The Thrust Read online

  Her sexy moans filled the interior of the truck as she climaxed for the second time. He could feel her pussy clenching around his cock and he groaned with desire, struggling to keep his hands behind his head when all he wanted to do was flip her back onto the seat and fuck her senseless.

  “You’re being so good for me,” she whispered. “Just hold on, Trent. You can come after I have one more.”

  Holy fucking hell, that got him hot. He couldn’t come at the glacial speed she was riding his cock, but knowing that he’d get his chance soon made him want to speed up her next orgasm.

  “Please, please, let me rub your clit,” he said, not caring that he was begging. For her, he’d beg.

  Fuck yeah.

  “Keep your hands on your head for me,” she said. “I can take care of my own climax. I want to.”

  He watched, his arousal growing stronger by the second as she reached down tentatively and spread her nether lips, revealing her swollen clit.

  God, he wanted to touch her. He wanted to suck that little clit into his mouth until she screamed with pleasure.

  But he’d be good for her. He’d stay still and let her do what she wanted. Because as much as he could tell she needed this, to be in charge, he couldn’t deny he was enjoying himself.

  Clarissa bit her lip as she rubbed her clit, tight little circles right where she needed the pressure. His cock was still erect inside her wet pussy, but she wasn’t riding him, just clenching and unclenching around him as her body shook, trembled with her climax.

  “Oh God, Trent,” she cried out, and a rush of fluid drenched his cock.

  She breathed heavily, looking at him through heavy, lidded eyes. “Now you can come.”

  Trent wrapped his arms around her slender figure and grinned. But before he could move her body up and down his shaft, she laughed and pulled his hands off of her.

  “On your head,” she said.

  “Please, Clarissa,” he said, but he did it. Put his hands back on his head, his cock so hard he was nearing the point of pain.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” She pushed her knees against his thighs, stabilizing herself. “You want it fast?”

  “God, yes. Fuck me. Please, fuck me.”

  She rode him the way he needed, fast, hard strokes, her body riding his with the intensity of a wild animal. He bucked his hips up to meet her thrust for thrust, and then he couldn’t help himself. He unlaced his hands and tangled them in her hair, pulling it off her face so he could see her as he climaxed.

  They panted together, wrapped in each other, until the quick thud of his heartbeat calmed.

  “I wanted to see your face,” he said—the only way he could think of to apologize for moving his hands, for cheating at her game.

  “Good.” Clarissa smiled and climbed off him, settling into the seat next to him. “Thank you . . .”

  Their time together almost helped erase his fears, helped him forget that they had both risked their lives today. That Colonel Lanche’s men could be looking for them right now.

  That they could die when they went back to Grand Central to get Annie, and the rest.

  But at least, this time, when he was with Clarissa the only person filling his thoughts and fantasies was Clarissa.

  His wife was never coming back. It was time to move on, to stop using the pain of her loss as an excuse to avoid ever having a relationship again.

  From ever loving someone again.

  Love? No. He barely knew Clarissa.

  Trent looked over at her, her eyes already shut, the soft breath coming from her indicating she’d fallen asleep.

  He—he cared for her. And he didn’t want to lose her. That was all he knew.

  Grand Central Terminal, Lanche’s office

  COLONEL LANCHE

  Colonel Lanche took the piece of paper from the soldier’s shaking hand. “What the fuck is this?”

  “I found it, sir. By the Tracks.”

  Lanche read it quickly. Then he read it again. On the back was a message from the UN, with a single line drawn through it on a diagonal, as if whoever had sent this paper didn’t want their message diluted by the picture of a blue-helmet shaking hands with a smiling white man.

  “This has to be Barker’s work,” he muttered to himself. “Who has seen this, Private?”

  “Um,” the soldier looked at his feet. “I can’t be sure. A lot of people. They’re talking about it.”

  “Are they now. Well.” He cursed under his breath. “We’ll just have to make sure they’re seeing this for what it is.”

