6| Huffing testosterone and pheromones

6| Huffing testosterone and pheromones

OTTILIE

Frankie's still at the farmhouse,

Yorke is restless, watching as guns disappear and people fill the White House

K NOX SILVA is incredibly warm.

It's like I've woken up inside an oven. Weak light is filtering through a pair of massive windows—one of which is notably missing a velvet curtain. The shade of the light says early, gray, like the sun only topped the horizon a few moments ago.

I'm lying flat on top of Knox, my face wedged between his clavicle and his neck, my bare breasts squashed flat against smooth skin, over sleek muscles. There's a smattering of hair across his chest.

His head resting on a silken throw pillow, his face turned slightly away, one of his arms is draped over my shoulders, and the other is stretched all the way across me diagonally, his fingers loosely curled around the dip of my waist.

I'd eat rum raisin for you.

As I remember, a sharp burst of warmth spears through my abdomen.

It's not lust, or at least not just lust. It's something else, something more.

I've never been this close to a man while naked, at least not this long. My limited sexual experiences were quick and somewhat revolting. This feels like the best hug of my whole life.

It's incredibly intimate.

It's also incredibly comforting, and since he's unconscious, I let myself soak up the warmth of it, breathe in the smell of him, the sound of his even breathing, his steady heart, and it awakens something inside me that feels like yearning.

I always assumed I was missing the gene that made sex enjoyable. And I really haven't considered repeating the process, but now …

Whatever Knox is putting off, it's the stuff that leads to broken hearts, discord in the ranks, babies born after the apocalypse. It's not a good time for me to be huffing testosterone and pheromones straight from the source.

No matter how good it feels.

Moving slowly, I pull my hands away from where they're tucked under his armpits and slowly lift my torso off him.

That reveals more distractions.

Unfortunately, exposing his nakedness also exposes mine, and I realize what I hadn't noticed until just now.

The space between my legs is pressing directly against his bare thigh, just below his rucked-up briefs, where he's sporting a … rather large … morning erection.

My mouth goes dry as I stare down at his briefs and wonder if he did the same to me? Did he look between my thighs as he stripped me?

It was dark. Maybe he didn't.

He will definitely, however, have realized I don't shave down there. He'll have felt that clearly where I was pressed against him.

All

night

long.

There's an odd feeling like he took a secret from me, even if he did it to save me. It reminds me of how his eyes used to feel like battering rams.

Friend.

I remind myself again.

Trust.

I tuck the drapery-turned-blanket back around him, confirm his eyes are well and truly closed, and tiptoe my naked self across the cool room to where my coat and clothes hang over chairs around the fire.

They're all still wet on the non-fire side, as is everything that was in my backpack. I spend a minute sifting through it and find the book soaked to the point of uselessness, my spare clothes too, and Gran's pills gone entirely, the gun is wet. If it will work is to be determined.

More problems to solve.

A blue embroidered throw blanket covered in beads and tassels rests on a wingback chair. Knowing the Alwestons, it is probably an actual antique, and some Victorian woman sewed it by hand using threads of silk and gold.

It smells vaguely dusty and musty, but I drape it over myself gladly, take a final look at the sleeping man on the sofa, my heart doing an odd clench at the sight of him, and draped in embroidered beads, I bolt for the kitchens.

It smells like Gran has started coffee.

Time to finish our argument from last night.

G RAN HAS ALWAYS TAKEN excruciating care of her appearance, found time to sneak on blush and lipstick to brighten her cheeks, to brush her hair carefully, never letting us see her face bearing so much as an imprint of exhaustion.

She's no different now, her hair carefully brushed, her lips painted a soft mauve, wearing a thick cashmere robe I imagine she found upstairs.

She's seated in a chair at the breakfast table, staring out at the grounds beyond.

