Maelstrom Page 3

  I frowned, a memory shook loose by the poetry book. When they were scared or sad, Mac and Miles used to read children’s stories to each other. His loss was too fresh; the memory stung. I pushed it out of my head and turned toward the open door. Two five-gallon gasoline cans sat against the wall by the door. I hefted each one. Full. Meant we wouldn’t have to use our gas to run the generator. I deposited the cans by the back porch, then jogged to the front yard.

  As soon as I rounded the corner, Mac jumped from the jeep and rushed toward me. Kyle and Sahdev followed closely behind.

  “The place is clear,” I said. “Nobody around and no bodies in the house.” Nothing but the truth there. The corpse was in the garage. “There’s a generator out back and a well. We’ll have power and come evening, we’ll have hot water for showers.”

  “I feel like I’ve been marinated in smoke. A shower sounds great,” Kyle said.

  We parked the bike and jeep behind the house, next to the back door. Once the generator was up and running, Mac and I began to rummage through the kitchen, looking for something to fix for dinner. Kyle and Sahdev carried on a whispered conversation in the corner.

  “You don’t need us for anything, do you?” Kyle asked.

  Mac poked her head out of the pantry. “No. What’s up?”

  “It’s a surprise,” Kyle said with a wink. He took a couple of stainless-steel bowls from a shelf. He whistled for Hector. “We’ll be back.”

  “Wonder what they’re up to?” she pondered aloud, as Kyle and Sahdev took off.

  I shrugged, then pulled three cans of chicken breast from a cupboard and set them on the counter next to a couple of cans of pineapple chunks.

  Mac glanced at the cans, and her lips curved. She held up one finger, then retreated back into the pantry. She returned in a moment and plopped a bag of basmati rice down next to the cans.

  “I know what you’re planning,” she said.

  “Do you?” I grabbed her hips and pulled her close. Warm, pliant, and willing, Mac pressed against my groin, smiling up at me. “You figured out my nefarious scheme, Ms. Dunwitty?”

  “You’re going to recreate the dinner you made for our first date. Sweet-and-sour chicken over rice.”

  “That’s the plan,” I admitted, although now that I thought about it, I’d like to repeat more than the meal we ate.

  That night changed everything between Mac and me. Girl hadn’t trusted me when we first met, my outlaw-biker reputation and all. Took awhile to earn her confidence. I’ll always remember what she said during that night, her words burned into my memory. The man I see when I look at you has a moral center and a brave and loyal heart. Resolved then and there to be worthy of her faith. And we spent half the night fucking, which was exactly what I was hoping Mac and I would do now that we were reunited. My cock twitched in anticipation and she grinned, grinding against me.

  I groaned. “You’re killing me, woman.”

  She tapped my nose. “Haven’t you heard? Patience is a virtue, Mr. Solis.”

  I kissed the side of her neck, then caught her earlobe between my teeth before growling in her ear, “Never claimed to be a virtuous man, darlin'.”

  She shivered and her eyes grew heavy. Mac had a weakness for bad boys. Lucky me. Despite all the shit that rained down on our heads today, I was definitely getting some tonight.

  “Tell you what,” I said, reluctantly stepping back. “I’ll see if I can find the ingredients to put together the sauce, and you go to the vegetable garden out back. Look for carrots or beans, anything that’s ready to harvest.”

  “Okay.” She rose on her tiptoes and kissed me. “Later,” she said, her eyes full of promise.

  “Yeah, later.”

  While Mac searched for vegetables, I found what I needed in the pantry. Put a pot of rice on to cook while I made the sauce. Fifteen minutes later, Mac hadn’t returned to the kitchen, so I stuck my head out the back door, looking for her. Spied the side door to the garage wide open. Mac sat on an upside-down bucket in the middle of the yard, a shovel on the ground next to her.

  I’m a fucking moron. Hadn’t occurred to me that she’d need a shovel to dig carrots, or that she’d likely go to the garage to look for one. I crossed the yard and hunkered down next to her.

  “Shit. I’m so sorry, Mac. I wasn’t thinking.”