  The soldier nodded. “What . . . what is it, sir?”

  “It’s a fucking threat,” he screamed. “You idiot. Get out of here.”

  The soldier left quickly, leaving Lanche alone in his office.

  If his own soldier couldn’t see the note for what it was, how would the citizens? He’d have to let everyone know, in no uncertain terms, that this paper was a crock of shit. He’d tear it apart line by line until they could see the truth. Then he’d tear it apart literally, in front of them.

  The dinner bell rang. Lanche took the paper with him, and started mentally preparing his speech.

  Downstairs at the food court, the line of sickly thin, unwashed people waiting for rations overwhelmed him. This was why he usually had his meal brought to him in his office.

  But tonight they needed their leader. Needed to know they would not face this threat alone.

  Clearly, it was a psyop. Should he tell them, prepare them? No. Some things were better off unsaid. The people didn’t need to know everything, just like they didn’t need to know he’d shot four of those smiling blue-hat UN invaders.

  He’d used so many psyops on his people that telling them about the very concept of a psychological operation might call everything he did in the future into question.

  So he couldn’t use that term.

  When most of the people were in the terminal, Lanche stood on the staircase so he could stand above them and be seen by everyone.

  “Citizens of Grand Central,” he said, his voice booming. The room became silent immediately; even the people about to be handed their food stood quietly and waited.

  “Today, we were infiltrated by terrorists.”

  Gasps filled the room. God, he loved the word terrorist. It so quickly painted a picture. He wished he could tell them how those terrorists also stole his UN supply truck, but few even knew that men from the UN had come. So the truck, essentially, didn’t exist.

  “But these terrorists didn’t plant bombs. They didn’t attack us. Yet. Instead, they chose to plant a dangerous seed into your minds. But they won’t succeed, because they don’t know that you are too smart for their tactics.”

  There we go, praise them for being smart and they will nod and agree.

  “You might have seen this pamphlet.” He held it up. “On one side, a message from the United Nations, crossed out. On the other, a set of lies carefully crafted to trick you.”

  The crowd murmured, and he raised his hand to silence them.

  “I have done everything in my power to protect you. To shelter you all, to take in everyone I could—more than I could, honestly. Outside our camp, people are dead. Most of the country is dead, but we are alive. Why? Because I used the authority I was given by FEMA to turn Grand Central into a shelter. A sanctuary from the brutal realities outside. And yet, it says, ‘You are being starved and abused under Colonel Lanche’s leadership.’” Lanche laughed bitterly. “I take offense to that.”

  There was an uncertainty in the air, as if those idiots couldn’t tell that they were all being fed rations, right at that moment. That they were all alive.

  “We may not be the Ritz,” Lanche said, putting some humor into his voice. “We don’t eat like kings. But we eat, and we survive. That’s more than anyone else is doing. And yet they say, ‘You will be safe and will be able to feed and shelter yourselves.’”

  Lanche looked at the crowd below him. “Is it safe out
there? When people leave, they die. They never come back. They get attacked by roving gangs. Or they starve to death, or freeze. You came here because you needed our help. Has that changed? There are no stores. There is no electricity, no running water. Why do these terrorists think they can lie to you?”

  The crowd was silent. Was that a good thing? Were they listening?

  Or were they plotting against him?

  “And then, my friends, they threaten us with a battle. They try to trick our soldiers, the men who have sworn to protect you. Try to trick them with their lies into not protecting you, but protecting them! Obviously none of our soldiers will be remiss in their duty. They won’t just hand you over to the wolves. Have no fear of that.”

  Lanche looked at the soldiers lining the walls, standing with their guns. That message was more for them than for the people. He couldn’t let his men forget who they worked for.

  “We all must keep our eyes and ears open. If you see something, say something! If you hear a neighbor talking about this paper in a way that makes you think he or she might be in bed with these terrorists, you must let me know. Because if you don’t, you are no worse than they are.”

