The Pulse (6 page)

It wouldn’t take them long. She had been a sitting target, waiting, paralyzed by her fear. She could see that now. Crossing paths with Mason had awakened in her the strength to be a nurse again, and in doing so she’d snapped out of her frightened stupor. Mason, despite needing her help when he first arrived at Roosevelt, had the skills to make it on his own. He survived an actual confrontation with the soldiers, even. He didn’t get taken, or killed.

If only he still had his gun. When the EMP had hit, anyone who had a gun, legally or otherwise—and in New York City very few people had a legal firearm, since they were banned—had to give it up.

Homes were searched and guns were seized as property of the United States Army, or more specifically, the band of soldiers led by Colonel Lanche.

But when only the soldiers had guns, no one could protect themselves against them. With martial law in effect, if any man tried to use a gun for protection, that gun got confiscated.

And more often than not, the man got shot, or beaten and left for dead, like Mason did, to save ammo.

Without guns, people had no ability to hunt. Emily liked to imagine that somewhere in the country people had their old rifles and were hunting deer and eating comfortably through the winter… but who knew?

There weren’t many deer in the city, that’s for sure. Either way, no hunting meant even more reliance on the military—they controlled the rations. They even guarded Central Park, the one place in the city where they grew food, so no one could get in.

If Emily had a gun, she would have a chance at freedom, at getting away. But, no use crying over spilt milk. Mason’s gun was gone.

He stirred, his eyes opening. Smiling, Emily looked into his blue eyes. “Good morning,” she said.

“ ’Morning.” Mason sat up, looking around. “Did you sleep okay?”

“I think I slept better than I have since the power went out,” she said truthfully. “I felt safe last night for the first time in over a year.”

He nodded and pulled on a shirt. The air had a chill to it, one of those spring mornings when they’d normally still have heat on. Their fire died in the night.

Emily knew she should go soon, but she didn’t want to leave the security of his arms. This was ridiculous, she barely knew him. He was a stranger—a dangerous stranger, at that. A criminal.

She had to know. “Why were you in prison, Mason?”

Mason bristled at her words. He stood up, stretching. She looked up at him, waiting.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said finally.

“I know, you said that already. But how can I trust you if I don’t know anything about you?”

“You probably shouldn’t trust me,” he said. “Only trust yourself. It’s the only way to make it in this world.”

“Well, I may be independent, but I’m smart too,” she said. “Smart enough to know that I need help. I need
your
help.”

Mason shook his head. “You should eat before you go. Wait here, I’ll round something up.”

Mason had to
get away from her—away from those searching eyes and that soft brown hair. He could barely take care of himself, he couldn’t take care of her too.

But sending her off on her own was akin to a suicide mission.

He’d forget her soon enough, he had to. It was the only way.

Slipping down the stairway to the kitchen, Mason looked halfheartedly for some rats, but they were all in hiding. Maybe he’d find some forgotten cans of food hidden in the bowels of the hospital kitchen. Anything would do.

What if she got hurt?
What if she ended up curled in a little ball, hiding behind a hospital bed again?

No, that wouldn’t happen. Emily had obviously been through some sort of shock when he first found her, but something about taking care of him when he needed help shook her back to her senses. The strong woman who saved his life would never end up hiding again. Which meant she’d go off without fear of the very real dangers that surrounded them. She could get hurt, whether she knew it or not.

Damn it. He couldn’t let her go off on her own. She’d have to stay with him, at his place.

But what would that mean? Asking her to shack up with him would mean promising to take care of her, to provide for her. He couldn’t handle that kind of responsibility, not for a woman he barely even knew.

That woman saved your life
, he thought. Fuck. How could he
not
take her in?

Her femininity also presented a problem. Why couldn’t he have found a man instead of a beautiful woman? He definitely didn’t want her to feel coerced to have sex. Especially since Emily extricated herself from a situation where, if the rumors were true, she might’ve been forced to have sex to survive in the military camp.

The thought of her being made to prostitute herself turned his blood to fire as the anger rushed through him.

He would not have her thinking she had to sleep with him to be safe. Mason wanted her, of course. How could he not? He was a red-blooded man. And Emily was beautiful.

Really beautiful.

Images of her sucking him off filled his mind and he could feel his cock twitch in his pants. Just the thought of her got him hard.

But if she slept with him, it would be because she felt like that’s what she had to do to survive, and he couldn’t live with himself if that was the case. She had to understand that he wasn’t going to fuck her, not against her will—and not if she was only “willing” because she wanted to get him to protect her.

He had to figure out why she’d thrown herself at him. He was glad he hadn’t slept with her last night, as much as he wanted to… wanted
her
.

Remembering the way her slick pussy tasted, Mason groaned as his cock raised, rubbing against the rough fabric of his cargo pants. He wanted to taste her again.

Maybe… if she got wet for him, maybe he could take that to mean she really did want him. Not to pay her way, so to speak, but because she desired him the way he found himself desiring her.

He imagined running his fingers along her pussy, sticking his finger inside her cunt, discovering for himself how much she truly wanted him to fuck her.

His erection throbbed. Shaking his head, he continued his search through the hospital kitchen. Mason flung open a back cabinet and nearly whooped with joy at his discovery—a huge can of potatoes.

How are those still here?

He could see some broken glass directly in front of the can, creating a small, easily overcome barrier. Apparently whoever cleaned this place out the first go-around decided it wasn’t worth the time to get the single can.

