96 Hours (18 page)

Erica sighed, trying to keep a lid on the hurt and annoyance she felt over being so harshly judged for speaking truthfully. “Don’t you think this might be what those terrorists want? For all of us to be acting just like you?”

Abby cocked her head. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t you think they’d be very happy to see us all crushed and broken? Tearful and in pain? I’m not saying we’re not—and I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but—don’t you think a better way to show our strength is to help each other get through it all, be there to support one another through the awful times that are no doubt screeching head-on in our direction? Isn’t
that
the American way? If you were a terrorist, wouldn’t that piss you off? Seeing your intended victims picking up the pieces and carrying on, carrying
each other
if necessary?”

Who am I?
Erica thought as soon as she finished talking. None of this sounded like her. She was not patriotic. She was not a help-your-neighbor kind of girl. She had no idea where in her heart or mind this stuff was coming from. But she liked the way it sounded. And what was more: she believed it. She believed it all.

Abby looked at her, held her gaze, seemed like she was absorbing everything Erica had said. Then abruptly, she stood. “I need a shower.” The bathroom door shutting signaled the end of the conversation.

“Okay,” Erica drew out. She rubbed a hand over her face, worried about Abby, but not knowing what else to do. Feeling the pull of home, she rummaged around for her cell phone and called her parents.

Chapter 13

Abby didn’t understand what was happening to her.

She was horrified by the things she’d seen on TV. She was confused by the feelings sloshing around inside her. She was appalled by her own behavior.

Thank god Corinne and Tim weren’t around. She couldn’t bear the thought of them thinking her rude or ungrateful. That was not who she was. Abby Hayes wasn’t rude or cruel or snide or mean. She was happy. Cheerful. Helpful. Kind. All the things she hadn’t been to Erica just now.

With a groan, she turned the water on and let it run, waiting for it to get hot. Maybe if she was lucky, she could scald some of the disorder out of her head. Gingerly stepping into the steaming shower, she muttered to herself that she never should have watched the news reports all day. She should have found a way to pull herself from the screen, to peel herself out of the living room, to escape. She should have joined Erica at the Lions Club. At least there she could have done something, occupied herself, been useful. Scrubbing the toilets with a toothbrush would have been better than the helplessness she felt every time she watched a replay of a plane hitting a Tower, saw a shot of somebody frantically searching for a loved one, or observed the bewilderment on the faces of the people of New York City. Utterly and completely useless; that’s how she’d felt all day. Sickened and useless.

Abby’s skin reddened immediately. The water was too hot, but she let it run nonetheless, let it sluice over her skin, and she welcomed the discomfort, the almost-pain. It was nothing compared to what some Americans were going through this week. The country would never be the same again; she knew that instantly. It was only fitting that she feel pain, too, that she share it. Her thoughts turned to the Bakers and she was hit by a wave of guilt. She should have gone with Erica today. She should have sat with Mrs. Baker, should have made sure Mr. Baker was eating. They were going through hell right now. The not knowing must have been killing them inside, slowly but surely; and instead of offering her support, Abby had laid on the floor in front of the tube all day long.

“What is happening to me?” she said aloud.

Anger like this was new to her. Anger and confusion. She didn’t like it. It made her feel uncertain, out of control. She didn’t like that she’d snapped Erica’s head off. Abby was embarrassed about that. It was so unlike her. She should be glad Erica was enjoying pitching in; that was a big step for her. She should have been proud of her newest friend, not jealous of her good mood. Not envious that she wasn’t destroyed.

Her poor mother. Abby knew that her mom was putting on a brave front, a purposeful façade so that Abby wouldn’t worry about her. But Abby was a pro at reading people, especially those she loved, and she could hear the slight quaver in her mother’s voice, note the faintly lower octave. The odds of Michelle Hayes
not
knowing somebody who’d died in the towers were pretty slim, but she’d pretend for Abby’s benefit, not realizing that fooling her daughter wasn’t something she could pull off any longer.

