The Thrust Page 20

She stepped into his arms and he wrapped them around her trembling, naked body.

  “I’m sorry you lost your daughter,” he said.

  “Me too. I think about her sometimes. I hope she’s okay, wherever she is. I wonder if she’s angry with me for leaving her, the way I was angry with my dad for leaving me and my mom. And I wonder—I wonder if she has red hair.” Clarissa paused. “It’s silly for me to be so emotional about it. I gave her up. It was my choice, and the right one for both of us, at the time.”

  “It’s not silly,” Trent said, kissing her hair. It was already beginning to dry. “Losing someone—it’s hard. No matter how it happens.”

  “After the Pulse it seemed like everyone I got close to ended up being taken from me,” she whispered. “And then I thought I lost you too.”

  “I’m here,” Trent said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I don’t want you to go anywhere,” she said.

  She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. Sweetly, softly, at first. But the kiss deepened as a month of being without her touch kindled his passion.

  “Is this okay?” he asked.

  “Yes. Definitely okay.” She moaned as their naked flesh touched. “But we should probably go to the bedroom. Can’t have you slipping on these wet tiles and breaking something else.”

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  He tried to run his hands along her ass, but she didn’t seem as into it as before. Damn it, she was still worried she’d hurt him. Or he’d hurt himself, whichever.

  “Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “We’ll go to the bedroom.”

  Clarissa smiled and followed him, and he closed the bedroom door behind him.

  Satisfied, Clarissa put her arms around his neck once more. “Where were we?”

  “I was about to throw you on the bed and ravage you, I think.” Trent grinned.

  “Sounds about right.”

  She gasped in surprise, though, when Trent actually picked her up, tossing her onto the bedspread. She rolled onto her back, her legs spread lasciviously.

  “Wow,” she said. “I guess you really are feeling better.”

  “Just you wait,” he promised. He straddled her, his hard cock pressed against her abdomen.

  “You smell good,” she said. “Like soap.”

  Trent raised up on his knees, the tip of his cock inches from her delicious lips.

  Clarissa raised her head and took him into her mouth, past her lips, her tongue teasing the head of his cock.

  “Ah, fuck, that’s good,” he groaned.

  She murmured something in response, but all he felt were the vibrations across his length, sparking a new level of passion.

  “Oh, God—you have to stop, Clarissa, or I’ll come before I can even fuck you.”

  She let his cock fall out of her mouth with a playful pout. “I wasn’t done.”

  Trent grinned. “Neither was I.”

  He lowered his body over hers, kissing her neck, her breasts, catching her nipple between his teeth.

  Her back arched off the bed as he nibbled her tight peak, his fingers finding her wet heat.

  “I could play with your clit all day,” he murmured, rubbing his fingers back and forth over her swollen bud.

  “I’ll be here,” she joked, but she lay back, her hair spread across the pillow, and moaned with pleasure.

  God, he liked seeing her in his bed. He wanted her there every night, forever.

  But it was hard to think about forever when they’d just held a memorial service for men who’d died before their time. Hard to think about forever when Karen was gone.

  So don’t think.

  Trent slid two fingers deep inside her and she gasped, circling her hips as he stroked her G-spot. With a sweet, tremulous cry, she came, wetting his hand with her juices.

  He couldn’t wait any longer. Pre-come trailed from the tip of his cock. With a swift movement he spread her thighs and thrust inside her, filling her to the hilt.

  Clarissa cried out his name, the sound reverberating in his ears.

  Yes. This.

  They clung to each other, their bodies rocking together, the old bed squeaking in protest as her inner walls spasmed around his cock.

  Oh, God—Clarissa!

  and he climaxed, unsure if he screamed her name out loud, or only in his mind.

  I’m in love with her.

  Trent inhaled sharply and collapsed on top of her, hiding his face in the pillow next to her cheek. The realization shouldn’t have come as such a shock to him, but it did.