  She nodded, her eyes swimming with tears. “Poor Frank. I saw Evelyn’s grave and the grave marker. It’s so sad.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Some people think that it’s immoral or cowardly to commit suicide,” she said. “I never believed that, but before the flu, I would’ve said that depression and grief are temporary. If you’re thinking about killing yourself, you should get help, counseling, or medication. Fight to survive. But now?” She shook her head. “What kind of help is available? Who am I to tell somebody how much pain and loss is too much to bear? I can’t blame him for saying ‘Enough is enough.’” She turned glistening gray eyes to mine. “Does that make me a bad person?”

  “No, Mac. You’re not a bad person.” I brushed a stray strand of hair back from her face. “Had a friend commit suicide a couple of years ago. One of the strongest men I’ve known. Knew he was having trouble, and I tried to talk to him about it, but he shrugged it off. He said everybody has problems, and he just needed to suck it up and deal. I think the stigma of talking about suicide—the fear of looking weak—kept him from seeking help. I didn’t know how to help him back then. Sure as hell wouldn’t know how to help somebody now, not when the world’s gone to shit. So...yeah...I don’t blame Frank, either. His life belonged to him, and I don’t have the right to tell a man how to live it, or how to end it.” I stood, offered Mac my hand, and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go dig up some carrots. Kyle and Sahdev will be back soon, and we should have dinner ready for them.”

  As if my words conjured them up, Kyle and Sahdev emerged from the orchard that bordered the yard, Hector trotting at their side.

  “Got something for you, Kenz,” Kyle called, waving a bowl filled to the brim with yellow-red cherries. “Only your favorite thing to eat in the entire world: Rainier cherries. I noticed the trees when we were coming up the drive. Sahdev and I picked some for you.”

  Mac summoned a thin smile. “That’s so sweet of you guys. Thank you.”

  Irritation pricked at me. Just when I thought Kyle had made peace with the idea that Mac chose to stay with me rather than go back to him, the kid said something to remind me of their history together. Time was, he took a lot of pleasure in rubbing in how well he knew her, her likes and dislikes. Thought we were past that. Maybe not.

  “Is something wrong?” Kyle asked. “You look kind of down.”

  “I saw the B & B owner’s body in the garage. He committed suicide after his wife died from the flu.”

  “I’m sorry you were upset, but what a chickenshit thing to do.” Kyle rolled his eyes. “If a man can’t face reality, I guess he isn’t much of a loss.”

  Mac recoiled, as if stung by his words. I laid a hand on her shoulder before swinging my angry gaze toward him.

  Really? Country Club Kyle—who’d lived like a prince off his daddy’s dime, who’d never had to work a day in his life—had the nerve to call out another man for not being able to face the real world? I almost choked on the irony.

  “You’re not being fair,” Sahdev spoke up. “Grief and stress can trigger a chemical imbalance that makes it impossible to think rationally.”

  Kyle shrugged. “You’re a doctor. You’re hardwired to be sympathetic. I’m a realist.”

  A realist? I snorted. Wasn’t his fault that his parents gave him an easy life, sweeping aside the obstacles and difficult choices most of us peons had to deal with. And Kyle had come a long way since the flu hit, stood toe to toe with me when we had to deal with the arsonist, agreed to tone down our bickering for Mac’s sake. But the kid hadn’t earned the right to call himself a realist. Not by a long shot.

  I glanced over his shoulder at
Evelyn’s grave. The fucking flu had killed off most of the world’s population and left those of us who cheated death scrambling to hang on to some semblance of normal life. The four of us—Mac, Kyle, Sahdev and I—had survived a pandemic, an inferno, and a flood. What else would this crazy, post-plague world throw at us?

  THREE

  Kenzie

  Moaning with pleasure, I slid further down into the clawfoot tub, not stopping until my chin touched the surface of the blissfully hot water. Orange blossom-scented steam wafted through the air and fogged the gilt mirror hanging over the sink. I’d scattered candles throughout the opulent bathroom, along the windowsill, on the antique dressing table, even on the back of the toilet. We’d spent the past two months without electricity. You’d think I’d leap at the chance to flip a switch and flood the room with artificial light. Somehow, I couldn’t reconcile harsh electric bulbs with the quaint, Victorian-style bathroom. Candlelight suited the pink-rosebud wallpaper and framed nineteenth-century prints better than electric lights.

