Dark Days: The Long Road Home, a post apocalyptic novel (25 page)

29

Gemma watched Christopher's profile as his hand gravitated to his pocket again, unable to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off her face. She tried. She really did, but the painkillers coursing through her system were
not
helping matters.

Neither was the fact her lips still tingled from his kiss, leaving her with an odd sense of whimsical expectation.

Christopher glanced at her, a myriad of conflicting emotions flashing across his face.

Gemma quickly lowered her eyelids so that she was watching him through the screen of her lashes.

They were in the back of an old tan pickup about ten miles from home, the sun beating down on them from clear blue skies.

A musty odor wafted up from the saggy mattress that had been jammed across the width of the back tray.

With every passing mile Christopher seemed to grow more anxious, the photograph of CJ coming out so often one would be forgiven for thinking it was glued to his sweaty palm.

Gemma tried to keep a straight face as Christopher's hand slipped inside his pocket, but instead of pulling out the photograph, his head cocked slightly to the side, his eyes narrowing as he studied her.

He was staring at her with such longing that Gemma felt the heat rising to her face as she feigned sleep.

She was lying on her side in a semi-fetal position. Her hands were tucked in between the side of her face and the dusty old beanbag she was nestled in to cushion her from the bumps. Not that she could feel any pain, anyway, thanks to the morphine shot Martha gave her before they left.

Christopher was leaning against the cabin, his long legs splayed out across the mattress, one thigh resting against the beanbag.

“Caroline was sure he's mine?' Christopher asked, fully aware Gemma wasn't asleep.

The dopey smile and the rush of blood to her face had given her away.

Gemma chuckled as she opened her eyes, feeling lightheaded from the morphine. She'd lost count of how many times Christopher had asked variations of the same question in the last hour.

Uncurling her arm, she placed what was meant to be a reassuring hand on his thigh.

She did her best to ignore the heat passing from Christopher's skin to her palm, seeking a direct path to her center.

Instead she focused on his face, her eyes softening as she noticed the shape he was in.

The bruises from the punch he took to the eye were still fading – a dreary rainbow of dull yellows and cacky browns.

His skin was pale where he'd shaved earlier that morning, contrasting with the tan he'd earned over the days on the road.

Even banged up and beaten he had the power to take her breath away.

Before she could remove her hand, disconcerted by the feelings rising inside her, Christopher clamped his hand over hers, flicking the hair out of his eyes.

Gemma gasped when she saw the large, egg-sized lump on his temple.

Despite Martha warning them they shouldn't be traveling, they were both determined to get home. Christopher had refused to even let the doctor take a look at him.

The bikes and the trailer were secured to the far end of the rickety old pickup, rattling a merry tune in time to her quickening heart rate.

Gemma would have been glad if she never set eyes on them again, but she knew they would be a godsend in the coming months. A way into town. A way to see CJ.

She was shocked at herself, and the turn her thoughts took as Christopher's dark eyes moved to her mouth; already she was adjusting, ruthlessly planning on using young CJ as an excuse to see Christopher.

It's just the drugs talking
, Gemma reassured herself.

There was no way in the world she was going to let Christopher steal her heart away again.

It's already too late for that,
her heart and her thoughts mocked her.
Far
too late
.

Gemma tried to ignore the feeling of sorrow creeping up on her. They hadn't discussed CJ's living arrangements yet, but she assumed once Christopher acquainted himself with his son, CJ would live at the Daley family home.

She'd gotten a little too used to Christopher's company, and the long days and lonely nights on the farm stretched before her almost painfully.

As though sensing her change in mood, Christopher squeezed her hand, and she offered him a shaky smile.

She felt suddenly uncertain. She blamed the drugs for the odd swooning sensation rising in her as Christopher's eyes moved back to her lips. The sort of sensation she'd only ever read about, and had openly scoffed at.

She also blamed the drugs for the swelling warmth that bloomed in her belly and her heart.

Closing her eyes, Gemma breathed in deeply, her cheeks puffing out slightly as she exhaled with force.

“Gemma?” Christopher's voice was a soft caress, filled with concern.

When Gemma opened her eyes, Christopher's gaze seemed to reach into the very depths of her soul.

Feeling self-conscious, Gemma wondered what he saw. Her hair was lank and oily, and she could only imagine how ripe she must smell.

Christopher curled his fingers through hers, bringing her hand to his mouth.

He pressed his lips against her palm, still watching her, then sucking in a deep, shuddering breath, he closed his eyes. His breath whispered across her palm, warm and comforting and ever so erotic.

Who would have thought that something so simple could feel so good. So right.

She felt her lips part of their own volition. Her mouth went dry.

The fluttering in her heart made her feel lightheaded and giddy.

Christopher opened his eyes, his expression intense. Dangerous.

Before Gemma had a chance to register what was happening, Christopher was leaning over her. He was so careful – so gentle – as his strong hands cupped her face. He rubbed his thumbs ever so lightly across her skin, as though she were made of glass.

It made her feel suddenly fragile. Like she might break. And for reasons she couldn't fathom, tears pricked the bridge of her nose.

Without warning Christopher's eyes darkened. He lowered his head and claimed her mouth with a hungry kiss.

Gemma responded immediately, without thought. Only aware of the spiraling sensations overtaking her, and the caress of his warm, soft lips on hers.

Christopher tasted her with his tongue, igniting a fire at her core. She opened her mouth with a low moan, letting him in.

