening, I’m in a weird mood.
Tired but wired at the same time. Like there’s all this feeling coursing inside me that shouldn’t exist, that my body is barely capable of containing. Excitement. Relief. Appreciation. Anticipation. Emotional connection.
But also anxiety and an internal warning clanging in the background.
All of it is pulsing in my blood and with my fast heartbeat, and the worst thing is Micah seems to be aware of it.
He feels it too.
He keeps slanting me searching looks as we do a perimeter check on all my warnings and traps. Like he’s checking to see if I’m feeling what he suspects I’m feeling.
I haven’t felt so vulnerable in a long time.
Years.
But something inside me wants it as much as fears it.
Even Molly is more alert than normal, on guard and constantly sniffing me to figure out what’s going on.
If I knew, I would tell her. Relieve her concerns.
But I have no idea what to make of it.
It’s not physical. Lust might be strong, but it’s also simple. And there’s an easy remedy for it. This is just as energizing but different. Deeper.
Shit, it’s really stupid, and it’s only going to get me hurt.
I should have gotten rid of Micah on the second day.
“Y’okay?” he asks after we’ve returned to the firepit near my camper.
I’m just standing still with my hand halfway stretched out toward my wood pile, frozen in the middle of preparations to start a fire for the evening.
He asked me the same thing earlier this afternoon—and in the same tone. Soft. Gruff. Hesitant. Like he knows the simple question might pierce through all my defenses.
His sensitivity increases my anxiety. So much that I feel like snapping back in response.
I bite back the instinct and instead murmur, “I’m fine. Just in a weird mood after earlier.”
He washed up like I did after we returned, but he’s already dirty again.
Sweaty and unshaven. There’s a dark smear on his forehead—like he wiped off perspiration with an unwashed hand—and there’s a damp patch in the middle of his T-shirt.
His jeans are as old and faded as mine, worn so thin the threads are shredding at the knees and up near the belt loops.
He has no right to look so hot right now. No one should in his condition.
But his features are strongly chiseled, and his eyes are that startlingly dark blue, beautiful in the last of the day’s sunlight. His body is big, strong, and tightly molded. He exudes heat and energy and resilience. And his arms…
I swallow hard as my eyes run over the contours of his biceps beneath his short shirt sleeves. He’s got dark hair on his forearms and an old scar slashing down from his elbow to his wrist on the right.
I want his body in a way I thought was erased from my consciousness a long time ago.
But wanting isn’t nearly as important as surviving. I force down the surge of physical desire and focus on what he’s about to say.
Which is to mutter, “I’ll leave if you want me to.”
“What?”
“I can leave.”
“I know you can leave, but why are you suggesting it right now?”
“You know why. You’re not sure you want me here.”
Shit. He’s way too perceptive. Men aren’t supposed to see under the surface that way. “I’ve told you I’m used to being on my own, so it’s strange to have someone else here. But I’m not kicking you out yet. At least not until you’re fully recovered.”
He nods slowly, his expression relaxing. “Okay. Let’s get the fire goin’ then. I’m already hungry.”
By the time we get the fire going and heat up my grill pan, it’s nearly dark. The forest is quiet, and so are we as we grill eggs and slices of ham and then toast bread.
The meal is good. Micah obviously enjoys it as much as I do. Molly sits at attention and happily accepts the bites we offer her.
Micah doesn’t force conversation, so I’m able to relax. My weird buzz from earlier is fading. This is fine. As far as companions go, I could do a lot worse than Micah. And I don’t want him to die from risking travel before he’s fully recovered from the gunshot wound.
Everything is fine.
I’m fine.
I’m sitting in an old lawn chair, and Micah is on a wooden bench Jesse and I scavenged that first year after Impact. It doesn’t have a back, but it’s pushed against the side of the camper so he has something to lean back on.
His eyes are on me. I’m not looking, but I can feel them.
“What?” I demand at last.
“What, what?”
“You know what.” I use the same words he did earlier on purpose. “You’re staring at me and thinking a lot of things you aren’t saying.”
“You don’t want to hear what I’m thinking right now.”
“Why not?” Unable to resist, I turn to meet his eyes.
His expression is so hot I can identify it even in the flickering firelight. “Because I’m thinkin’ I’ve never met anyone as beautiful as you. Beautiful and fearless and tough and vibrant. Alive. And fragile underneath it in a way that makes me wanna be a goddamn hero.”
“Kind of clichéd and sappy,” I mutter to hide the wave of pleasure that slams into me. “I expected better of you.”
“That was your mistake.”
“What was my mistake?” I’m flustered by my response to his compliments, so I’m having trouble following his meaning.
“Thinking better of me. That’ll always be a mistake. Despite random, passing whims, I’m never gonna be a hero.”
He’s teasing. I know he is. His tone is dry and lazy. But he means it too. I wonder why.
