After The Virus (19 page)

“Don’t drop the soap,” she teased.

He raised his eyebrow the way he was pretty sure she liked. Her grin widened from wicked to something else.

She didn’t take her eyes off him as she lowered her leg and let the curtain fall back into place, then eventually stood.

He waited, literally holding his breath, to see if she would make good on the smile. He could see her shadow through the curtain.

She seemed to be waiting.

Was his offer not clear enough?

He glanced down.

Nope, he was pretty sure it was pretty clear he wanted her.

B.B. barked nearby, maybe on the stairs; and where there was B.B. there was sure to be Snickers.

Rhiannon turned to quickly exit the bathroom, but not before she flushed the goddamn toilet.

The next day, Will had the brilliant idea of taking a little scouting trip with the girls, and they all knew how well that had worked out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

RHIANNON

She wasn’t totally sure he could identify her. Maybe he actually thought she was the character in the movie rather than Rhiannon Wells. He’d had her made up like her last magazine cover, but the film he was referencing was from ten years ago.

She took the flowers and smelled them; she remembered that, at least. Milking the dramatic pause while she racked her brain for her next line. It was a scene from the very end of the movie, the reunification of the lovers. A sex scene was next, the thought of which made her stomach churn. She imagined that was when the bedroom came into play, and she wasn’t sure how to avoid that… she was still hoping Snickers was nearby. Her character… her character wasn’t this easily swayed. His character had to pass a test… his character had done something wrong.

She looked up to see if he would give her a hint.

The dark look that passed across his perfectly constructed — as in plastic — chiseled features didn’t bode well for her not remembering her cues.

Fuck
.

She couldn’t get the thought of Snickers out of her head, and this was blocking every other memory she tried to access.

Plus, she never saw the fucking movies more than once after she made them.

“Roses, caviar, and champagne,” she blurted suddenly. “Is that the best you can do?” Rhiannon arched an eyebrow and turned slightly away from him.

He smiled and rattled off the next line. “That’s just the dressing. I’m the main course.”

He reached for her hand and she avoided him.

The entire scene came flooding back. The brain was a powerful thing when put to the test. She hadn’t heard these lines in over ten years.

“Cocky, aren’t you? So secure that you can have me back just like that, with a snap of your fingers… that I’m even still interested.”

“You’re here, aren’t you? You must be interested, even if you are just here to break my heart, again.”

She snorted, and said with utter conviction, “Like you even have a heart to break.”

She turned away from him to look out the window.
 

He wrapped his hands around her bare shoulders, and she tried not to shudder with revulsion.

Night had fallen completely, wiping out all identifying landscape. This could be any city, any time.

“I know this isn’t the view you remember, that you expected, but it’s what we have and I’d like to have it together, just with you.” He whispered into her neck, and she could feel the slight rain of spit when he spoke, over-enunciating.

She couldn’t figure a way out.

And what the hell did that last line mean anyway? Fucking writers with their fucking love of twisty wordings that, in the end, meant fucking nothing.

She wrapped her arms around herself before she remembered she was supposed to press her hands against the window before her next line.

He froze behind her and gripped her arms a little too tightly.

She slowly dropped her hands and stepped closer to the window.

He let her go, willing to ignore her lapse.

She pressed her palms to the glass. “How are we to continue with this between us?” she asked.

He spun her around and away from the window.

“Don’t you see?” he cried, impassioned. “There is nothing between us but our own stupidity.”

“Are you calling me stupid?” She willed enraged tears to the surface of her eyes, and while struggling to do so, wished she were hydrated.

“No, no! It’s me. I’m the stupid one. I never should have left. I can’t live without you, no matter who or what you’ve done in the past.”

“Who I’ve done? What are you accusing me of?” she wailed dramatically.

“Him! Him! I know all about the wealthy Frenchman!” He paced.

“Frenchman? What are you talking about?” she asked, suddenly aware that they were very close to the end of the scene and nearer the bedding part.