Well, Mason had plenty of time—probably the only thing he had plenty of. He got the can of potatoes without so much as scratching himself and set back to get Emily. The thought of her face lighting up when she saw breakfast was enough to make him take the stairs double time.

When he got back to where she stood over the rekindled fire, he had to stop and admire her beauty. She was a target, for sure. But not for the reason she thought.

Then again, if she really had stolen something valuable, like a gun, that could be a definite asset. And, for her, a potential liability.

She glanced up at him and he grinned. “Potatoes,” he said, holding up the can.

“Potatoes!” she repeated, smiling. “That’s perfect.”

Mason snapped open his utility knife and stabbed deep into the can, carefully tearing it open. “We can cook them in the can,” he offered.

“Um, I know this seems gross, but there are some metal bedpans,” Emily said. “They’re sterilized, I swear. It might make a good pot for potato soup.”

Mason frowned. Why not. “Sure.”

Emily came back a moment later with an admittedly clean metal bedpan and started boiling water to add the canned potatoes to. She turned to him. “We shouldn’t watch the water boil, it will take longer.”

He laughed, but as she came up to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, his face grew serious. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you pass the time,” she said, looking up into his face with a small smile.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. He couldn’t have her coming onto him out of a misguided sense of obligation.

“I—you’ve been so nice to me. I want to return the favor.”

He pushed her away, gently. “No. No thank you.”

She looked confused, hurt. “You don’t like me.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want you prostituting yourself.”

“That’s what I am to you, huh?” she asked bitterly. “A prostitute.”

Mason sighed. It had been a long time since he’d had to keep up any sort of conversation, and apparently his skills, if he ever had any, were fading with time spent alone—first in prison, then on the streets after the EMP.

“I don’t care what you are,” he said. “You do what you have to do to survive. But not—not with me. I don’t want you thinking you have to sleep with me in exchange for protection.”

“Don’t I, though?” she asked, her voice deadly calm. “You won’t come with me. You don’t want me around. How can I convince you to keep me safe? What do I need to do?”

She pulled her shirt off then, exposing her small breasts, the nipples immediately hardening in the cool air.

Mason
turned away from Emily, heat rising in his face at the sight of her naked breasts, and groaned inwardly. She was making this difficult for him.

Damn it.

He felt her hands on his back, touching his shoulders through the thin material of his T-shirt. He had to stop her, had to show her this was not the way.

Growling, he turned and faced her, pulling her toward him with such ferocity she gasped.

“Is this what you want?” he hissed. “To be used for my pleasure, just so I’ll take care of you? Is this what you want?”

She trembled in his arms and he realized a tear had rolled down her cheek. It left a clean streak through the light dusting of soot that smudged her face.

Emily pulled away. Turning her back on him, she picked up the can of potatoes with shaking hands and emptied it into the now boiling water.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, picking her shirt up off the floor. “Here, put this on.”

She took it from him, not looking him in the eye. She’d wiped away her tears, but her face held a stony determination that concerned him.

“What’s wrong, Emily?”

“I can’t go back to the Tracks.”

“No one says you have to.”

“But you won’t go with me.”

“No,” he agreed. “I can’t leave. I won’t.”

Emily nodded, looking into the pot of soup. “I appreciate that you aren’t forcing me to… earn my keep. But, I want to. I really do.”

Mason wished he could plug his ears like a child so he didn’t have to listen to her tempting him.

He could ravish her right then and there on the floor if he chose to—why did she push him? “You should be glad I’m leaving you be.”

Emily ate her
hot potato soup, enjoying it even more since she wasn’t as starving as usual.

Mason looked at her. “You can’t leave, Emily.”

She paused with the mug halfway to her lips at this pronouncement. “I have to. I have no choice.”

“You do have a choice,” he said, setting his mug down. “Come stay with me.”

Stay with him? The thought sounded lovely—and frightening. She still had no idea what sort of criminal he’d been.

He seemed so… good, though, deep down. Like maybe he had gotten caught up in some sort of burglary by accident as a young man, but now he was reformed. Maybe truly regretted whatever he did that had sent him to Rikers.

Could she live with a criminal? She glanced at him, sipping from her mug to give herself time to answer.

“Why,” she asked, “do you want me to stay with you if you have no intention of sleeping with me?”

He scowled. “Then don’t stay with me. I don’t care. I just—I wanted to give you an option.”

“I can’t stay in New York. They’ll catch me,” she said finally. “I have to leave.”

“You may as well shoot yourself now, then.”

Emily gasped. “What are you talking about?”

“You need me to protect you, you said it yourself. And since I’m not leaving, you shouldn’t either. That’s all.” He looked away. “Forget I said anything.”

He was probably right. She could die escaping on her own. But what choice did she have? If she stayed in New York the military would find her. And she would definitely be killed then, or worse.

She couldn’t—wouldn’t—go back to Grand Central.

They ate in awkward silence. Emily enjoyed the soup, perfect on a cold morning. Funny how her tastes had changed since the Pulse.

She wanted to sneak off and listen to the radio, to try to get it to work for her. She had been too scared to mess around with it when she first stole it, but now it beckoned her from her worn backpack, calling for her to fiddle with it.

Why did this radio work, when none of the others did?

And how, how on earth could something be broadcast on the radio? Wasn’t every place hit as bad as New York City? If the attack hadn’t devastated all of America, then help would have arrived by now. The silence from the rest of the country was a deafening testament to the scope of destruction.