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And tomorrow night, Cora will have a date with one of the others?
It is difficult to understand Jud’s order. Why should Cora have to spend time with each of us? What if she doesn’t want to?
But she smiles softly at me and lifts the hem of my T-shirt.Numbly, I take over for her and peel the white cotton over my head. I don’t know where to put it once it’s off. I look around and see no hamper to throw it in, no footlocker, like I have at the foot of my bed in the dorm, to drape it over until I feel like dealing with it.
Cora’s laugh is a joyful sparkle in the atmosphere. It’s like the burst of fairy dust accompanied by tinkling music from a Disney movie. “I guess I need a few things in here to really make it home. Like a place to put dirty laundry.” She takes my rumpled shirt, folds it, and places it in a drawer in the chest across from the bed. The gesture warms my heart. It’s something a girlfriend…or a wife would do, and she does it seemingly without thought.
I spy candles with charred wicks on top, and I wonder if they were lit last night when she had Jud here. Did she also fold and put away his clothes? Did she remove his shoes?
I can’t decide if I mind such questions or not, so I choose not to think about them. It is not as if I have any claim on Cora. Certainly, no claim as strong as the one Jud has. He found her, after all. He is our leader. It is surprisingly fair of him not to pursue her singly. He does not have to include the rest of us, but he does. He is a good leader.
I wonder what Cora thinks of this. I wonder about the “bad situation” she was in. The rumor mill says it was a man and his brother who held her captive since not long after Week Zero. I don’t care to imagine the details of what happened to her. It hurts to think of this delicate flower being abused.
Cora returns to me and wears an open, innocent expression as she studies my torso. I am an exhibit in a museum, and I like her attention. I spread my arms, letting her look her fill. I hope she does more than look. In this museum, touching is encouraged.
When she turns her deep-ocean eyes up to mine, my heart stutters. She is not a seductress, not a wrestling fan looking for a single night of fun with a strong man in a colorful costume. There is not an ounce of coyness in her searching gaze. There is only honest curiosity and tentativeness, as if she is asking permission to do more.
I lick my lips, and she must take that as permission, because she begins petting my chest with her cool hands, and,Oh. My.
“Dat is nice,” I say as warmth blooms inside and spreads to every corner of my body. My skin erupts in gooseflesh, and I sigh into the semi-darkness. I have not been touched by a woman in a long, long time.
My eyes close, but that deprives me of Cora’s beauty, so I force them open. She flattens her hands on my pecs, and I’m proud of how hard I work to stay in shape. There is a weight room at the back of Scrap’s shop, and between the seven of us, the equipment is in almost constant use.
I cannot tell if Cora appreciates my time on the weight bench. Her expression is avid but neutral. I remember how young she is. How many chests has she pet like this? She would have been eighteen when the Virus hit. That middle point when Americans can vote but not drink, can work and have credit cards but not buy pot or enter a dance club. So needlessly complicated compared to Norway.
Did Cora have a boyfriend? Had she explored her sexuality, or was she innocent before her captivity?
My heart fills with aching for what this young flower has suffered. I want to pull her in and wrap my arms around her, but her exploration moves lower, to my abdomen. It tickles. I flex my muscles to fight the urge to wiggle, because I suspect she needs this. She needs to learn a man’s body, and she needs to do it in her own time.
Under her hands, my stomach jumps and contracts again. As if she understands my predicament, her touch grows bolder. Her fingers show surprising strength as they map me and massage me.
I moan in the back of my throat.
Then she does something I do not expect. She curls her fingers into the waistband of my jeans, and I lose the ability to think.
“May I undress you, Shep?” Her hands grip my belt buckle, but they move no further.
“Yes, please,” I say hoarsely. I have to clench my fists to keep from doing it for her so I can get naked quicker. I don’t fool myself that she wants to have sex with me. I think she is curious, and she feels safe enough with me to let me see that curiosity. It is an honor to be her safe place.
So, I keep very still as she works my belt and peels my jeans down my thighs. The caress of the denim feels divine because it isherdragging the fabric off of me. I shiver but hold still until it’s time to step out of my pants. They join my shirt, folded neatly in the drawer.
Cora faces me from the dresser and her gaze roams by body. It’s been a long time, but I remember how to strike a pose for a camera. Fists on hips, I flex and glower, the mean, Norwegian bruiser. Erik Storm.
Cora begins shaking. I’m concerned, until I realize she’s choking back a laugh.
Not the reaction I hoped for.
I sag from my pose and frown. Maybe she will like a body-building pose better. I cup my hands behind my head, spread my feet and flex every honed muscle in my body.
The laughter bursts from her. Her arms band her stomach, as if to hold herself together.
“I am trying to impress you,” I say, a little hurt, but more amused. Her joy is a beautiful sound.
“You’re very impressive,” she says, laughter tinging her voice. “Your physique is—.” She sobers. “I mean—I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you.” Her shaking begins again.
I decide to let go of my bruised feelings and embrace her joy. I remember this. Entertaining others. What does it matter if it’s admiration or amusement?
I adopt another pose. Back to her, I give her my best rear lat spread. My glutes are hard apples, my back a strong ladder, my legs columns of steel. I clench my glutes tighter, making them really pop.
