Phoenix (dystopian romance) (Theta Waves: Episode 1) (8 page)

"It's your fault," she said to him.

"Right. Because it's never an addict's fault."

"You forced three smears into me. What did you think would happen?"

"You didn't seem too upset about it at the time."

She shrugged. "Have you ever met an addict who would turn down copious amounts of their favourite distraction?"

He looked her head to heel as though he was trying to decide what to do with her. "Well, you certainly look like shit now."

She clutched at her stomach, nodding. "I feel like it." She leaned against the railing, legs quaking. She was pretty sure she was going to throw up again: the pains in her stomach had grown sharper. Her mouth flooded with water. She couldn't look him in the eye.

"Are you going to be sick again?" He said it with a strange coolness. "Because I'd like to have some warning this time." He lifted his foot to show where she had doused him on the pant leg.

"I'll be okay," she struggled to get the words out, to seem alert when every movement of her head took a huge amount of energy. Each breath made the sickness that much more imminent.

He sighed impatiently. "Well, you can be sick and get the hell out of here," he said. "Or you can be sick and get dead. Take your pick."

She glared at him. "Not much of a choice." She swallowed down hard half a dozen times, marshalling her strength. Shivers fingered their way up her spine to clutch at the back of her shoulders and drive hot nails into her back. For the life of her she couldn't stop shaking.

A scream came from behind them. Someone had found the bodies, a woman by the sound of it. Theda groaned out loud, because she knew her brief respite was over and by now all she wanted to do was to curl into a ball and wait for somebody to put a bullet in her head.

His mouth worked itself into a pitying line for one hopeful moment as he regarded her, then his face went hard again and the light in his eyes shuttered out.

"Oh for fuck sakes," he said, shaking his head. "Suck it up."

He grabbed for her wrist again, and threw himself down the stairs, pulling on her as he went. She baptized the steps several times before they reached the bottom floor, and by the time they stepped outside, she was panting and shivering convulsively. All she could think about was curling up somewhere, and the only somewhere she could think about that was familiar was a terribly long way away.

"Where are we going? The survivor's station?"

He took one moment to pause, eyes clouded with uncertainty and she realized that he had no plan past running from the building.

"Ezekiel? Are you taking me back to Ami?"

"No," he said.

"Why not?" She asked. "Will they look for us there?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what?"

"Because by now he's probably dead."

ACT EIGHT

Night had hunkered down around them by the time she found herself standing next to Ezekiel on the top step of a respectable looking brownstone. She wanted to believe she knew how they'd got there, but the truth was she'd been so engrossed in her own misery that she'd let him drag her along not caring how many times her feet slapped against pavement or cement, not truly giving much thought to the times he'd lifted her into his arms and carried her. She thought perhaps he'd carried her a good deal more than she'd walked, but standing shivering in a cold sweat in front of the brownstone door, she couldn't clearly be sure.

And by now, she didn't really give a damn anyway.

She swayed on her feet as he knocked on the door. Almost over, she told herself. A few minutes more and she could curl into herself somewhere and hope the headache would subside, believe that the little fire ants that must have somehow embedded themselves beneath her skin would give her rest. Except that now that she stood still, all of those things seemed to magnify. Even her vision gave into the misery, blackness seeping in from the sides. Her legs went to water.

Ezekiel caught her just as the door groaned open.

"Eazzy?" A woman's voice. Sultry if Theda had ever heard it.

"Bridget," Ezekiel said.

There was a long pause that even in Theda's weary state she understood as awkward.

"It's her," Ezekiel said.

An even longer pause hummed in the air. And finally a shuffle of movement, the feeling of air moving across Theda's cheeks. It felt deliciously cool and painful at the same time. She shivered again.

"A spitter," Bridget said.

"Couldn't see that coming, could you?" A bit of dark humor in Ezekiel's voice, but for the life of her, Theda couldn't understand what it meant.

"And you both stink."

"It's the puke."

"More than that," Bridget said. "She smells like she hasn't washed in months."

Theda felt Ezekiel's shrug and for a second felt her face flush. Another wave of nausea, no doubt.

"I don't suppose she has," he said.

Bridget sighed. "Well, get her undressed and showered. And don't think I'm doing it. I'm not touching that filth. You know where everything is. I'll go make a couple of sandwiches."

Ezekiel grunted something that could have been a thank you, but all Theda registered was undressed and showered. She tried to twist in his arms. Tried to protest that she didn't need to shower. That the last thing she wanted was a shower. That the thought of a thousand tiny needles of water striking her skin might actually put her into a coma.

"Stop it," Ezekiel commanded. He was already clunking up the stairs in his boots, heading for what Theda assumed was a bathroom. She started to cry.

"That's ridiculous," he said. "What the hell are you crying for? You really do stink."

Another wash of heat swam up from her toes. "Don't make me," she blubbered. "Not yet."

"It will make you feel better," he said.

She wanted to tell him he knew nothing about withdrawal, but for some reason couldn't. And damn if she could find the wherewithal to fight him off as he eased her onto the toilet and pulled off her shoes. All she could do was let the hot tears stream down her cheeks.

She felt his finger on her chin as he tilted her face up to meet his. He was crouched next to the toilet, holding her steady with one arm. The hardness of his features, of the solid jawline, the chiseled cheekbones, softened for a moment. His eyes actually looked sympathetic as he regarded her. She thought he might agree to let her live in her own filth until she felt better. She tried a weak smile, hoping it might be the catalyst that made him decide.

"You're going to wash. I don't care if it kills you," he said.