  Ripper opened the bathroom door, stirring the air and making the candle flames dance. He dragged the stool from the dressing table over to the tub and sat down, resting his muscular forearms on the porcelain rim.

  “Hey,” I said, with an indolent smile.

  “Hey, yourself.” He trailed his fingers through the water, then rubbed them together. “Water feels slick.”

  “Bath bomb.” I pointed to a wicker basket filled with luxury bath products. “Frank and Evelyn ran an upscale operation here. The bath bomb’s made with organic almond oil and top notch essential oils. I’m going to be all soft and slippery and sweet smelling when I get out of the water.”

  “That right?” Ripper asked. His eyes hooded.

  “Mm-hmm.” I held my breath and dunked my head, then reemerged, brushing water droplets from my face.

  “Venus rising from the sea,” Ripper murmured, stroking a hand along my wet locks.

  Thanks to an art history class, I recognized the name of the famous sixteenth-century painting. Once upon a time, I would have marveled when Ripper made such a reference. A biker familiar with Renaissance paintings? Not any more. The breadth and depth of his knowledge had ceased to amaze me, and I’d finally learned not to exclaim when he dropped an unexpected comment.

  “I forgot to grab a shampoo.” I pointed toward the basket. “Could you choose one for me?”

  Ripper sauntered across the room with the same slow, sexy lope that always caught and held my attention. He pawed through the basket, twisting open and sniffing several small bottles until he found one he liked. “This one. Smells like coconut. Reminds me of the stuff you used back home.”

  I held out my hand for the bottle, but he just shook his head. “Nope. I’m gonna wash your hair.”

  I sat up straight. Maybe I should be surprised that a tough guy like Ripper would offer to do such a mundane task, but he paid attention to what I liked and never hesitated to do the little things that gave me pleasure. He sat down on the stool, dumped the contents of the bottle onto one palm, then rubbed his hands together.

  “Tilt your head back.”

  When I obeyed, he smeared the shampoo into my hair, working it from the roots to the ends. A coconut and ginger scented cloud rose from the lather. Nice. With gentle hands, his fingers combed through my hair, smoothing any tangled strands. Slippery and warm, his fingers massaged circles on my shoulders and kneaded my upper back. The tension in my muscles unraveled under Ripper’s ministrations.

  The man was a walking contradiction, capable of both violence and tenderness. The same hands that now touched me so carefully possessed an unrivaled lethal capacity. I’d seen it with my own eyes. His strength and ability to do what was necessary made me feel safe while I learned how to handle myself in this new lawless world.

  I sighed, perfectly content.

  Ripper crossed to the dressing table and picked up an old-fashioned, blue-and-white pitcher. He carried it back to the tub and filled it with hot water from the tap.

  “Need to rinse your hair with clean water,” he said. “If you dunk your head in the tub now, it’ll get oily.”

  He slowly poured the clear water over my hair, squeezing suds from the strands, then he repeated the process. He wrapped a towel around my head, tucking one end under to form a sort of turban.

  “No need to get outta the tub if you feel like soaking longer,” he said. “I took a shower in the room next door, so I don’t need to clean up.”

  An idea occurred to me. “Why don’t you go wait for me in the bedroom? I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.”

  He angled his head, his brown eyes curious.

  “I won’t be long. I promise. Just don’t get started without me.” I paused. “No, wait. I take that back. I wouldn’t mind walking out and seeing that you’d...um...taken matters into your own hands. Just don’t finish without me.”

  He quirked a brow. “You wanna watch me jack off sometime?”

  Jesus. Who says that? My cheeks heated, and I had trouble maintaining eye contact. “Yes, please.”

  Ripper’s gaze skimmed over my hot cheeks, and he grinned, his dimple showing. “All right.” He stood up and crossed the room, then paused at the doorway and glanced back over his shoulder. “Long as you return the favor.”

