Chapter Twenty-Two #2
I don’t know if I would’ve believed them, if I could’ve believed them, if they’d said those words before I knew they’d become the kind of horror-heads I used to be.
But now the words stick to me, and they don’t shake off, even when I test them.
Because there’s nothing that Hank and Irene Greer do half-assed, and they’ve clearly dedicated the last decade of their lives to learning who I am the only way I allowed them to—through the art I loved.
“Thanks,” I finally manage through my tight throat. “Maybe we can watch The Substance sometime?”
Dad smiles, his eyes watering as he squeezes my hand. “We’d love nothing more. Demi’s finest work, if you ask me.”
“Your father is a screamer,” Mom adds. “Just FYI.”
With the sun tilting toward the horizon, Dad gives Mom a knowing look. “Speaking of screaming, Irene, we better get back to command for the transition to evening watch.”
Mom nods briskly. “Everett, would you please bring Maisie to supper with us and Gemma tonight? We’ll be eating in the family barracks at 1800 hours sharp.”
I’m agreeing before I realize it, and then Mom and Dad are standing, taking turns hugging me again, which Chicken tolerates marginally better this time. Mom clasps my face between her strong, calloused hands.
“Everett, we have always loved you, we’ve always been proud of you, and now that we have you back, we will show you that every day of our lives.”
I stare down into my badass mother’s eyes, so much like my own, and feel a different kind of pressure from the one I’ve been running from so long.
Part of me wants them to make good on these promises.
Part of me actually wants to stay. But all of me wants Maisie, and I’m not sure how to balance these feelings, these wants, these futures.
“Thanks, Mom,” I finally manage, and because horror has, against all odds, become a safe bridge between us, I add, “Hereditary is my favorite, too.”
Her stern lips quirk into a small smile. “I know. My brave boy.”
Dad shudders. “Why’d you have to bring that movie up again so close to bedtime? Jesus.”
When I arrive at our barracks, Maisie’s in the shower humming the lilting main theme of Amélie’s soundtrack, and I can smell the soft, clean scent of her homemade soap wafting through the cracked door.
Her things have been unpacked and set neatly around the small apartment.
Her boots lined up by the front door. Her ham radio buzzing on the desk next to Walter’s dangling vines.
Her Taser and machete hanging innocently from the coat hooks.
It’s a picture of home, at least a could-be home.
We could be happy here, I think, in this weird military outpost. We could be comfortable.
The water turns off, Maisie’s humming more audible now without the competing pit-pit-pit of the shower.
To think, we can have showers here. Regularly.
The cadet who escorted me from Mom and Dad’s office explained we’re rationed to three showers per person per week unless granted an exception for extenuating circumstances, i.e.
, dripping with zombie gore, but still. Three showers a week you can count on sounds like heaven. A slightly ripe heaven.
I let Chicken down to explore our new apartment, which for Chicken means finding the perfect set of blinds to destroy.
“Everett? Is that you?” Maisie calls from the bathroom, her voice loose and relaxed.
“Yep!”
I could give that to her, I realize. The ability to relax. Safety. Comfort. No matter how useless I’ve felt during this week and all the years before, I know now that I’m not, and I’m not approaching this relationship empty-handed, either. I have so much to give. So much I want to give.
“I’m done with the bathroom.” She exits wrapped in a no-nonsense white towel, and my skin flushes with heat, starting at the base of my spine, traveling up my back, and fanning out across my shoulders.
It’s everything I want—this moment. A life with Maisie where we come home to each other, see each other wet from showers, where we share what we have.
She sees me staring. Her fresh skin still blushes that pretty peach, but her mouth twists into a knowing smile. She stops directly in front of me and walks two fingers slowly up my chest, watching them until our eyes meet.
“It’s all yours, Professor.”
“Is it?” I breathe.
Her lips are swollen red from the hot water, and they part around the only word I want to hear.
“Yes.”
I place one hand over hers where it presses into my chest, over my heart, then walk her slowly back until her shoulders kiss the cool wall.
My other hand skates over the back of her towel, finding the fabric’s bottom edge, and the wet, warm heat of her inside.
The curve of her ass is supple and sweet, the feel of it in my squeezing fingers the embodiment of pink.
“Yes,” she whispers again, her eyes the pale blue of early morning. They promise me time. All day. Our whole lives.
My own eyes flutter. I groan, then hitch her up by the thigh until the softest parts of her meet the hardest parts of me.
