Chapter 1 #4
“So help me if my underwear drawer looks disheveled…” I mutter to myself as I toss my pack on the bed. I pull out the ragged, stuffed dog, petting his worn, gray fur before giving him a soft kiss on the head and setting him on the pillow.
I strip down and hurry to the bathroom for a much-needed shower.
We’d been out on the run for eight days and though I’d done a quick rinse in a stream on the way back two days ago, I feel unbelievably gritty and grimy.
I can rough it with the best of them, but I’ve admittedly gotten pretty spoiled since coming to The Cove.
Running water is one of the best parts of the place.
Not just running water, but hot running water.
We’re very lucky that the apocalypse happened after solar panels had become all but mandatory across the country, and these self-sustaining, eco-friendly communities were all the rage.
Cruelly ironic that when humans were finally getting serious about saving the planet, the planet said too little, too late.
The planet is doing much better now, living its best life really, with wildlife and plant life flourishing and taking back what used to belong to them—but mankind? Not so much.
I unplait my braids and shake out my long, dark brown strands, though there are a few strands of silver shining through these days.
It’s such a relief to be safely back home where I can literally let my hair down.
I always keep it up or braided when we’re on the road and I suppose it would make more sense to just sheer it off, but until shampoo becomes too scarce, I’m keeping it long.
I know it’s stupid, but Mitch had always loved it long and I like to keep that part of myself for him, even after all this time.
I grip the sink and lean towards the mirror, studying my reflection.
I hardly even recognize my own eyes. Mitch had always told me how full of life they were, how the gray sparkled with mischief and confidence and sensuality, how he could get lost in them for hours.
Now, they’re as hard as slate, that sparkle all but gone.
He’d be so disappointed, I think, a lump forming in my throat.
He’d understand, of course, after everything I’ve been through, everything I’ve had to do, but it would still hurt him to see me this way. So hardened.
Even with the insanely intense and serious job I’d had before the end of the world, I was always the one cutting tension with jokes or off the wall comments, never letting any situation become too tense.
I could resurrect a deadened room just by entering it.
I was the life of the party, the good time girl who thought any situation could be solved with dirty jokes, a bottle of Jack, or a good old-fashioned dance party.
That’s who I used to be.
Now, I can’t even remember the last time I’d really laughed.
Like make your sides hurt, crying, can’t breathe, almost pee your pants kind of laugh.
I cut up with Jonah and Mull, sure, but even that isn’t how it used to be.
There’s a part of me that’s just…missing now.
Or maybe it’s still there, but it feels like it’s encased in a three-foot block of ice that I don’t think anything can thaw.
I know that some of it is due to the state of the world.
I’d had to harden myself to survive and do what needed to be done, but that wasn’t all of it.
No, the ice had come the day I lost Gabby.
I turn away from my reflection, not allowing myself to travel down that path.
If therapists were still a thing, one would tell me that avoidance is not a healthy coping mechanism.
But most therapists are either dead or having other people for dinner Hannibal Lecter style, so I really didn’t give a shit about what they might say or think about how I’m dealing.
I step into the steaming shower and scrub away a week’s worth of grime.
By the time I’m done and putting on some lotion that Jonah had found for me—something with cucumbers that smells amazing— I feel much better and the past is locked firmly back in the past where it belongs.
I dress in short cut-offs and an old, nearly threadbare LSU baseball t-shirt that I’ve somehow managed to hold onto all this time.
I pad down the stairs just as the front door opens.
“Oh, that was fast. Did El Douche get what he wanted and leave already?” I ask in a hopeful tone, snorting at my own hilarity, but the humor dies as I come around the corner into the kitchen. Jonah is standing there, shaking his head—and Austin Fucking Traeger is smirking beside him.
Shit.
“El Douche is here for dinner,” Traeger says, thankfully sounding amused rather than murderous. I cut my eyes to Jonah. He gives me a stern look, arching a dark brow. I know exactly what he’s wordlessly telling me: behave, Morales.
“Nice to see you again, Mel,” Traeger says in a deep voice.
His eyes dip briefly to my braless chest and I run my tongue over my teeth in irritation.
I’m not modest by any stretch of the imagination, but if I’d known we were having company, I may have decided to cage the girls for the evening.
He pulls his gaze back upwards quicker than I expect him to, actually, and I’m surprised that his stare didn’t feel invasive or skeevy.
He shifts his gaze to my hair, to the long, damp waves hanging over one shoulder.
“The great and powerful Oz remembers my name? Should I be honored?” I reply automatically, before biting the inside of my cheek.
