Found: Love After the Apocalypse (After the Plague Book 3) by Imogen Keeper

Author:Imogen Keeper [Keeper, Imogen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-02-04T16:00:00+00:00

10| Like Spock

YORKE

GIGGLES, high-pitched and giddy, reach me through the whir of the treadmill and the sound of my feet as I run.

I don’t glance back. I don’t need to. It’s the sound of women, and there are only three alive and in the near vicinity. Frankie, Shasta, and May. They’re tittering in the doorway. I try to ignore their stage whispered bawdy talk, to focus on the list I’ve been building in my head of all the shit we still have to do. We need to recon those bridges. We need to scout ahead and see if the WHW has set up any other roadblocks outside of the city. If I were her, I’d want to block off beltway access too, but that’s spreading herself thin. And she’s got to be stretched past breaking if she’s legit blocking any significant percentage of overpasses.

But when Shasta asks Frankie if I’m shmig like that everywhere, it takes zero imagination to imagine what she’s talking about, and my focus instantly dissipates.

I slap the STOP button on the treadmill, snatch a towel from the rack nearby, wipe my face as the ramp slows, then let it carry me to the end and spit me off. “Stop,” I say when I’ve landed on my feet, facing them.

Frankie sputters so hard, I worry she might re-split her lip, and jams a chummy elbow into Shasta’s side. “I keep telling her that. Shmop it.”

Shasta shrugs. “I shmop for no one.”

Frankie gigglesnorts. “I already licked him.” She elbows her again and nearly loses her crutch in the process. “He’s mine.”

My lower abdomen kicks, liking the sound of that.

May titters. “Wherever we go, we need a gym!”

Shasta holds up her arms like she just scored a touchdown. “Hundred percent.”

I have eyes only for Frankie. “S’that so?” Swiping the towel along my sweat-soaked hair and neck, an unstoppable half-smile spreading across my left cheeks, I raise a brow at her. “I’m yours, huh?”

“Aren’t you?” She swallows, the cords of her neck tightening as I saunter a little closer.

Because I can’t kiss her, not with the niggling doubt she’ll break down and cry for another man if I do, I step close, my hand finding her hip, and press a kiss against her temple, then rest my forehead on hers. “Always.”

She offers up a wide-eyed blinky grin, and the stench of alcohol hits me. “We—hicCUP—found Colleen.”

Drunk. I straighten. Very drunk.

Now I notice the lazy eyelids, half closed, the loose posture, the way she sways forward and back on her heels. Tequila’s a thick miasma in the air.

Great. Frankie makes a declaration, and she’s … shitfaced.

All they manage to convey in the next three minutes of disjointed simultaneous drunken babbling is nonsense. According to May, Shasta was a sex lobby therapist which sets Frankie a-giggle. According to Shasta, she knew the ambassador’s husband of Peru. And according to Frankie, I, as in you, Yorke, are going to go on a rescue mission to save the world, like Spock. She even holds up her hands like a trekkie.

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