Kismet (7 page)

All I can do is blink at his emotionless, colorless words. And that’s all they are, really, just words. This relocation thing might be news to me, but I can tell he’s losing the interest of this woman, and that is a bad thing.

“Another earthquake is coming,” I speak up, cutting through the bullshit and hitting the nail squarely. I can feel Kris’s frown next to me, but we don’t have time for his protocol. “Devastation strength. Enough power to destroy everything.”

And it works, because the woman goes from mild nonchalance to snapping attention in a blink of an eye. “Excuse me?”

Behind us I hear the whispering start.

“Sometime in the next four to six days, all this”—I wave generically around—“will be reduced to a pile of nothing. An earthquake is coming, worse than the one that hit six years ago, only this time around you have a warning. And you have a way of getting out of here.”

The woman, the obvious leader, cocked her head. “And you are?”

“My name is Evie Rhoton, civilian, here to help,” I answer. I see other shapes emerge from the tunnel, bleeding from the dark to hear what I have to say. “You have two choices—stay and die in this fuck-hole or listen to this man and get rescued. This isn’t something you can stop or divert or hold us hostage for negotiations,” I say. “This is cold, hard truth.”

The woman frowns at me now, and I hope I haven’t pushed too hard by calling her home a fuck-hole.

“You two,” she snaps, “come with me.”

We are led from the empty, dark tunnel through a steel door and into another tunnel that is the complete opposite of where we just were. A full community is spread before us, including lights, running and laughing children, laundry on clotheslines, and little bands of people clustered together doing odd hobbies from chess games to shuffle boarding. Homes have been made from all types of available material. Some are tents, some are made with sheets of aluminum, and some are even sheets of painted Sheetrock.

“Wow,” I say in complete awe, swinging my head back and forth as I tried to take it all in. I feel Kris beside me go into shock. Who would have thought this society lived underneath the desolate streets of LA?

“You still stand by what you say?”

We turn around to see the woman behind us, her rifle slung over one shoulder and her hands on her slender hips. She wears dark fatigues, and a scowl mars her perfect skin.

“Yes,” Kris replies. “How many people do you have living here?”

“Close to a hundred,” she answers. “My name is Shalana Shelton, and I take in people who need to get away from the gangs that run topside. They take people and make them fight in the arena as entertainment. Or worse.” The last was said with slight bitterness.

“You’ve done all this yourself?” Kris asks.

“Me and others,” she said with a nod to some men behind her. “And now you tell me our society is going to be obliterated.”

“Please,” he asks quietly, humbly, “let me explain it all to you.”

Shalana gives a small, reluctant nod, and while Kris takes a walk with her around the perimeter, I listen. How the government is more militaristic, even the new president is a former SEAL. Everything is run by a martial-law kind of thing, leaning toward a socialist society.

This place thoroughly amazes me. I have never, in all my traveling, seen togetherness such as this. This is more than the family communities of the South or the gathered cities of the East. People of all walks of life mingle here, and though they more or less stare at me like I’m a circus freak, I understand their wariness and unease around me. I came here to take this away, and I have a suspicion many would deny what Kris and I say. I silently hope that he can convince Shalana to meet the transport lifts out of here to save all these people. How odd that his mission has now become my own.

“One of the men who found us early on was a solar-power engineer in the old life, and he rigged us up generators that provide the electricity,” Shalana told us. “El Toro would love to get his hands on him, so he’s not allowed topside.”

“El Toro?” Kris asks sharply.

“Gang leader,” Shalana answers. “
The
gang leader.”

“Do many go topside?” I ask, thinking of the man earlier and his daughter.

She shrugs. “It’s inevitable,” she replies. “There are no natural resources down here, so we need to hunt provisions on the surface. And that’s when we’re vulnerable.”

Shalana leads us all around her “city,” listening, asking questions, and inviting people into the discussion. I can see the resentment of our being there in some faces, happiness and relief in others, and I wonder what I would have done had I lived here in Los Angeles when the earthquake had hit. If I had survived it, that is. Would I have huddled together as these people had done or would I be the person I am today, standing on my own two feet and surviving on my own? I figure it would take a strong person to do exactly that. I could have stayed in Georgia, or returned to Louisiana and joined a family community, surviving, but my visions have given me the drive to find more, be more, so my nomadic existence has made me stronger. Or so I like to think.