  He’d fallen in love with Clarissa.

  After everything he’d been through . . . after losing the only woman in the world he ever thought he’d love . . . how? How had he let his guard down so completely and allowed Clarissa into his heart?

  It terrified him. Because if he loved Clarissa, then he had more to lose than he ever had since Karen died.

  It didn’t even make sense, how was it possible? Clarissa was so different from Karen. They were each unique, amazing women. But one had gone on to heaven, and one was in his arms, right now.

  He would hold on to the memory of his late wife forever, that he knew. He couldn’t forget her if he tried. Didn’t want to, either.

  And while at first, being with Clarissa had almost felt like he was cheating on his wife, their time together had changed that. He’d liked having Clarissa by his side when they’d liberated the camp at Grand Central. He liked having her in his bed.

  She was so strong, so beautiful. Inside and out. And they worked well together. They made a . . . a good team.

  But he didn’t dare tell her that he’d fallen in love with her. He hadn’t meant to, it had happened almost . . . accidentally. Clarissa was still so afraid of connecting, of getting attached. Because to her, if she let their relationship move to the next level, she’d only be setting herself up for future pain.

  He could see her point.

  Which was why, for now at least, his revelation about his feelings toward her had to remain a secret.

  Despite all that, as Trent cuddled her against him in their bed, all he could do was look at her face—so serene, her dark red lashes brushing her cheeks as she lay there with her eyes closed, on the verge of dozing—and wonder.

  Would she—could she—ever love him back?

  At church in Letliv

  CLARISSA

  SUNDAY

  The pastor was good. Really good. He’d held on to his Bible throughout everything since the Pulse, and the pages looked well-read. From her seat in the front pew of the old church, Clarissa could see certain sections of the open book were highlighted, with notes in the margins.

  Pastor Dan had a packed house this Sunday. As always, there was a lot to pray for. And a lot to be thankful for, too, now that people had their freedom back.

  When the service ended, Pastor Dan handed the podium over to Trent. Evan perked up in his seat next to Annie.

  “Folks,” Trent said, “before you head out, there’s something we need to discuss. Some of our residents have family in the FEMA camp in Greenwich.”

  At this, a lot of people nodded in agreement. But many looked wary. No one wanted another bloodbath. It had been too soon since they’d lost their friends fighting to liberate Grand Central.

  “There are a lot of people out there now who know about Letliv,” Trent continued. “Thousands. It’s my opinion that notifying the authorities at the Greenwich camp that people are welcome to move here—if they want to—will not necessarily jeopardize our security any more than it’s already been.”

  “What are you suggesting we do?” Bill asked from the third pew. His wife gripped his hand nervously.

  “Just give them a letter. Or multiple letters, if you have someone in Greenwich you want to make sure gets the message. Spread the word and let the authorities know they don’t need to keep the people of Connecticut locked up in their camp.”

  Evan raised his hand, and Trent nodded at him.

&
nbsp; “My family is there,” Evan said, standing. “And I know they were trying to get men together for their army. I want my parents to know where I am, and that I’m okay. But I don’t want any of us in Letliv to be forced to join them.”

  The church grew noisy as people debated among themselves. Trent waited a bit before replying.

  “It’s a good point, Evan. But they’re gonna have a hard time getting anyone to fight for them against his will. What happened with the soldiers at Grand Central is proof of that.”

  The former soldiers in the room cheered.

  “Let’s put it to a vote. Should we send letters to the camp at Greenwich, to let those of us who have family there know where they can come and live free, or should we lay low for OpSec?”

  OpSec. Operational Security.

  Rob, seated in the aisle in his wheelchair, raised his hand. “Just wanted to mention that I’ve got paper, if anyone needs it for their letter. Kinda rough, since I’m still figuring out how to make it from scratch out of the hemp, but it works.”

  It didn’t take long for the people to come to a consensus. The ayes had it. Evan’s family would get a letter. They would learn that he was alive, and okay.

