Dark Paths: Apocalypse Riders (7 page)

With black smoke rising behind him, with the sky turning gray with smoke and clouds, she watched him pull a body from the cellar. She hung back, now. He laid it out and stood over it with his shoulders stiff and his fists clenched.
We let a murderer go.

He let a murderer go because of what I said
.

There was no doubt in her mind that he would have killed that Satan’s Remains biker if she hadn’t been there to talk him into stopping. But was it the right thing? She was beginning to suspect there was no “right thing,” no “good solution.”
Things aren’t as simple as Father Speer wanted us to think.

He dug a grave for his friend while she watched. He’d found the shovel in the cellar - just one - but she didn’t move from her spot or call out to him. He was avoiding looking towards her; he needed to do it alone.

Once the body was in the ground though, buried beneath the dirt, she couldn’t sit still any longer. He stood over the grave as still as a statue. She felt like she was being pulled to him, her feet moving before her brain knew what she was doing. She didn’t even think about it, didn’t question what it meant - her mind was silent as she stepped behind him, wrapped her arms around his middle, and rested her head on the back of his shoulder.

He released a long breath as if he’d been holding it. Some of the tension left his body as he crossed his arms over hers.

“What was his name?” she asked.

“Wales,” he said. “He had some odd fucking accent. He was a good kid.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her heart ached for him. She didn’t question the emotion; she wrote it off in her mind as her natural inclination towards compassion. She couldn’t help wanting to comfort someone in pain. If she felt something else - something a little strange, a little scary as he absentmindedly caressed her arms with his fingertips, well, now was not the time to dwell on them. The sun barely peeked over the horizon. It was time to find shelter.

“We have to move faster,” Call said, shaking his head regretfully the morning after. They’d turned in early the night before - Call had left her for a time, alone on the third floor of a small apartment complex. Most of the apartments had water damage, either from rain or from the sprinkler system, she couldn’t tell. She did find a couch that was covered in plastic - just the way her grandmother had kept hers. She peeled it open like a Christmas gift and sank into the cushions with a grateful sigh while Call went out to “stretch his legs.” She didn’t know how long he was gone - she didn’t hear him return, but he was asleep nearby on the floor when she woke with the sun.

They sped through the whole day. Call stopped only to refill the gas tank and drop off a bag at another of his gang’s rest stops, and for very brief food and bathroom breaks. He was quiet, lost in thought, and it made Lia nervous.
Maybe he’s going to decide I’m slowing him down. He’ll drop me off somewhere alone. I’ll never find the compound, never find my friends…

Her legs and back ached as the day wore on. She thought she was getting used to riding, but she wasn’t. Not like that. Not racing as fast as the bike would carry them for hours at a time. She didn’t want to complain, didn’t want to interrupt whatever was going on inside his head.

It was fully dark by the time he finally parked for the night, hiding the motorcycle inside an abandoned storefront. She cringed as she lowered herself to the floor. They climbed the stairs to the empty offices on the second floor, settling in one with big, unbroken windows, but no furniture. There was just enough moonlight streaming in that they could sit and eat without needing to build a campfire.

They shared a can of peas in silence before she kicked off her shoes and emptied her pockets. She stretched out on her back on the dusty gray carpet and hoped she’d manage to catch at least a little sleep. Right then she’d have killed for a mattress or anything soft to sleep on at all.

“Sore?” he asked. She nodded and sat back up with a grimace. “That’s normal. You ain’t used to riding and we’ve been at it all day. I’m sorry about that. May I?” He gestured at her legs.

Her brows furrowed. “May you what?”

“Work the ache out.” Was he serious? The idea of it frightened her. His hands all over her legs - but they hurt pretty badly, and she didn’t see many other options if she wanted to be able to get any sleep. And she very much needed to sleep.

“That would help?” she asked.

He nodded. “Promise.” He seemed sincere. And so far he’d made no move to hurt her or to take advantage of her. He’d been downright gentlemanly, as far as she could see. It was hard to admit that Father Speer might have been wrong about the living, about what they did and what they wanted.
Maybe he was right about most men. Maybe he just forgot that good people do exist.

“Okay,” she whispered, blushing.

“Honey, I ain’t gonna hurt you. Don’t look so scared.” He chuckled as he knelt in front of her. “You look about as happy as if you were about to get a tooth pulled.”

She laughed weakly. “I’m sorry. It’s just… Father Speer…” She inhaled deeply as Call wrapped his hands around her ankle. He softly kneaded the muscles there, his fingers warm through the fabric of her pants. “He told us to run from living men. Or shoot them. Not to even speak to them, and here I am-”

“Your Father Speer was frightened,” Call said. “And he wasn’t wrong to be. There’s a lot of bad people out here.” He looked up at her with a small smile. “I just ain’t one of them. Neither are my guys.” He worked his way up her calf as he spoke. She had to fight the urge to tense up, to push him away, leap upright and run.

“Sorry. I just miss the farm,” Lia whispered. Call’s fingers were doing wonders for her leg - he expertly worked out the ache and the tension from being clasped tight around his bike for so many hours. She sighed softly as he worked his way up her calf and started on her thigh.

It felt good -
too
good - as he worked his way higher, massaging the soreness away. She truly was a virgin in all ways. She was the type of girl who desperately didn’t want to disappoint anybody. Raised by religious parents and then cared for by Father Speer after the apocalypse, she followed their rules. Aside from a few sneakily stolen kisses that she felt immense guilt over, aside from Father Speer’s late night caresses, she was utterly inexperienced.