  I’ve never masturbated to an audience, but the idea of Ripper watching me touch myself made all my girl parts tingle. I could imagine him leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes pinning me in place as I became the sole focus of his intense, predatory gaze. Oh, yes. I’d be game for that.

  I stepped dripping from the tub, toweled off, then blew my hair dry, leaving it just damp enough to slick back behind my ears. I’d noticed a selection of perfume samples in the basket of toiletries, tiny vials of the expensive brands I used to spritz on myself when I accompanied my roommate Ali to Sephora.

  Full of happy anticipation, I pulled the stopper from a vial of wild-fig scented cologne. I touched the stopper to the back of my knees, my elbows, the small of my back, and my navel. From a hook on the back of the door, I took a thick, white, terrycloth robe, the kind you’d find in a fancy day spa. I slipped into the robe, ran my hands through my hair and stepped into the bedroom, pausing to admire Ripper. He was leaning against a pile of pillows, a hardbound book in his hand.

  “What you reading?” I asked.

  Ripper held up the book. “Book of poetry I found downstairs.”

  “I didn’t know you were a fan of poetry.”

  He shrugged, and a shock of dark hair fell forward over one eye. “I’m not, but I decided I’d give this one a try.” He set the book down on the nightstand and pointed to my robe. “You got anything on under that?”

  “I do.”

  “You do?” His brows lifted in surprise.

  “That’s right. Perfume. I daubed it on in the most unlikely places. What I propose is a variation of hide and seek.”

  “Been a long time since I played hide and seek,” Ripper said, swinging his legs out of the bed and slowly walking toward me. He was barefoot. Faded jeans hung low on his hips, and a well-worn Harley tee clung to the muscles of his powerful chest. He circled, looking me over from top to bottom, as if his eyes could detect where I’d daubed on the scent. Finally, he halted just inches in front of me.

  “Not the throat.” He leaned forward and nuzzled my neck to confirm his verdict.

  “What fun would it be if I made it easy?”

  He raised my hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss on my palm. “Not the wrist.”

  “Again,” I murmured. “Too obvious. Too predictable.”

  “Hmmm...” A smile played at the corners of his mouth as his fingers worked the knot on my robe’s tie. When the knot slipped free and my robe hung open, Ripper dropped to his knees in front of me. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t imagine Ripper kneeling in front of anybody, yet here he was, on his knees in front of me.

  “Believe I’ll have better luck with this outta the wa
y,” he said. He tugged the robe off my shoulders, and it pooled on the floor at my feet. He closed his eyes, his brow wrinkling in concentration as he brought his senses to bear on the task.

  “Here.” Grazing my belly with his cheek, he paused to taste the perfume at my navel. He opened his eyes and looked up at my face, his expression smug and triumphant.

  I nodded, acknowledging his success. “Very good, but you’re not going to stop there, are you?”

  No. Nothing but absolute success would satisfy Ripper. Sliding his hands over my hips—his touch gentle, but insistent—he turned me around.

  “Here.” He kissed the hollow of my back. His lips lingered on the spot, his warm tongue tickling my skin. I gasped and wavered unsteadily on my feet. Laughing softly, Ripper turned me around again, his grip now firm and reassuring. I clasped his shoulders, clinging to him for support.

  “Now you’re making it too easy,” he chided. He brushed his lips over one inner elbow. “Here...” He pivoted his head and kissed the other. “And here.” His fingertips tickled the back of my knee. “And finally, here.” He rose easily to his feet, slipped an arm beneath my knees, scooped me up, and carried me to the bed.

  Dear God, I sighed, lolling back onto a mound of down-filled pillows. I’d missed him so much during his two-week absence. I’d missed this, the playful banter, the shiver-inducing touches, the sense of connection. It was nothing short of a miracle that we found each other again while Portland burned down around us.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked, stripping out of his shirt and jeans. Naked, he stretched out beside me on the crisp white sheets and propped his head up on one elbow.

  “I’m thinking about how lucky we are.” I traced the line of his jaw, feeling the bristles rasp beneath my fingertips. Leaning over, I dragged my lips across the stubble. “Whisker burn,” I whispered. “One of my very favorite things.”