  Lawrence, from Grand Central, volunteered to deliver any letters the following day.

  Family trumped fear, every time.

  CLARISSA

  LATER that night Clarissa joined Trent at the radio station for his broadcast. They walked in comfortable silence, holding hands as they made their way down the sidewalk.

  “Trent, do you really think the United Nations will take over America?” she asked as they pushed open the old soundproofed door and went into the dark room.

  He lit an oil lamp. “I hope not. But we can listen to the radio and see if there’s any news.”

  He ran through the entire gamut of AM and FM stations. Most were just static. One was still the recording from Global Victory Radio, in English followed by Spanish and either Chinese or Japanese, she couldn’t tell which.

  Then, there was something new.

  “Wait—go back,” Clarissa said, exactly as he was doing just that.

  They turned up the volume and listened.

  With the generous aid of the United Nations, America is rebuilding, the radio said. A man’s voice, with no accent.

  “Shit, it’s just the same Global Victory crap,” Trent murmured, but as the broadcast continued he quieted to listen.

  The UN forces have been able to help us rebuild the electrical grid and reinstall telephone lines in certain areas of some cities.

  “Oh my God,” Clarissa gasped. “I can’t believe it!”

  The following is a list of cities with minimal power and telephone service, the voice continued.

  “If they say Manhattan, we’ll know it’s just a psyop,” Trent said. But he was frozen in his chair as if unable to turn away from the tinny radio.

  Clarissa pulled out her quill and a tiny jar of ink they kept by the radio for jotting down anything new. There hadn’t been anything new in a long time, though.

  The man read off a list of about thirty towns Clarissa had never even heard of, in states all over the country. Places in California, Colorado, Minnesota, Georgia, Florida, New Hampshire, and the city of Washington, DC.

  Clarissa blew on the ink to help it dry and showed the freshly-made hemp paper she’d written the towns on to Trent.

  “Other than DC,” Trent said, “I bet they focused on less heavily populated areas. Places where they would meet less resistance.”

  “But why Washington, DC, then? How?”

  Trent shook his head. “I have no idea. I bet a huge part of it already has bunkers and EMP-protected equipment. Safe rooms for the president, that sort of thing.”

  Clarissa knew he meant the new president—the former vice president. Their president had gone down on Air Force One at the moment of the Pulse—according to Colonel Lanche, anyway. All the planes had fallen from the sky that day.

  “I’ll post this on the bulletin board on Main Street,” Trent said. “Everyone will see it at the market tomorrow when they drop off their letters for Lawrence to take to Greenwich.” He smiled. “It’ll have to do until we get the new printing press finished.”

  The thought was intoxicating. Soon, she’d be able to make her newfound dream of creating the tentatively-titled Letliv Ledger a reality.

  “Will people go there—to those towns?” Clarissa wondered.

  Trent raised his eyebrows. “If they want. Electricity and phones . . . That’s a powerful draw. Might outweigh the possibility that those towns are under globalist occupation.”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere,” Clarissa said. “Even if it’s back to civilization.”

  Trent smiled and took hold of her around the waist. “This is civilization. I’d rather live free, here in Letliv.”

  “Me too,” she whispered. “We’ll rebuild it ourselves.”

  Trent kissed her, a long, passionate kiss that left her breathless.

  “I better do the broadcast,” he said. But then he kissed her again.

  Clarissa smiled, swatting at his powerful arms. “Let’s get this done so we can go home.”

  Home.

  That’s what Trent’s house had become.

  That’s what anywhere Trent was had become. Home.

  God, I love you, Trent.

  Heat rose in her cheeks as Trent pulled away from her to get the microphone ready. Love? No way. It couldn’t be.

  But it was. Her feelings for him had crept up on her, constantly hiding behind her fears. When everyone she cared about was taken from her, loving Trent had been too much of a risk.

  And yet it had happened anyway.

