Lost: Love After the Apocalypse (After the Plague Book 2) by Imogen Keeper

Author:Imogen Keeper [Keeper, Imogen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mindless Muse Publishing, LLC
Published: 2020-06-29T16:00:00+00:00

9| Should have ignored the panties

YORKE

I SHOULD HAVE IGNORED the fucking bra. It was too much though, sitting there. In exactly the shape of her tits, all warm and clean from the laundry. I couldn’t resist letting her know I’d seen it.

I just did what felt natural, what I’d have done if she’d been someone else who wasn’t in mourning. But with her, it was too much, bringing too close to the surface whatever it is that hangs in the air between us, making her withdraw into herself.

It’s too soon. It might take months, even years. I know that. But sometimes we just settle into a rhythm. She was bending over the dishwasher, her perfect ass in the air, and we’ve been together all day and all night for so many days. I just forgot for a second that this doesn’t feel the same for her. She hasn’t been obsessing over me for months. She’s been busy crying over the loss of the love of her life.

My dick isn’t helping the situation at all.

And then the panties. I should have ignored the panties too. I keep seeing her in my head, naked, except for the blue thong riding between the round globes of her perfect ass.

I know it’s wrong. The woman’s in mourning. I strip off my shirt in the chill early spring night air and run straight downhill all the way to the White House. Five easy miles. I climb to the top of the Treasury Building. Business as usual on the South Lawn. People sitting on sofas they must have hauled out of the White House, drinking and carousing to terrible old music. The orange-haired lady doesn’t show. Nor does Carl, even though I stay there for an hour, doing squats and burpees and lunges when I get bored between bouts of spying, far enough back they won’t see my movements. If Carl’s in the city, where is he? Why haven’t they found him? How many people are hiding out in houses, like we are? Quiet, waiting, worrying.

I do see the handlebar mustache guy and snap a pic for Frankie. Then I give up.

Leaving her and Auden alone feels risky to me. She’s usually asleep when I get back. Anyone could sneak in there, and I doubt Beast would do much more than wag his tail and pant. But I have one more errand before I head back.

I jog another mile up to Capitol Hill. Break into Frankie’s old house, use a flashlight, find the art on the walls, the bold capital scrawl of her painted signature in the bottom-right corner. Frankie B. S. Reynolds.

That makes me smile. She would choose B.S. for her initials. It would satisfy her random off-kilter humor. Then it makes me frown because of what she said today. A part of her sees herself that way. Useless. Bullshit.

And she’s not.

She’s bold and vibrant.

I stare at the paintings that cover the walls, feeling both guilty at the stolen glimpse inside her head and exhilarated by her talent.

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