She finds my pants and shoves them down, then grasps me with both hands.
My cock fills her grip, pulsing against her palms, growing impossibly harder with every brush of her fingertips against the stretched-tight skin.
Her breath is shaky as she drags it against her flesh, and when it catches against the hard pearl of her clit, we both gasp.
“Put me inside of you.” My voice is low and urgent as I touch my forehead against hers.
My hand braces us against the wall, the other still pinning her knee to my hip.
We both watch as she positions my thick cock against the soft, wet surround of her pussy, so wet for me, splayed wide.
When the first inch of me slowly disappears into her, I cry out, watching her take me, watching her want me, feeling the dig of her nails in my shoulder as I sink all the way into her.
“Pick me up,” she orders, then wraps her arms around my neck.
Does she know I’ll do anything she wants?
I grip her other thigh and hoist her higher onto my cock.
I’ll show her how I can make her feel for the rest of our lives.
Maisie moans as I pin her against the wall, fucking her with hard, deliberate thrusts.
Her eyes never leave mine, and her shallow panting is the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard.
I adjust the angle, and a high, keening whimper leaves her throat.
“Touch yourself, baby.” With her ass in my hands and my heart in hers, I drive into her, begging her with my body to want this as much as I do. “Come on my cock for me.”
Lips parted, she presses the pad of her thumb into her clit, working with hard, short circles, and when her eyes squeeze shut, her cry ripping free, I explode into her, filling her, feeling the slick rush of my orgasm spill down my dick as the thrusts slow.
Her legs slide down my sides, limp, and I fall to my knees before her, bringing her to my face.
She dips her strong fingers into the hair at my temples, her eyes dazed with pleasure.
“Everett—” she begins.
“My turn,” I breathe into her, then drag a long, silken swipe of my tongue. “You rest now. I’ll take care of this.”
By the time we finish, shower, and arrive at my parents’ barracks, it’s 18:04.
I brace myself for a lecture about being late when the door swings open to reveal Dad beaming at us.
He’s wearing civilian clothing, a light gray polo sweater that matches the silvering hair of his buzz cut.
It’s so out of touch with the reality of the past week, I almost laugh.
“Welcome, welcome! Come in, you must be Maisie. We are thrilled to meet you.” Dad offers his hand, which Maisie, only slightly flustered, takes.
Her eyes travel to mine, and I give her a small, confirmatory smile.
I haven’t told her how my talk with my parents went yet, and she’s asking me in the tilt of her chin, the wary look in her eyes, Is he friend or foe?
Whatever my father is to me in this moment, Maisie’s on my side.
She turns her gaze back to Dad. “Nice to meet you—”
“Hank,” he supplies. “Call me Hank, please. Gemma’s fixing drinks—says there’s something we need to celebrate. How do you feel about old-fashioneds?”
“I feel…curious about them. I’ve never had one. What are they like?”
“Boozy but smooth, with a touch of citrus. If you try it and don’t care for it, no harm at all—it won’t go to waste around here.”
“Okay, then. Thanks.” She blinks, as surprised by this genteel, handsome silver fox of a host as I am.
His kind, welcoming demeanor, the fondness in his eyes as he slaps me on the back, ushering us both inside, none of it gels with what I’ve told her about my father so far.
I realize with a start that all those years my parents spent not knowing me, I spent not knowing them, too.
This isn’t Hank the tyrant of my high school days.
This is Hank the cocktail drinker. Hank the horror lover.
And based on how he’s treating Maisie right now, Hank the perfect father-in-law.
We walk into the living room, where Gemma’s waiting to press crisp old-fashioneds into our hands, her eyes bright and excited. Mom’s already sipping hers, but stops to come and greet Maisie, too, with a firm handshake and a kind nod.
“Now that everyone’s here, care to share your news, Gemma?” Dad’s eyes crinkle with pride. “You look like you’re about to burst.”
“Those patents you stole from the president are the catalyst we’ve been searching for—I’m ninety-nine percent sure of it!” The words bolt from her mouth. “My staff ’s running some experiments overnight to triple-check, but our first looks appear to confirm it.”
“Aw, honey, that’s amazing!” Dad booms. “But…what now?”
Mom flips to me. “You stole patents from the president?” Her neck bulges from the tight collar of her floral button-down. “You saw him?!”
Dammit, Gemma.