  Trent cleared his throat and turned the mic on. “Friends, freedom-lovers, this is Trent Taylor in Letliv, Connecticut. Our numbers have grown enormously since many of the citizens at Grand Central Terminal have joined us. We’re taking care of ourselves and do not, repeat do not, require any UN, government or military assistance.”

  He paused. “In fact, any interference at all will be seen as a threat to our way of life. We welcome people to join us, or to leave us alone. Those are the choices at this point.”

  Clarissa nodded encouragingly, since she knew that what he had to share wasn’t going to be easy. But people needed to know.

  “If you are seeking shelter in New York, the FEMA camp at Grand Central Terminal is no longer under the command of Colonel Lanche or his army. They are dead. The survivors are working together on their own to reestablish a community—without the abuse they suffered at the hands of the late Colonel Lanche.”

  “We’ve heard on another radio station that the UN forces have helped to rebuild the electrical grid in certain towns. It is my opinion that those towns are most likely under globalist occupation, and might not even be considered American soil anymore. But I haven’t been there so I can’t say for sure.”

  He took a deep breath before concluding. “It’s been a tough year for everyone. But if more communities like Letliv are thriving, then we’ll be okay. It’s been long enough that we need to start moving forward. Start rebuilding. This time, though, let’s all live and let live. Signing off, this is Trent.”

  Trent flipped the switch and the machine powered down. He exhaled heavily. “I guess now we wait for some army to show up to arrest me for what happened in New York.”

  Clarissa shook her head and hugged him. “If they show up, we’ve got your back. Besides, they won’t come. They have enough trouble on their hands right now.”

  “Do you think anyone’s even listening?” he asked.

  “You know they are,” she said. “The people who came to help us—including Emily, Mason, and Samuel—they all heard your broadcasts. And they trust you because you tell the truth.”

  “My truth got Samuel killed,” Trent said. “A lot of people.”

  Clarissa didn’t know what to say, so she just held him.

  She loved him so much, surely he could feel
it, coming off of her in waves. Did he know? Could he feel how much she loved him?

  And if he did know . . . would that scare him away, forever?

  ONE WEEK LATER

  EVAN

  Evan surveyed the cabin—well, the small part they got up, with the help of the others. It was only one room with a tin roof, but this way he had a place to stay that was weather-tight, and he could add on to it without rushing.

  Annie had her arm around his waist as they stood there, staring at it, smiling like their tiny shack was a mansion.

  “It’s awesome,” she said.

  Evan laughed. “Not yet, but it will be. I know it’s small, but . . .” He swallowed hard, unsure how to ask what he wanted so desperately.

  “Annie,” he said carefully. “You don’t have to say yes. I’d understand.”

  “Yes to what?” she asked, confusion in her beautiful brown eyes.

  “I wanted to know if you’d be interested in . . . in living in this cabin with me. You know, together. Like how we did on the Tracks.”

  Annie smiled, shaking her head, and Evan’s heart dropped to his stomach.

  Fuck.

  “It’s nothing like the Tracks, Evan,” she said. “Because this is ours. And we can live here without fear. We won’t have to worry that—” She stopped, clearly not wanting to say Scar’s name. “That someone will wake us up in the middle of the night.”

  “Yeah,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “That’s true.”

  Evan pulled her in close and kissed her gently on her lips. He wanted to make it clear what his intentions were. He was no child in need of a mother, no teenager looking for a roommate.

  He wanted Annie to be his . . . and he wanted to be hers. “So what do you think?”

  She kissed him back, hugging him tightly. “Of course I’ll live with you. I’d be lonely without you, Evan.”

  “Before I was going to be executed, I spoke to Trent,” Evan said. “I told him something, because I thought I was going to die, and I wanted to make sure you knew. Did he . . . did he tell you?”

  Annie shook her head. “Something like that, he wouldn’t have told me unless you had actually died. And he knew he wasn’t going to let that happen.”