The thought of her mom losing somebody in the crush of concrete and metal brought her back to all the ghastly images that had assaulted her that day, and she ended up right back where she began: depressed, angry, and so confused. All the horror. All the death. It felt like it was raining down on her and she couldn’t stop the tears any longer. They forced her to her hands and knees on the tile floor of the shower, the hot water beating down onto her back, the combination of steam and tears clouding her vision. The harder she tried to keep her emotions inside, the more they churned to find a way out until she couldn’t hold the sob in any more. It ripped out of her and she felt like it took part of her soul with it. Her hand over her eyes, she had no choice but to give in as the anguish poured out of her.

She didn’t hear Erica knocking on the door, had no idea that she’d pushed into the bathroom until the shower curtain was opened.

“My god,” Erica exclaimed, her voice laced with concern and worry. “Abby?” Abby barely registered the words over her own crying, but she knew Erica had stepped right into the shower; she sensed her closeness. The water stopped. “Hey. What are you doing?” Her question was gentle as she reached for the towel and draped it over Abby’s heaving back, wrapping her in the soft terrycloth. Hands rubbed her back tenderly and only when Abby felt Erica’s breath near her ear did she realize she was kneeling on the shower floor with her. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay, Abby. It is.”

Words weren’t possible for Abby. She continued to cry and let Erica wrap her arms around her, rock her slowly.

“So much death,” Abby managed after a long moment. Her voice was gravelly, rough. “All that pain.”

“I know,” Erica said softly. She continued to move her hand up and down, stroking Abby’s back.

“I just, I can’t understand. All those people.”

“Here. Come on. Let’s get you up off this wet floor.” Erica helped her to stand and step out of the shower onto the small, soft throw rug. For the first time since her meltdown, Abby looked at her roommate as they faced each other and Erica held the towel around Abby. Erica had changed into her sleeping attire and was barefoot in the white tank top and blue-and-white-striped panties. She’d gotten wet, was almost wetter than Abby now, and the steam had had its way with her hair, left it hanging in damp copper waves that skimmed along her shoulders. The tank top clung to every curve and her nipples made themselves known beneath the wet cotton.
Stunningly beautiful
were the first words that appeared in Abby’s head.
Stunningly beautiful.
She swallowed hard, forced her gaze up to meet Erica’s. The blue eyes that were normally so icy had changed, and the things Abby saw in them now were completely different than what she’d grown used to seeing. There was no judgment, no warning to keep her distance. Instead, there was concern in them. Tenderness.

Arousal.

Abby focused on the pulse beating visibly in Erica’s throat. She suddenly seemed so vital, so alive, the undisputed antithesis of everything Abby had seen that day, and Abby wanted nothing more than to touch her, to feel her, to take her in.

“You’re wet,” she stated, oblivious to the double entendre.

“Yeah.”

“I need—” Abby’s dark brows met above her nose as she searched for the right words.
I need a hug, I need to touch your skin, I need to fuck your brains out.
“I need—”

Erica’s only response was to lick her bottom lip and not move away.

And Abby couldn’t stop herself.

Erica’s back hit the bathroom door with a slam as Abby pushed into her, using her slight height advantage to pin Erica between the door and her body.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was raw and hungry and demanding and it took Erica by surprise for a second before she kissed Abby back. Hard. The towel fell to the floor in a soggy heap as Erica wound a fist into the hair at the back of Abby’s head and held on. It was a clash of teeth, tongues, and heat as Abby did her best to absorb the essence of Erica, to feel the blood racing through her veins, to feel her heart pounding with arousal, to feel
life.

This is what I need,
Abby thought as she maneuvered them through the bathroom door and into the room, all the while keeping her mouth fastened to Erica’s. Her lips were so damn soft, her mouth hot and wet. At the edge of the bed, Abby finally wrenched herself away long enough to slide her hands up Erica’s sides and take the tank top with them, toss it to the floor.

“Jesus,” she whispered as she bared Erica’s torso to the air. She was breathtaking, all creamy smooth skin, heaving breasts, and pink nipples, her muscle tone much firmer than one would expect. She wasn’t fragile by any stretch of the imagination. She was strong and solid and absolutely gorgeous.

