The others rise with the sun, and we pack the last of our finds in the vehicles before heading back to the main road in and out of Flagstaff. We have three cars and splitting up, I choose to ride with Cole, even knowing that the ride will probably be primarily silent, because Cole spends a lot of time inside his head these days, not that he was a huge talker before.
Manny volunteers to drive alone, leaving Michele and Jase to commandeer the last vehicle, a Honda Accord circa 1980 something.
Of course, Cole chose the truck, a giant Ford, and the rest grumbled their way to the other vehicles. I can’t hold back a snicker when Manny jumps into the van and revs the engine, images of him dressed in a sweet little button-up sweater, soccer mom style, dancing in my head.
“What?” Cole grunts, raising his brows.
“Nothing,” I reply, “Just imagining Manny in a sweater set.”
He gives me a weird look, and I burst into laughter, giggling so hard that tears run down my face. His mouth quirks up in a smile and another small thrill rises in my heart, adding another tick to the list because if I can get Cole to smile even once a day, it feels like I’ve performed a complex open-heart surgery.
His beautiful dark eyes, surrounded by dusky shadows pointing to many sleepless nights, focus on the road, with his hands loose on the wheel and his arms, always my obsession from day one, bare.
Cole emanates badass, and this is not new because he was tough and strong before. Still, the rigors of the zombie apocalypse have only made him work harder and become stronger, and after months of working with his upper body, his arms are heavy with muscle, and his yummy abs even more defined.
Running my eyes over his biceps, I analyze the ink, reading the ribbon of words swirled over a fierce eagle clutching a globe, stating Semper Fidelis. The letters and images are surrounded by feathers, claws, and the signature anchor for a marine.
It’s so beautiful that I’m unable to resist, and I scoot over on the bench and brush my finger slowly across the image of the eagle, his face fierce and angry, reminding me of Cole. Cole glances at me with a furrowed brow because I don’t usually touch him without permission, especially these days when his state of mind is so disconnected and lost. But I can’t help myself because in this fucked up world, I may not have another chance.
“This is beautiful,” I murmur, tracing the design.
He grunts, his usual response to anything, but his attention is caught between me, the road, and my finger tracing his skin. When goosebumps rise on his arm, I almost moan at the sight because seeing him react to my touch is an aphrodisiac that creates fire in my veins.
“You like it?” he asks huskily.
When I squirm a little in my seat, His sensual, soft lips turn up at the corners and his eyes turn dark. Clearing my throat, twice, I say in a breathy voice, “Yes.”
He shifts before covering his hand over mine, and following his lead, I feel as he traces the entire tattoo from top to bottom with my fingers.
The intimacy creates a burn of need that builds in intensity and a tender pulse of warmth that I hold close as another moment to cherish. All the while, the thrill of touching the only man who has ever tempted my heart hums beneath my skin.
We’re silent for the remainder of the ride, and eventually, my hand drops away, but instead of letting go, his fingers stay wrapped around mine in his lap. I lean my head against his beautiful arm and enjoy the peaceful moment, knowing it can and will end at any moment.
Peace for us is a phenomenon that comes few and far between these days.
After a while, he slows when we reach the ranch, and I mourn the intrusion, never wanting it to end because I crave the quiet camaraderie and the innocent intimacy of it all.
With a silent sigh, I prepare myself for reality as we stop at the first gate and greet the guard on duty. Howard showed up at the ranch right before my showdown at the river with my uncle, whom I had bludgeoned to death with a tire iron when he tried to rape me—again—and kill me.
To be fair, I had been planning his end ever since I realized he was probably the perpetrator of a crime against a lovely teenage girl.
Howard’s in his sixties, with thinning gray hair, a bulbous nose, and a slight potbelly, which recedes in direct proportion to our food stores. He’s generally jolly, with a smile in his blue eyes and a greeting for everyone.
To me, he’s the kind grandfather I never had, and although we’re not that close, in my mind, that’s what I want him to be whenever I see him.
“Howdy, folks,” he says, tipping his hat in greeting, his blue eyes twinkling.
Leaning over Cole, I say with a bright smile, “Hey, Howie!”
This is followed by my clenched hand sailing out the window for a fist bump, to which Cole rolls his eyes. Howard chuckles again and brings his fist up tentatively before tapping it against mine.
I pump the air in victory before dropping back into my seat and Howard turns to Cole, pointing at me. “This one.”
“Hey!” I say, smiling widely.
Howard winks before his smile fades and he turns to Cole again. “We got a new batch of people last night.”
Cole straightens in his seat. “Oh?”