  The crowd murmured at this. No one liked the idea of having to rat out a fellow citizen. And if everyone was a spy, who would they talk to about it? Lanche smiled thinly, because that was his plan, of course. Keep them scared and silent. Don’t give them a chance to think about it for themselves.

  Let each of them believe they are the only one considering the message on the pamphlet. That way, they couldn’t gather forces against him.

  “Our soldiers will never turn against you, or each other, have no fear. Soldiers! Any soldier without his uniform shirt on in the event of an attack will be seen as a terrorist threat, just as those who conspire against us in the night, in whispers, are a threat to our very lives. Terrorists. Will. Be. Executed,” he spat out. “Enjoy your dinner, and enjoy your beds and your shelter tonight.”

  Lanche crumpled the paper and threw it to the ground, deciding not to tear it up after all.

  The crowd was silent once more.

  EVAN

  Evan listened to the speech with growing unease. If people were going to be executed just for talking about it, could he really expect anyone to get on their side?

  Now was the time, though. Everyone was sitting in silence in the dining area, quietly getting their rations and eating. Probably afraid to say a word, now that Lanche had appointed every single one of them to be spies on the others.

  The pamphlets sat against his chest, under his uniform. He slipped out of the food court and made his way to the soldiers’ sleeping quarters. There were men patrolling the main terminal, but they were looking out, not in. Not at him.

  He walked into his bunk area and scattered a few of the papers, then went down the row of converted rooms and did the same.

  No one was in the rooms, thank God. If they were, if he were caught, he could be killed for treason.

  But the soldiers needed a chance to read this for themselves. Even if they couldn’t talk about it, if it got them thinking about not shooting, that was a start. Especially if it got them thinking about freedom. But would they really strip off their uniform tops and lay down their guns when Letliv came to free the people?

  They were secure, here in Grand Central. The most secure places were prisons, after all. He’d rather take his chances dying a free man than live forever in the camp.

  He left the last room, out of pamphlets.

  People were starting to filter back into the main terminal after evening rations, but Evan couldn’t help but notice how unusually quiet they were after Colonel Lanche’s speech.

  Come on, people. Think for yourselves!

  But they were all probably looking at each other, wondering who would be the first to “see something, say something.”

  Scar walked up to him, smiling in that twisted way of his.

  Fuck. Not now.

  “Hi there, pretty boy,” Scar taunted. “How do you like being a soldier?”

  Evan stared him in the eyes. “I thought I’d sleep better, to be honest.”

  Scar laughed uproariously, as if Evan had just told him the funniest joke ever. “I bet you did. But you’re under my command. You report to me. Or did Colonel Lanche not make that clear?”

  “I did what the Colonel asked. I told him everything. In return, you’re supposed to leave me alone.”

  “All right,” Scar said. “I suppose I could leave you alone. I’ll just have some fun with Annie, instead.”

  Evan looked at him in horror. If that prick laid a hand on Annie he’d fucking cut it off.

  “What, you can’t share?” Scar laughed. “She must be wonderful. I’ll have to see for myself.”

  Evan knew if he begged Scar to leave her alone, it would only spur him on. So he ignored him. Looked down at his boots.

  “So, will I see you tonight?” Scar leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Or will I be paying our little Annie a visit, instead?”

  “You’re supposed to protect us,” Evan said evenly. “I won’t choose between two bad choices. I choose neither.”

  Scar raised his eyebrows. “You can’t choose neither. If you don’t choose, I’ll choose for you.” He cupped Evan’s cheek in his hand and grinned.

  If Scar came to him tonight, would his new friend Private Hernandez really stand up for him, like he’d said? Or would it be another night of muffling his cries into his pillow while the soldiers around him pretended to sleep?

  “Please don’t do this,” Evan whispered. “I know you’re bigger than me. That you’re stronger. That you have all the power and that I have none. You don’t need to . . . rape me to prove that, okay? Please.”

