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It doesn’t feel bad, but it feels strange. Like something isn’t quite right.
I try to be strong, but I’m still not strong enough. I go to his room every night. Not for sex though. This is the week when I’m most fertile, which is a valid excuse not to fuck. I want to have sex with Jackson, but it feels scary somehow, so I’m glad of the reprieve. He never questions why I keep coming to his room even though we’re not fucking. He waits for me every night. I get into bed with him, and we hold each other until we fall asleep.
I don’t want it to be so, but it’s the best part of my days.
It’s the middle of the following week when I’ve arranged to meet Mack with the supplies. I’ve put together as many seed packets and bags of flour and vegetables as I can spare, along with written instructions and advice. We need to take the pickup truck to carry it all, but the meeting spot isn’t far away so we won’t have to use too much gas.
I expect to go with Miguel, but it’s Jackson waiting by the truck when I head out toward it after breakfast.
He doesn’t grumble about the risk or how many of our provisions we’re giving away. He waits for me to settle into the passenger seat in the cab, and then he starts the engine and drives us away from the farm.
It only takes about twenty-five minutes to get to the old gas station on the crossroads of two small country roads. No one else is in sight, so Jackson parks the truck near what used to be the pumps.
This gas station was abandoned early on—not long after Impact—and my dad and Jackson went to empty out what was left of the gas.
“He better not be fucking late,” Jackson mutters now, looking down the road in one direction and then the other.
He sounds so much like his old self that I almost smile. “We’re a little early. I’m sure he’ll be here.” I’ve never actually met Mack, but it feels like I know him from the notes at the drop spot. He seems like a dependable sort.
Jackson makes a sound in his throat, but it doesn’t form an actual word. He’s sweating slightly since hot, humid air is coming through our open windows. His hair is getting too long now. Some of it is hanging over his forehead, almost into his eyes.
Without thinking, I reach over to brush it back so he can see better. I’m not sure why I do it. It’s not the kind of thing that I do. Sure, I’ve had my hands and mouth all over his cock, but I don’t make casual, intimate touches like that.
It surprises me. And him too. His shoulders stiffen, and he reaches up to take the hand I used to touch him.
We stare at each other, his fingers wrapped around my wrist.
I suddenly want to kiss him so much the need of it swallows me whole. I gulp.
“Kitten,” he breathes. It’s not clear if it’s an endearment or a question.
Then his eyes get hot. My breath hitches. We both lean toward each other over the console between the seats, and I’m sure we would have kissed had we not heard someone tapping on a car horn in the distance.
We break apart, scanning the roads to see who’s approaching. At the sight of a truck, Jackson gets out and props up his rifle, having it ready just in case.
Even if you’re planning to meet someone, you don’t take chances anymore.
There’s another vehicle on the road with the pickup truck. It’s a motorcycle. As they get closer, I can see a girl is driving it. She looks very young.
A big black man is behind the wheel of the pickup truck, and there’s a white man in the truck bed with a shotgun at the ready.
I step out and wave since I’m sure one of those guys is Mack. The guy driving the truck waves back. “Faith?” he calls out when he pulls into the gas station lot beside us.
“Yes. Mack?”
“That’s me. Glad to meet you at last.” He parks and climbs out. Big and strong and handsome and powerful but with a genuinely warm expression it’s impossible not to like. “Thanks for meeting us. It’s great of y’all to give us the supplies.”
“We’re happy to help.”
I glance over when the motorcycle parks beside Mack. The girl is possibly my age or maybe several years younger. It’s impossible to tell. She’s got dark brown hair and startlingly green eyes, and she’s wearing dark jeans and what looks like a man’s T-shirt. “I’m Rachel,” she says, giving me a little wave. “And that’s Cal.”
She gestures toward the big, unsmiling man in the truck bed. He looks to be around forty, so he’s the right age to be Rachel’s father. He barely even looks at me. He’s too busy watching the road and occasionally Jackson, who hasn’t come over to be introduced and hasn’t put down his rifle.
“Rachel and Cal are helping guard the shipment,” Mack says. “Don’t want to travel with this much stuff without extra help.”
“Makes sense. That’s good of y’all to help.” I say the words to Rachel since she seems nice enough.
“It’s not goodness,” Cal says without looking down at me. “We’re getting paid.”