"Give me another smear," she whispered. That would help. She knew it would.

"And have you drown?"

"What do you care?"

That got him. He clamped his mouth shut and swallowed. Theda watched his Adam's apple bob up and down.

"One more smear," she urged. "What does it matter to you? It will make me nice and docile." She tried to flutter her eyelids at him coquettishly. He laughed.

"Seems to me you're already pretty docile," he said. Instead of peeling off her jeans and shirt like she expected, he simply plucked her from the toilet seat and plopped her into the tub. Steam struck her face as he ran the hot water.

"Stretch out," he said. "Not like that, you'll drown. Keep your face up and stretch your legs toward the tap."

With the buffer of clothing, it didn't hurt as much as she thought; she found she could move her limbs just enough for him to run his hands along her body, scrubbing hard with a bar of soap. He paused long enough to rinse her free, studying the bloodstains that wouldn't come out with a thoughtful crook to his mouth. Then he grabbed the shampoo and worked it into her hair.

"Rats nest," he said. "You haven't washed it or combed it in months have you?"

He was rough, and the feel of his fingers in her hair brought renewed tremors across her skin. She trembled and instinct brought her knees to her chest.

"I told you to lie flat."

"I can't," she said, the sob catching in her throat. He simply didn't understand; every fibre in her body rebelled against touch. Every muscle was aching, every synapse was crying out for her drug.

"You can," he said. "You will." His hands went to her thighs and pressed her legs flat before his fingers went to the bottom of her T-shirt. It took a few moments before she noticed that he had his monstrous knife in his hand again. Before she could gasp in panic that he would do her harm, he had cut through the material and sliced up to the neck, pulling both edges to the sides and exposing her bra. One flick and that was cut in two as well.

His gaze caught on the hard nipples as though they'd fetched up on them. Theda didn't have time to be ashamed; he brought the soap to her skin much the same as he'd done to her clothing. He scrubbed methodically and clinically until the lather was a thick froth, and though he lingered a little too long on her breasts, he did eventually rise to her neck and scrub behind her ears much the same as a mother would do to a child.

"Getting there," he said but there was a thickness to his voice despite the matter-of-fact words. "Stay still," he said, aiming the knife again towards her jeans and slicing through both Pant legs as though they were made of gelatin.

Her panties had been gorgeous once: vivid purple with lace in all the right spots. In her mind, she saw them the way she had when she bought them, but looking at them now she could see how ratty they had become. It wasn't the thought that he'd be cutting them and exposing her that made her hands fly to cover herself. It was the thought that she didn't want him to see how ugly those panties were now.

She caught his eye and thankfully he held to hers. Despite the sensory overload, the nausea, the cramping in her muscles, she could still admit how beautiful those eyes of his were. She told herself that eyes as beautiful as that would have to feel some compassion.

"I'll be gentle," he said. "Close your eyes."

She did as she was bid because she knew she was going to have to endure it, and closing her eyes would surely make it easier. If she had enough imagination left in her fevered brain, she could even pretend her underwear were brand-new.

She wasn't sure what to expect, a languid motion across her labia, a sensual flicker against her opening, but it was over before she had time to feel embarrassed. A few quick strokes, light but thorough.

He lifted her from the tub, helping her to stand by holding her against him as he wrapped a thick towel around her and brushed his hands up and down over it, bringing warmth to the surface of her skin. He'd been right, she did feel a little better. While her muscles were still weak, she didn't feel as though she would fall if left to stand on her own. Without a word, without checking to see if she needed it, he scooped her from her feet and left the steam of the bathroom behind as he kicked open a door to the left. He deposited her almost tenderly on the edge of the bed inside.

She could hear Bridget downstairs rattling dishes and assumed she was making Ezekiel some sort of lunch. It had to be long past midnight and yet the woman had been fully dressed and wide-awake when they'd arrived. He seemed to interpret her glance. "She sees the future." He shrugged. "I guess she knew we were coming."

Theda couldn't do much more than nod. It wasn't such a stretch after all. If she could see the past, why couldn't someone see the future. It was almost comforting to know that there could be one.

"Who is she?"

"A lover," he said.

It was a strangely hurtful blow. She stretched her fingers along where her jeans pocket should have been, searching for her last smear. She'd take it when he wasn't looking, wash away all of the feeling like he'd washed away all of her filth. Except her pants were in the bathroom. She chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully, resentfully as she watched Ezekiel assemble blankets and pillows on the floor.

She was thinking of ways to hit him over the head and escape with the mother load from his pocket when he faced her, hands on hips, seeming to be considering something. His eyes locked on her bare shoulders as they trembled above the towel and then he sighed decisively and began to strip down in front of her. Her gaze went to his jacket, where the smears waited for her, where they clumped together in one beautiful cache.

"It's only fair," he said, regaining her attention. He peeled away each bit of his own clothing from boots to jacket and stood in front of her with his eyes closed, arms outstretched. She understood that he realized how vulnerable she'd been in his hands and was repaying her in kind. She let her glance graze his skin quickly, accepting the payment like a hooker would, entitled but careful. She took in each inch of musculature and sinew, noting that the erection she'd felt while he'd been towelling her down had begun to wane. A moment later, he cleared his throat and she realized he was watching her struggle to take her eyes from his member. He quirked a dark brow playfully.

"I don't wear underwear," he said. "Sorry."

She twisted away, embarrassed, and eased herself down on to the mattress, burying her face into the pillow, wishing feverishly for a lick of godspit to wipe away the reality.