Our tour and discussion end. Shalana invites us to eat with them, though I can tell this is a bit forced. I have no idea what time it is, but my stomach rumbles, and I realize have to pee. So before Kris can open his mouth and decline the offer, I jump in with a smile and a nod.

The little girl from earlier, the one I had saved, comes up to me at that point, and takes my hand. Had she been watching us, following us this entire time? I search the many faces for her father but can’t find him. She tugs on my hand, so I follow her.

“
Cómo se llama
?” I ask her.

“Isabel.”

She chats the entire way to the “bathroom,” which happens to be several outhouses down a narrow tunnel that branches off from the main subway tube. I guess in its day, it had been an access tunnel or even a maintenance port. It’s tiled like the main area, but the walkway is all concrete. Cracks fan out in all directions like a spider web, and I have to wonder how safe this little tunnel actually is. The outhouses are crudely built lean-tos with a very strong smell of lye hanging in the air. I wrinkle my nose. Isn’t this stuff poisonous?

I hold my breath and do my business, making sure not to touch anything, because I don’t see a sink anywhere. When I’m done, Isabel escorts me back to the main room, where the smell of food starts to tantalize the air. My stomach rumbles, and Isabel laughs, pulling my hand and leading me to a home built of fiberglass siding. Her father is in front and gestures for me to sit.

The food he offers isn’t much, just beans and bread, but it fills my belly. The man chats happily about the rescue, knowing his daughter will be safe out of the terrifying gloom of Los Angeles. I sincerely hope that this family finds a great life somewhere.

After my meal I thank Isabel and her father and then go searching for Kris. Various people point me in the direction of another side tunnel, thankfully not the one leading to the indoor outhouses.

I follow the tracks all the way to what I assume used to be a subway platform. There is even a faint flicker of light here, keeping the complete darkness at bay and making me very happy.

Kris sits on the only usable bench. Most of the walls have tumbled into rubble with the roof caved in by whatever building had been on top, but there is a nice little nook that lends a certain stretch of privacy. I am not surprised that Kris is here, because he is, after all, a loner. Not exactly antisocial or a misanthrope, but a man who has lived most of his life in a shell of his own making without any idea on how to break free.

He doesn’t look my way, but by the tensing of his shoulder, I know he is aware that I’ve just invaded his sanctuary.

“What does it feel like?” Kris asks in a low tone. There is a slight echo through the tunnel.

“What does what feel like?” I sit next to him.

“Your visions.”

“Oh. They don’t feel like anything. It’s kind of like a video screen is playing over what I’m seeing, but not hindering my eyesight. It’s very hard to explain.”

“Like your brain is divided in half?”

“Yeah,” I say, “kind of. I usually have a slight headache afterward, but nothing I can’t handle.”

He grows pensive again, his brows bunching up over his dark eyes. “Shalana is going to talk to her people,” he says gruffly. “You’ve saved them. Everything you told me, Evie—you were right.”

I don’t need to answer. I can hear the wonderment swirling in his voice, and this response is all too familiar. I’ve dealt with it before, but I don’t want wonderment or reverence from him. I want acceptance; I want understanding.

“You’re some type of angel,” he whispers.

Okay, time to cut this shit out.

“Listen, Kris, I do believe this foresight came from some higher power,” I tell him, reaching up to cup his face and turning it toward me. Surprisingly, he doesn’t pull away. “I’ve seen the ugliness of what men can do to each other, and I have to think that, with such empty darkness, I was given a measure of hope for those who have none. But I am
not
an angel.” I stress this. “I am not any kind of divinity.”

He frowns down at me, and I’m almost glad that the dazed adoration has been replaced with skepticism again. But then even that disappears as a change comes over him. Awareness arcs between us like electricity. Heat darkens his eyes to shining onyx, and just as I go to pull away, he grabs my upper arms to haul me into his lap. At first I’m surprised, off balance, but when his lips crash down on mine, I recover my senses quickly and meet the thrust of his tongue with my own.