The kiss deepened, their breath mingling, so that Gemma no longer knew who was breathing for whom, or if they were even breathing at all.

Then Christopher pulled away so suddenly that her eyes were still closed – her lips still parted – when he uttered a curse.

“I'm sorry.” Christopher ran a hand through his hair.

“Sorry?” Gemma said in a strangled voice. He was
sorry
? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he sorry he kissed her? Sorry because he wasn't feeling it the way she was?

The only thing Gemma was sorry about was the fact it had stopped.

She swore she'd never be one of those needy females. That she wouldn't be like her mother. But she couldn't help the word that escaped her mouth. “Why?”

“Why?” Christopher looked surprised by the question.

“Forget it.” Gemma wished she could turn away. That she didn't have to see him looking at her like that.

“I'm sorry I took advantage of you,” Christopher said, unable to meet her eyes.

“Oh,” Gemma said. “And here I was thinking I was the one taking advantage of you.”

Christopher chuckled softly, his fingers tangling in her stringy, knotty hair as he brushed it away from her face.

He kissed her forehead, and Gemma wondered if his heart was beating half as fast as hers. If he felt the hot fire of desire that burned in the pit of her belly, demanding attention.

It was still burning strongly as they turned off the highway onto the long road that led to town. Filled with melancholy, Gemma's thoughts turned to what awaited them.

There was no telling what they would find. It had been nearly a week since the pulse.

Christopher's face was relaxed as he studied CJ's photograph, his eyes full of hope and possibility.

Gemma kept her fears to herself. They would know soon enough anyway.

She wondered if Daphne would agree to stay on the farm with her, so far from town; cut off from her friends and whatever limited medical facilities there were, not to mention her young grandson.

Gemma's gut told her that the very fact the farm was cut off made it safer. That bad times were coming. She worried for the older woman, but there was no way she could stay in town. Not when there was so much to do on the farm.

Up until last night Gemma had assumed it was a given – that the three of them would live there – her and Daphne looking out for young CJ.

But now CJ was no longer in the equation.

Before Gemma knew it the farmland started to peter out, and when Christopher noticed her struggling into a sitting position, he shifted to help her.

“I'm fine. It doesn't even hurt,” Gemma scowled irritably. She knew she shouldn't take her worry out on Christopher, but she couldn't help it. Besides, in a few more hours she was going to have to manage on her own anyway.

“That's only because of the morphine,” Christopher said with a knowing grin. It seemed nothing could ruin his good mood.

Gemma slapped him away when he started fussing with the bean bag, trying to make her more comfortable, and stared sullenly at the land around her.

She squirmed against the beanbag as they approached the outskirts of town. She was having trouble supporting herself, and thanks to the repetition of Christopher's warnings, she worried about splitting her stitches open.

In the distance she could hear the sound of a lawn mower, but she wasn't sure if the smell of freshly-cut grass was real or imagined. Either way it brought her comfort, smelling of all things home. And when Christopher silently slid his arm behind her, angling his body to hold her up, she let herself lean into him.

For all her protests, her heart and her brain had completely different ideas about what was good for her, and were on opposing ends of the spectrum.

Guilt set in as Christopher pulled her close, resting his chin on the top of her head. She'd been such a bitch to him. She should have realized there was more to it when Christopher said CJ couldn't be his. For all her accusations, it had been completely out of character.

He'd been nothing but decent to her, for the most part a perfect gentleman – though he certainly didn't kiss the way she imagined a gentleman would.

Gemma felt like she was in freefall. Her emotions were a crazy pendulum of fear and worry and frustration and need. Swinging from one extreme to the other, they were fed by all they'd endured since the pulse, and powered by morphine.

Soon they would be at Daphne's, their first stop. Then on to the Daley homestead, and Christopher's sister's place if Kate and her children weren't there.

And then she would go home to her farm. A place that had always meant refuge and security. Now it spelled loneliness and long, restless nights worrying about the future.

There was plenty to do to fill in the hours stretching ahead of her, Gemma told herself. The farm needed a lot of work.

Cursing her wound, she realized the dilemma facing her. How the hell was she going to cart water from the stream for the garden without splitting her stitches open?

She supposed she could hook something up to the rain water tank until she healed. But how long would that last? When it ran out she would have to boil water from the stream.

Now that she was so close, the enormity of what was ahead – the reality of what her life would be – loomed.

Life was never going to be the same again.

The houses grew closer together as they drove through the outskirts of town, and the tone of the pickup changed as it slowed.

Gemma and Christopher stiffened; on their journey they'd seen the many different faces of fear and had no idea what to expect.

But apart from the stalled cars on the main street – many of which had been pushed to the sides of the road – it was hard to tell that a life-changing event had occurred.

An elderly couple walking a fluffy white poodle nodded at them as they drove by, staring at the pickup. Children played on the streets, their happy laughter unconcerned. They ran toward the pickup when they heard it, eyes brightening with curiosity.

A thickset man ran his mower over his front lawn, swiping the sweat from his brow.

“Mrs G? That you?” shouted a teenage boy carrying a box of groceries.

“Jeremiah.” Gemma smiled and waved, genuinely pleased to see a familiar face.

She noticed quite a few other high school students on the streets carrying boxes of groceries, and wondered what that was all about. Some of her students complained when they had to write more than a few sentences, and here they were carting heavy boxes across town. Wonders would never cease.