This is an old house, originally built in the seventeen hundreds, but renovated to add this kitchen off the back. A fireplace sits near the breakfast table, thick, old red bricks, but the rest of the kitchen is made of old wood beams and glass thick enough to keep the cold out. Sitting on the table before her is a protein bar, her handgun, and a mug of steaming coffee.

At some point during the night, the rain shifted to ice, and a sheet of it covers the plants and trees outside.

Pale light pours in to gild one side of Gran's face where she sits, holding one of the bottles of pills in her hand.

She shakes it softly, and they rattle like tic tacs. "I found them in your backpack," she says quietly, curling her fingers around the bottle, and I realize what this is. Gran's a veteran speech giver. She'll have been sure to pack concealer and lipstick in her own go bag. She waited for me now for precisely this ambush. "I have my own pills, Ottilie. I'm not senile. I don't need you going back for books on kidneys and nearly getting shot or falling into storm drains to avoid bumping into me."

"Those are just backups."

"I'm in full control of my wits."

"I never said you weren't."

She turns toward me, her face tight with held-back emotions. "And yet the two of you have decided your opinions hold more value than mine?"

"That's not what happened."

"Yes, it is. I could have spoken with those people."

"We'd have died if you tried. They shot at us."

"They didn't know who we were." She slaps the pill bottle down on the table. "And we nearly died fleeing. Fleeing! Like cowards in the night. You know what separates a leader from a follower? A leader trusts themself to handle a situation. They don't fear the unknown because they believe themselves to be capable enough to face any foe."

I walk slowly to the table, the beads on the blanket rattling softly with my every step. "And good leaders take their advisers' suggestions to heart." My words come out gently, but this is as close as I've ever gotten to outright dissent, and we both know it. "Knox is the most qualified among us to evaluate risk."

"The Secret Service has zero tolerance for risk. He will never be comfortable with any situation. He never was. They always want to run and hide and never go to outdoor events. That was always their mission. You know that."

It's true.

"You can't expect Knox to sacrifice himself as a one-man army."

"I never asked him to fight them. Only to step aside and let me talk to them." She swipes a hand through the air as if to clear it, and regains her preternatural calm. "We need people. How many were there last night? Ten? Fifteen? We could use them. We cannot do this if the two of you refuse to let me take a risk now and again. I am old, and I'm not in perfect health, but I'm not frail. I'm not dying. And I won't be treated like an invalid."

My throat gets tight. I've built my life around serving this woman and her career. She's the only person I've ever trusted, the only person who made me feel safe, like I had a home and a team and a purpose.

My mouth goes dry as she carries on talking, reviewing all the ways we need to get organized, how everything we had got soaked, and Nancy Alweston weighed about eighty-one pounds, so we need new clothes, presidential clothes, and we need food beyond what we put in the go-bags and escape car. She finishes with, "I want those talking points I've been asking for."

My bare cold toes dig into a brick floor that's long been worn smooth.

Gran and I don't cry, though—at least not in front of each other.

"I can't write," I say, and I'm so grateful it comes out crisply, confidently, borderline assertively."

She rounds on me, rising from her chair, the pill bottle clutched in one hand.

"Yes, you can. Find the moment you quit thinking I was the woman for this job." Her chin lifts. "It wasn't me who changed.

I cross my arms over my middle like it might stop the words from bubbling out of me, but they've been bubbling for weeks. They nearly came out last night. "You sent Gina off."

Her mouth wobbles. "I had to."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Just trust me. I'll tell you when it makes sense. Not yet."

"You knew she'd die." It shifts, leaving my throat, contorting into something close to a sob. I stifle it, just wrestle the sad person inside me down, and do exactly what Knox accused me of. I shove a sock in her mouth.

Gran's face is white now, her chin raised up high, revealing the thin, papery skin of her neck.

"You sent her off knowing she'd die. How do I know you won't do that to Knox?" I ask, and this time, my voice is low and quiet. "Or me?"

"I won't," she says quietly.

"I don't believe you," I say back.