“All that matters is I forgive you. I want you, no matter what!” He gripped her upper arms again, which was definitely something she didn’t remember from the movie.

“How dare you. You think… you think I slept with someone else?” She took a step back, out of his arms, to ready the next part of the scene.

“You didn’t?” He played confused well.

She hauled off — this was her favorite part of romantic comedies — and slapped him across the face. She hit him harder than she ever would have hit another actor, putting everything she could — what with the broken ribs and high heels — into it.

He stood still, maybe in shock, with his face turned from her. Then his hand rose — so typically— to touch his scorched cheek.

Then he looked at her.

His lips stretched across his teeth, but he wasn’t smiling. His eyes burned like he didn’t recognize her or that part of the scene.

She waited; her slap hand pressed to her heaving bosom, not that she was out of breath, but because that’s what the director had wanted. She watched the fog of rage slowly ease from his eyes and face.

He stared at her breasts.
 

She wondered if she should prompt his next line.

“How could you think that of me?” she whispered, skipping his line.

His eyes shot from her chest to her face, but he accepted the prompt.

“I was just so jealous, and Sue said…” He wasn’t completely back into the scene, and she wondered if the slap was a big or small mistake.
 

“Sue!” she bleated. “Your precious Sue said!” Rhiannon flung herself away and he, just like in the movie, grabbed her waist and pulled her back.

“You are jealous!” He was, happily, back into the role.
 

“Never,” she vowed. She tried to twist away, but soon was tangled in his arms.

What was it with romantic comedies and all this lying and grabbing? Love wasn’t like that in real life; in real life it was —
 

He was staring at her.

Had she missed a line?

No, but his smile was gone.

Then she remembered she was supposed to initiate the kiss. Rhiannon had kissed lots of people she didn’t love. In fact, she was now sure she’d never truly loved anyone before the virus, but this was different. There were no cameras. She wasn’t acting with free will. Also, she was sure this wasn’t going to be a fake-as-much-as-possible sex scene. Still… a taunt of
Snickers, Snickers, Snickers
ran though her head.

She fisted bunches of his tuxedo lapels and tilted her head, as if giving in.
 

He slammed his mouth onto hers, just as hard as she had slapped him. He yanked her head back by her hair, a move also not in the movie. She tried to stay relaxed as she pressed her body along his. He wasn’t aroused,
thank God… but, on second thought, maybe that was a bad thing.
She had to take control somehow, but how was that possible when she was supposed to be playing a vapid, passive, two-dimensional character?

“Shall… shall we… seal this deal in the bedroom?” she murmured against his teeth and jabbing tongue, hoping to recall him to the scene.

“I want you, you know I do, but are you sure? Are you sure this is a deal you want to make with me, forever?” He stumbled around the words. “That’s the way I want you, forever. I won’t take you any other way.” He recited the lines, but just wasn’t into the scene as written anymore.

He gripped her too tightly and was wrecking her dress, makeup, and hair, all huge no-no’s on a set. She could actually feel his control slipping. He either couldn’t maintain the facade now that he was actually in the scene, or what was taking place didn’t fit with what was in his head. Either way, Rhiannon sensed she didn’t have much time. So, she turned her head to the double doors that led to the bedroom.

He followed her gaze.

He smiled in that deadened way she wished people would stop doing. Maybe they’d always done so, but it seemed to be an epidemic nowadays.

He released her. She figured that, if she bothered to look, there would be new bruises forming on her arms soon.
 

Is he testing my follow-through?
She wasn’t about to deviate from the script now, especially without a weapon. This reminded her of Buddy, who she realized she’d completely forgotten about, and she glanced in his direction.

Except Buddy wasn’t on the floor anymore. He was on his feet, gun in hand, but swaying in the same way she imagined his injured brain was swimming. The gun arched from her to the Boss, who seemed unconcerned at this development, and back again. Buddy was blocking her bedroom cross.

“Were you thinking of going somewhere?” the Boss murmured to her in his best sexy voice.