“Mel…” Jonah warns, somewhere between real irritation and exasperated amusement. Traeger chuckles and pulls his eyes from my hair, leaning back casually against the counter.
“It’s alright,” he assures Jonah. He has a drawl, probably from southern Georgia or maybe South Carolina, I think. It’s…pleasant. Annoyingly so.
“Cool it,” Jonah whispers as he passes me on the way to the butler’s pantry.
I roll my eyes, but go about grabbing pots to start dinner.
I know for a fact that Traeger’s eyes drift to my ass as I bend over, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of letting him know I care.
I don’t actually, not really. Being stared at isn’t anything new, especially in the apocalypse where women are often seen as a rare, very in-demand commodity.
Rumor has it that Traeger has an entire harem of women back at FOS, trading sex for protection.
The thought of it makes me want to puke—and castrate him—but there’s not much I can do about any that.
All I can do is let him know that, even if I really should be, I’m not afraid of him.
I straighten and turn to stare at him openly right back, silently challenging him as I arch a brow and cross my arms over my chest.
His dark blonde hair is a bit longer on the top than the sides, enough that he could run his fingers through it and leave it with that messy look that’s admittedly a favorite of mine.
He has that stubble-that’s-a-step-above-a-five-o’clock-shadow thing going on.
And yeah, it looks damn good on him, alright?
He smiles, showing off straight, white teeth that gleam against his golden tanned skin.
Ruggedly handsome. That’s how you’d describe him.
Ruggedly fucking handsome. All the pretty hiding the monster, I think to myself.
Psychopaths often use their good looks to their advantage, like a poisonous flower—beautiful but deadly.
He's tall, six-four I’d say, and judging by his muscled arms and chest, there’s apparently a gym at his luxurious secret hideaway.
He’s in dark jeans and a plain white t-shirt with a blue plaid button-down thrown over the top, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
I narrow my eyes as I study the tattoo on his right forearm.
He has others, I know, snaking down his biceps and peeking up under the edge of his collar, though they’re covered at the moment.
I’ve never really paid much attention to them before other than to know they exist, so definitely don’t know what any of them are.
I’m surprised to find that this one is a quote from Les Misérables.
I frown. Interesting. I add another note to my mental profile of the man, begrudgingly admitting that he probably isn’t just the dumb redneck I liked to think of him as most of the time.
I let my gaze travel back upwards and our eyes lock, the deep green of his boring into mine for a long moment.
The hanging lights over the island catch the deep golden flecks around his irises, flaring out like a sunburst. He inhales quietly, his jaw ticking, and I force myself to swallow.
The kitchen suddenly feels very small, the distance between us shrinking, and I suddenly…
want. I want things I haven’t in a long time, all kinds of things that make me seriously deranged for wanting.
What the fuck? Sure, it’s been a while since I’ve gotten any and he’s extremely handsome, but he’s also a possible psycho who likes to put severed heads on spikes like he’s a fucking Lannister for crying out loud.
“Mel, where’s that scotch?” Jonah calls from around the corner, pulling me from my thoughts, the weird, tense moment with Traeger all but forgotten. I whirl towards the pantry, mouth gaping.
“You’re giving him the Macallen?!” I’d found it hidden in some corporate VP’s office on our last run and it’s mine. Of course I’m fine sharing with Jonah, but sharing it with the prick? Come on!
Traeger arches a brow at that. “You drink scotch?”
“When it’s good,” I shoot back, annoyed and not even trying to watch my tone. I can’t quite read his look, which is rare for me, but he eventually just shrugs.
“Mel?” Jonah asks again expectantly as he enters the kitchen. I huff in irritation and stomp to the cabinet in the dining room, pulling out the bottle and cursing under my breath. I shove it into Jonah’s chest with too much force as I make my way back through the kitchen, making him grunt.
“One glass each. That’s it. I mean it, Cothren,” I add sternly. He rolls his eyes but his lips curl at the corners—I only use his last name when I’m irritated with him and for some reason, it always makes him laugh, which either diffuses my irritation or increases it tenfold, depending on the day.
“Or I could just take the entire bottle. Call it the El Douche Tax?” Traeger chimes in.
Jonah and I both turn towards him. I’d almost forgotten he was there for a second. I clench my jaw and narrow my eyes, and my irritation seems to amuse Traeger as much as it does Jonah. I kind of hate them both at the moment. Traeger smiles an easy smile and holds up his hands.
“I’m joking, I’m joking. Geeze, does she ever lighten up?” he asks Jonah, hiking a thumb at me.
“Yuck it up, couyon,” I mutter. He arches a brow at that while Jonah pours the drinks, but I turn away to work on what promises to be the world’s most awkward dinner.