His hands, which had gripped my arms, slide down to my legs and help me bring my left leg over. I now straddle him, and this position brings my thighs wide open and flush against what I feel to be a very hard cock yearning for me. His lips leave mine to trail down my neck, taking little nips in an almost painful way. One hand braces against my back, palm flat to hold me in place while the other starts to tug at my shirt.

I can’t help moving, arching my back against his hand while thrusting my pelvis into his. He mutters a low groan that has a slight echo through the tunnel. Rough fingertips find their way under my black shirt and under my sports bra, to cup my breast. I have an average cup size, not too big or too small, and his hand engulfs me fully. His thumb flicks over the nipple once before his fingers start to roll it with greedy tugs, and the pleasure scorches over my body to center into my pussy. I clench my thighs tight to try to ease the desperate need blossoming, but that backfires as the hunger erupts. I can actually feel my skin burning.

“Oh,” I rasp, “so good… More—give me more.”

I have never experienced this almost pleasure-pain Kris’s ministrations are inflicting. I have never realized that I would find such stimulation so…well, stimulating. I want, no, I
crave
more.

I reach down to tug my shirt up and over my head and make similar work of my sports bra. I sit astride Kris’s legs, bare from the waist up, the end of my braid brushing his thighs. This position thrusts my breasts out, toward his mouth, and he eagerly accepts my invitation as his lips and teeth take over the delicious torment.

Kris is not gentle; he is not a tender type of man, and his lovemaking reflects that. His exploration of my body is raw, wild, almost savage. His fingertips compress into my skin rather than glide over it, but I discover I really don’t care how sweet or smooth he ought to be. I am returning his fervor with my own.

He grabs the tail of my braid and yanks my head back, causing tears to collect in the corners of my eyes, but this position gives him better access to slide up with his tongue, taking nibbling bites along the way. His right thumb and finger, meanwhile, still rolls one nipple, playing with it until it stands turgid.

Our mouths fuse again; his tongue sweeps in to duel with mine, because I sense with Kris, it’s all about the dominance. I submit, more than happy to surrender to such bliss. Then, as he’s still kissing me, he scoots me upward until I stand. He breaks off the kiss so he can focus on my pants, unzipping them and yanking, pulling them and my panties off in one tug. I put my hands on his shoulders for balance as I step out of the pants and then stand naked and proud before his hot gaze.

I know what he is seeing. Long, athletic legs, flat tummy, and curving hips. I had always been a tad too skinny as a teenager, but the past six years, living the way I have has toned and tightened my body. I’m proud of the way I look, and I can see by the heat gathering in Kris’s eyes that I more than turn him on.

He trails his fingers over my hips and then down my thighs to find the warm wetness oozing from my pussy. I shudder. He delves deeper to find that one special spot that always makes me crack. I buck, and my knees halfway collapse, but Kris has other ideas on how he wants me. He grabs my hips again and pushes me back far enough to give him some room as he removes everything. There is something very sexy to me about watching a man deweaponize himself. And he has a lot: guns of multiple calibers, knives, throwing stars, and some odd-looking cone things I’ve never seen before. Where had he been hiding that blast bomb?

After his weaponry foreplay, he quickly divests himself of his clothes—first the torn shirt and then the pants. I watch as he pushes them down and then has to bend to unlace his boots. His body is big, all hard muscles over dark, smooth skin. He has a tattoo on his upper-right shoulder. I eye the odd triangle infinity symbol.

In seconds he is naked, like me, standing tall and proud. His cock juts out like a steel rod. I take it in my hands, tracing the lines and contours, learning how it responds to my touch. A drop of white liquid appears on the tip, and I capture it with a finger and bring it to my lips, tasting him. He gives an almost painful groan, and his cock jerks in my hand. I look up at him.

“I would love nothing more than to have you suck me,” he rasps, his voice gone gruff. “But I need to be inside you.”

He takes his first two fingers and finds my clit again, rubbing and teasing it, until I’m as taut as a bowstring. I want to come so bad. I start rocking my hips against this hand to increase the pressure so I will blow my top, but he doesn’t oblige me. For a man who has never fucked before, or even liked being touched, he’s doing an amazing job, knowing just what to do right.