“Well, I never for a moment believed you would be. You’re the one who brought up heroes. It’s been a really long time since I believed anyone could be a hero.” The thought makes me heavy, so I shift the conversation. “Anyway, I’m not fragile. I don’t know why you’d call me that.”
“You’re not fragile in any way that affects your strength. But there’s something—underneath everything. Something no one but me can see.”
I really shouldn’t like the words or his thick, fond tone, but I do.
I really do.
Maybe that’s the fragility he’s picked up on.
“You need to get over yourself.”
“Oh, I’m over myself. Believe me.”
Once again, there’s a faint, self-directed bitterness in his tone. It makes me ask, “Why are you over yourself?”
“What?” He blinks and turns his eyes from the fire back to my face. He’s lounging comfortably on the bench, leaning against the side of my camper.
“You said you were over yourself. I want to know why.”
“It’s not a worthwhile story.”
“I don’t care. I want to hear it anyway. Tell me how you got shot.”
I have no particular reason to assume that the reason he got shot is connected to his being over himself, but I know it for sure.
He opens his mouth and closes it again. Stares back at the flames in the firepit.
“Why won’t you tell me? Are you ashamed of something?”
“I’m ashamed of more than I could ever put into words, but that’s not the reason. It’s… raw. The reason I’m functional right now is because I’m pretending it didn’t happen.”
My chest clamps down over my heart. My stomach churns with heavy anxiety. “I get that. I understand. If you need to pretend, then you can pretend.”
We sit in silence for a while. I stroke Molly’s head softly when the dog leans against my knee. She’s good at picking up on moods. She must sense the emotional tension in the air right now.
“Me and Bunny—Burgundy—lived in Saint Louis before Impact.”
I stiffen when Micah starts to talk in a soft, casual drawl. He might be acting like this is nothing, but it’s something.
Something important.
I nod but don’t reply.
He continues, “I worked for… a guy, and Burgundy and I joined up with him after everything fell apart in the city. The rest of our family got killed. She was all I had. We started traveling after we ran out of food and supplies. We did pretty well. Survived and had some sort of life.”
He’s trailed off, and I’m afraid he won’t continue. I gently prompt, “What happened to her?”
He takes several long, raspy breaths. “We were… we were… traveling. Ran into some assholes who’d ganged up. They attacked.”
“She was killed?”
“I…” His face contorts dramatically. “I don’t know. We had to run. There were several of us, and I thought she was with us. She wasn’t. When I discovered she wasn’t there, I went back for her, but there was no trace of her. Anywhere.”
“What about the gang? Could they have taken her?” That fate wouldn’t be much better than death, but at least there would be a chance of her still being alive.
“They must have. I left the others to search for her.” He takes more of those pained breaths. “I searched for four months.”
“Oh my God, Micah. I’m so sorry.”
He tries to say something, but only a weird raspy sound comes out.
“So how did you get shot?” I ask.
“I was on my way back to… to my people. Ran across another gang of militia types who’d captured a woman. It wasn’t Burgundy, but it might as well’ve been.” He shakes his head with a dark look. “I got her out.”
“Oh. So that’s who shot you?”
“Yeah.”
“Are they still after you?”
“Probably. I doubt they’re actively hunting me, but they’d kill me if they find me for sure.
That’s another reason I’ve got to get away from you as soon as I’m able.
I’m surprised I even bothered to help that poor woman.
Nothing has really mattered to me since Burgundy was lost. But I couldn’t walk away. ”
“The woman made it out okay?”
“Yeah. I mean, I wouldn’t say she was really okay—who would be after living through that?—but she was safe and alive when I left her. I got her back to her family.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“Yeah. It’s something.”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter that much to you—what you did—but I guarantee it mattered to the woman you saved. What happened to Burgundy wasn’t your fault.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“What? No the hell it wasn’t. You’re not responsible for assholes who attack for no reason.”
“I know. But I am—was—responsible for keeping Burgundy safe, and I didn’t do that. I’m tellin’ you, Kat, I’m not a hero. I never was one, and I’m as far from one now as it’s possible to be.”
I swallow hard. Something deep in my chest is reaching—straining—for the matching thing in his. “Well, I’m not a hero either. We don’t have to be. We survive what this world does to us and try to make the best of it. What else can we do?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing else to do,” he whispers thickly, staring at me with a different kind of heat than before. Deeper. Achier. Needier.
What I see in that gaze is exactly what I’m feeling too.
It’s so strong I can’t stand it. Can’t resist. I get out of my chair and lean down to kiss him.
It’s an awkward position. He’s lounging on the bench while I’m bending at the waist to reach his mouth. A lot of my hair has come loose from my knotted braid, and the strands fall down to brush against my face and his.
He’s surprised at first, holding himself very still as my lips softly move against his.
Then he makes a throaty sound and lifts a hand to hold my head in place, responding with an urgency that startles and exhilarates me.
I pull away gently and straighten up, meeting his eyes in the flickering light.
Then I silently take the step up into the camper, leaving the door open behind me.
Micah gets up too and follows me inside.