An improvised line, which was fine, except —
 

Except Buddy seemed to be attempting to bring the gun around to solidly point at her, and that was more than a bit distracting.

Still, she was a professional, so she took a couple of steps that angled away from Buddy but toward what she guessed were the bedroom doors.

Unfortunately, her movement made it easier for Buddy to hone in, so that, as she turned to throw a come-hither look over her shoulder, he fired.

She froze, and waited for the bullet to puncture her while dimly aware that if it was going to, she should have felt it already.
 

Buddy took aim again.

The Boss sighed, pulled his gun from his holster, leveled it, and shot Buddy in the gut. He never once looked anywhere but at her.

Buddy looked blankly surprised at this development. He pondered the blood spreading across his stomach. Then he dropped his gun.

The Boss tucked his gun away and continued to watch her as if waiting for her to pick up the scene, as if a man wasn’t dying right beside him.

The close-range blast had done damage, and she tried to look away from what might be bits of Buddy’s intestines slipping through his fingers.

Buddy gave up on putting himself together and stumbled toward the Boss, falling against his side with a rapturous gaze and mewing, “Why, why?”

Even as Buddy pawed to grasp his tuxedo, the Boss’s gaze didn’t break from what Rhiannon was sure was her horrified face.

Actually, he, the Boss, was almost vibrating, jangling with the thrill of watching her watch Buddy slide to the floor and bleed out.

She couldn’t watch anymore, didn’t want to accept that the Boss was more turned on by her watching him kill than he was by kissing her.
 

If he could kill a devoted follower —
 

She whip-turned, but stumbled when her stride didn’t part the fabric that wrapped around her legs.

She managed not to fall.

She flung herself through into the bedroom.
 

She flung herself away from the responsibility of Buddy’s death.
 

She flung herself away from all the death to come, all the death she saw in the beads of sweat on the Boss’s forehead, the kind you get from a great orgasm.

∞

The bedroom was really just the next level of hell. And not just for her, because Snickers was there.

Snickers, her face white and blank and her hair ribbons pretty and pink, sat in the middle of the bed with a monster chained to either side.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

WILL

It was the middle of the night, but they needed more gas; fuel actually, because he was pretty sure the tank took diesel. They had scheduled scouts, diviners, to go ahead of the group and check out gas stations. It was a risky job; you never knew what you’d run into, and though Will had signed up, his name had never been drawn for this duty. On his third try, Dale, had found full tanks conveniently located on the highway. Problem was they just had to figure out how to turn them back on.

Nearby, a sign declared them on the outskirts of a town named Hope, but it was the sign that read ‘Vancouver 150 km’ that interested him more. ‘Course, he couldn’t translate kilometers to miles and neither could Big. Even Boomer was American originally, not that that wasn’t obvious. Turned out eventually that Rav was the only one from their group who was originally from this area and 150 kilometers was approximately ninety miles. Will briefly thought it odd that the Canadian knew the conversion when the Americans didn’t, but was more focused in how long ninety miles took.

“About an hour and a half?” he asked Big, who shrugged and took a long look at the four-lane highway that stretched between here and there.

“Highway’s completely blocked. If people had just stayed home to die, we’d be able to move easy. Now, don’t know, six hours?”

“Moving always feels better than standing still,” he said, but Big just snorted at anything that didn’t ease the inconvenience they faced.

“At least it’s a full moon. We can see a bit. Moving all those cars… well, you know. Ah, the boys got the pumps working; hope there’s enough gas to keep us going.” Big moved off.

Some gas stations had kill switches for their pumps, which most conscientious employees seemed to have tripped before dying. Issue was that some of them were coded or alarmed, so you never knew if you could get the pumps running again. The portable generators they’d dragged through the mountains helped. Will hadn’t thought of that himself, even with all his collecting and stocking; gas was easier to come by outside the city centers. ‘Course, he’d also never needed to fuel an attack force, tank and all.