A light sprinkling of freckles dusted her shoulders and Abby wanted to start there, but was feeling so primal she was afraid she might bite, might actually break skin. Erica didn’t wait for a decision and instead, grabbed Abby’s face with both hands and kissed her, making Abby’s head swim with the taste of her tongue, the crush of her lips. That was the moment Abby realized that Erica wanted this, needed this, just as badly as she did.

She pulled back suddenly, forcefully freeing herself from Erica’s grasp. Without giving her a chance to catch her breath, Abby reached out and pushed against Erica’s shoulders, giving her a gentle shove that sent her tumbling back onto the bed with a gasp of surprise. Abby followed her, crawling up her body and holding her prisoner, pinning her with hands and mouth and hips.

Few words were spoken; they were unnecessary, the only sounds filling the basement were groans, moans, and ragged breathing. The battle for control went on and on. Abby was taller, but Erica was stronger and each of them used her assets to turn the tables on the other. Despite the playfulness of their scuffle for the top, a seriousness lay beneath the surface. Something raw and base and vital. Abby used her long limbs to pin Erica’s hands over her head while she left her mark on one of those beautiful shoulders, not only a way to show she’d been there, but an attempt to advertise that Erica still had blood running through her veins, that her body was full of precious life. Nothing proved that to Abby more than when she worked her way down Erica’s body, yanked the panties off, and buried her head between strong, smooth thighs. Life was centered there—tangy, salty and sweet on her tongue, with a hint of musk and something primitive, something natural. Abby couldn’t get enough. She pushed her tongue in as far as she could, trying to drink up everything, to consume the very essence of Erica and take it into her own body, her own heart, to feel that life. She felt Erica’s hands in her hair, gripping her tightly and giving subtle direction. Her ears registered Erica’s pleasure, her soft whimpers, her quiet pleading. When Abby replaced her tongue with her fingers, pushed in and curled them slightly, Erica groaned out her name and tears filled Abby’s eyes. Much as she wanted to pick up the pace and to send Erica tumbling over the edge, she wanted this moment to last. Forever, if that was possible. She slowed things way down—despite Erica’s whispered protests—and held her teetering for several long moments before finally granting her release. The strangled cry she emitted as her body arched and she held Abby’s head tightly against her center, was the most beautiful thing Abby had ever heard in her life.

Tired and sweating, they were far from finished, and they continued to explore each other’s bodies well into the night. Stroking, tasting, pushing, they spent hours milking every ounce of pleasure from each other that they could. They took turns—sometimes willingly and sometimes by force—coaxing with hands, tongues, and whispered words, wanting the night to never end, wanting to stay twisted into each other until the end of time, wanting not to face the day, the world, the anguish of what had happened back home. And though it may not have been clear to them in the middle of it all, somewhere in the backs of their minds, they knew what they wanted, they knew exactly why they had ended up naked and tangled up in each other’s bodies on someone else’s bed in the basement of a small house in Gander, Newfoundland: they wanted, they
needed
to feel alive.

September 15, 2001
Saturday

Chapter 14

Warm.

That was the first thought registering in Erica’s brain when she swam up from deep sleep and settled into a light doze. She was so perfectly warm, she wanted to stay there forever.

Sated.

That was the next. She felt completely, utterly satisfied, almost intoxicated—pleasantly so. Her limbs were heavy but comfortable and she snuggled more tightly into the soft body that held her.

Sore.

That came third and brought a mischievous half-grin to her lips. Her inner thighs were tender. Her lips were swollen and a little chapped. A slight but insistent ache radiated from between her legs. She absently wondered at the fact that general muscle soreness was an annoyance, but muscle soreness as a result of crazy-hot sex was a badge of honor. Life was funny that way.

Erica cracked her eyes open just a touch and squinted to see the clock. 3:47 a.m. She gave a little sound of pleasure at the early hour, ecstatic that she needn’t budge from the cloud of comfort surrounding her.