So when Call kneaded his way higher still, and she felt heat begin to pool at her center, she held her breath and looked away. She trusted him not to do anything inappropriate but that didn’t help the panicky feeling that was taking over her whole body. Her heart pounded, her breathing quickened, her blood ran
hot.

He switched to her other leg, down at her ankle, and she breathed a small sigh of relief. What was she freaking out about? Call wasn’t going to hurt her. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” she said automatically, “Better. Thank you.”

“That ain’t the face of someone who feels good. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just… got a little frightened. It’s nothing.” He was working his way up her calf again, but she couldn’t even appreciate what he was doing for her aching leg. She trembled all over as she waited for him to move higher. Higher up her thigh, closer to her heated center.

“You don’t blush like that when you’re frightened,” he said, his voice gruff. “What’s the matter? Haven’t had a man’s hands on you, much?”

“Father Speer used to touch us some nights. Just a little.” She didn’t know why she told him that. She said it in a whisper as if afraid the world would hear, afraid it would get back to the minister that she’d spoken of it. That was an unspoken rule that none dared break -
don’t speak of what happens at night.

Call’s expression darkened. “Of course he did.”

“No, don’t look like that,” Lia breathed, “He never hurt us. He never… went very far.” He’d never made her feel the things that Call was making her feel, either. She knew how arousal felt, sure, and she’d felt it before, with the minister. Sometimes. But when Father Speer touched her, more than anything else she felt a tight ball of dread in her chest. It was a war within her body. She wanted to be touched - she just didn’t want to be touched by
him.
Which in turn made her feel guilty. Always guilty, though she’d done nothing wrong.

It wasn’t so with Call, though. She
was
scared, but that ball of dread was absent. It was a new and scary sensation. All that heat and all that
wanting
, and without her heart screaming, “This is wrong, this is wrong!” No war within. The only war was in her mind.

Call watched her face as he kneading his way up her thigh. She licked her lips as her breath quickened. Her eyes darted quickly away from his gaze, too intense for her to hold. He leaned in close, then, resting his cheek against hers and speaking quietly into her ear. “Do you want me to touch you?”

She froze up. She did want him to, badly, but she couldn’t make herself respond, couldn’t make herself say the words. Fear gripped her heart -
you aren’t supposed to do this. You aren’t supposed to want this.
Call’s massage had ceased - he ran his hands softly up and down her inner thighs and breathed heavily in her ear. The stubble on his jaw was rough against her face. She shivered. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

“No.” That much she could make herself say.

“Will you tell me to stop when you want me to?” She nodded. “Say it.”

She whispered. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”

He moved closer and wrapped one arm around her back. “Shh,” he said, “You’re trembling. Don’t be afraid.” He drew her in close and planted his lips on her neck. That contact alone made her jump. His lips were soft, their touch gentle; he left hot, wet brands as he slowly kissed his way across her flushed skin. His hand moved further up her thigh and his knuckles just brushed her between the legs - just a light contact through her pants, but she jumped again. “How can I help you relax?” he asked. He rubbed her gently there, and she gasped and blushed as she felt moisture gather within.
He’ll be able to tell if he keeps doing that.

Call knew, though. “You’re so sensitive,” he breathed against her neck. “Are you getting wet? It’s okay if you are. It’s good. Lie back.” He guided her down to the floor and stretched out next to her, settling on his side. She looked up into his face as he continued gently rubbing her. His green eyes seemed somehow darker. Her lips parted as her heart raced. She wanted to close the gap between them. She wanted… she wasn’t sure.
More.
“Talk to me,” he said. She bit her lip. “Don’t be shy. It’s just us. You trust me.” It was true. Though she knew she shouldn’t, though all logic told her she shouldn’t, she instinctively trusted the man.

“Can you…maybe, kiss me? If you want to. I mean, you don’t-” he cut off her rambling with a finger against her lips. He withdrew it when she finally silenced, then leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. The contact was soft, and sweet, and as his mouth slid against hers she ran her fingers through his hair, unable to resist touching the soft waves.

“That’s real nice,” he muttered against her mouth when he felt her hesitate. He cupped her sex with the palm of his hand as he deepened their kiss, covering her lips with his. Her breathing hitched; a hunger deep within her grew, threatening to take over. She moved against him, then froze. “Press against my hand,” he said between kisses. “Do it. Move against me.” She did as he instructed, tilting her hips and pressing her sex against his palm - and she gasped at the warm wave of pleasure that spread through her body. He took her parted lips as an invitation and slid his tongue inside. She moaned, then; the sound was foreign and surprising to her ears. “That’s it, honey. Let me hear you.”

She was rapidly losing control. The fingers in his hair gripped tighter, pulling him closer. She moved against his hand shamelessly. Waves of warmth and intense need rolled over her - she wanted, needed, more yet. She tried to communicate that yearning with her mouth and her tongue, returning his passionate kiss with a hunger of her own. Another moan rose in her throat, and he broke away.

“I know what you need,” he said. He unbuttoned her pants.

“Wait. I-”

“Shh.” He kissed her softly. “I’m just going to touch you,” he said, “Just with my hand. Lift.”

After another moment of hesitation, she lifted her ass from the ground and let him push her pants partway down. He was right - she needed this. The slick folds of her sex throbbed as he stroked her legs and spread her thighs. He used his other arm to prop himself up above her and look down at her face. “I’m just gonna touch your pussy,” he said, “Let me make you come with my fingers.” His words made her blush, but she nodded fervently. She could read a hunger on his face that matched what she felt, but she trusted him - he’d only do what he said he’d do, what she allowed.