  To his surprise, Scar dropped his hand. “Bye-bye, pretty boy.” He walked away, leaving Evan standing there, trembling with adrenaline.

  What just happened? Was Scar going to leave him alone? Or had he brought a shitstorm of trouble onto himself—and Annie—by daring to stand up for himself?

  I need to kill him.

  It was the only way for this to end.

  But there was no way to kill Scar without ending up dead himself. He’d either be killed by Scar while trying, or executed later by Lanche.

  Evan didn’t want to die. He’d lived this long, he had to live another day.

  And Annie—Annie had kissed him! It didn’t feel like a pity-kiss, either. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but she’d sounded sincere when she’d told him that she thought of him as a man. Not a boy.

  If Scar started terrorizing her, it would be Evan’s fault. He couldn’t let that happen.

  What could he do? Could he really tell the Colonel about it—would that work? Or was Scar hurting him on the Colonel’s orders, the way he had in the beginning?

  He made his way down to the Tracks, blinking to adjust to the darkness. He found Annie’s car and knocked.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  “Hi, Evan.” Annie smiled at him and patted the plastic seat next to her.

  He sat down heavily. “Are people talking about the pamphlet still?”

  “I think the Colonel scared everyone into silence. No one wants to be the first to talk.”

  “Scar confronted me,” he said.

  He had to tell her what happened. Had to let her know she was in danger now, because of him. But then, she’d always been. From the moment Lanche realized she was his weak spot, he’d hurt her to get to him.

  And now Scar was doing it again.

  “Scar told me if I didn’t let him fuck me that he’d come visit you.” Evan exhaled. God, it hurt to say that.

  Annie gasped. “How can we stop him?”

  “I want to kill that bastard. But I can’t figure out how to do it without getting killed myself.”

  “No,” Annie said. “No. You can’t get yourself killed, Evan. What would I do without you? I need you.”

  “I won’t let him keep hurting me. Or hurt you. It
has to end.”

  “Okay, let’s think about this,” Annie said slowly. “Let’s say he comes to me, and you’re hiding, waiting. With your gun. Then when he’s busy with me, you shoot him.”

  “Then we have a dead man in your train car. Isn’t that how your friend Taryn got executed? For killing a man who was messing with Jenna?”

  Annie paled. “Did Jenna tell you that?”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed his head. “People would hear the shot. There would be blood.”

  “Strangle him,” she whispered. “No gunshot, no blood.”

  He looked at her in surprise. It was a good idea. But there was still the body to deal with.

  “It would be better if he went missing. But how could we hide his body, with all these people around?” Evan asked.

  It felt strange to be sitting here, calmly discussing murder. So much had changed since the Pulse. Evan had changed. And he didn’t like who he’d become.

  Scar had taken more than his innocence when he raped him. He’d taken a piece of his soul.

  “We could make it look like an accident,” Annie said. “Like he’d gotten drunk, and fallen off the Tracks. Like how I broke my leg, but he’d . . . he’d hit his head, or break his neck. And die.”

  “What if he doesn’t die?”

  She frowned. “Well, we strangle him first. Then drop him on the Tracks. Maybe pour some alcohol on his uniform so he smells like he was drinking. It’s not like they’re doing autopsies anymore.”

  The plan was shaping up.

  But there was one problem. “He’s strong, Annie. Stronger than me. How will I strangle him? He’ll fight me, and win.”

  “Hit him on the head, then. When he’s on me.”

  “I don’t want him to touch you.”

  “I’m not a virgin, Evan,” she said. “I could do this, if I knew it was going to end up with that monster being out of our lives forever. If I knew that he’d never be able to hurt you again.”

  “That soldier Hernandez said he’d kill Scar if he could. Maybe we don’t have to draw you into this at all. I could just wait for Scar to come to me tonight, and Hernandez could hit him on the head, and then we could—”