CHAPTER THREE
Jackson
There it is. If I wasn’t listening for it, I would have missed the telltale sound of the kitchen window going up. My heart thunders to life, and a tingle shoots up my back. I get out from under the covers, grab my sidearm, and don my night-vision goggles. It’s my little dancer; I know it is. It has to be.
If it’s not, I’ll shoot the fucker.
Stepping as softly as I can, I stop just short of the bedroom door. There’s no hallway, and it opens directly into a room that serves as a living room/kitchen. They didn’t go all-out on us with the apartments. We each got a one-bedroom, but none of them are what you’d call luxurious. Still, it’s better than the bunkhouse I lived in back at the Arc. And they feed us.
Raising my gun, I peer around the corner, careful to keep most of my body protected behind the wall.
A small figure in a blue and gray coat uses a gutting knife to slice off a sliver of bread. Her back’s to me, but I recognize that ass; it’s her all right. I start to sweat. Girl’s crazy. This is the second time the little dancer’s broken into my apartment. It happened the second night after I busted her in that old office building. That time she took almost nothing: a slice of cheese and an apple. Not much of a meal if you ask me. I did nothing as she pushed aside the dark blue curtain and climbed back out the window. After she left me, she’d gone to the next ground-floor apartment and climbed in through their window.
She must really be hungry if she’s daring troop apartments. Not a bad plan, though, if you’re desperate enough. Steal a little from each person, but not so much anyone notices.
After she left the second apartment, she’d hoisted herself up onto the balcony above her and hit the next one. Tell you what, this girl could give a gymnast a run for their money.
I’ve been waiting for her to come back.
Waiting. I’ve even left a tiny LED light on over the kitchen sink just to make sure she can see.
To make sure I can see her.
I can’t stop thinking about this girl. It’s driving me nuts. I try drawing pictures of Jenna, the girl from the Arc who would come out sometimes to flirt with me. She’s pretty enough. Bonus, she doesn’t smell like an old alley. But somehow I find myself drawing a pair of thickly lashed eyes. I jack off in the five-minute shower allotted to us, picturing my face buried in those tits. I go out on patrol every day—which, if you want the truth, means looking for her—and by the time I get back, my balls ache so bad I have to beat my meat again.
She opens the ice box and discovers my eggs. From the way she sucks in her breath, I’d bet she hasn’t seen an egg in years. She takes two and wraps each one oh so carefully inside a rag of its own and places it in her pack. She recoils from the meat and closes the door. Then the half-empty cup of coffee catches her attention. She peers at it, sweeps the room with a glance, and takes it up. She sniffs it, and her expression turns to recognition. She brings it to her lips, and after a slight hesitation, she takes a sip. She makes this ew face and puts it back down again, and I almost laugh out loud. It’s been sitting there for hours.
I want to get closer. Now that I have her, I want to touch her. I want to see if that skin of hers is soft or rough from the elements.
This is just plain ridiculous. The girl’s a scrap—one of the sick tribes who prey on the weak and eat their flesh. No way am I going to touch her. But I can’t stop picturing what it would be like to shove my dick up her ass and hear her scream. I want to twist those nipples until she cries, and then I want to lick up her tears. My cock goes rock hard.
She glances about the room again as though checking for other treasures. When she spots my rifle, she freezes.
Leave. Just leave. If she tries to take it, I’ll have to shoot. I promised myself this when I removed the bullets and placed it in plain sight.
My little dancer draws closer to the weapon and squints at it. She takes a full breath and, eyes wide, runs her hand down the cold metal as though it’s made of warm flesh. She repeats the gesture, and she wears this dreamy, hungry look. I almost groan. I can almost feel her running those hands over my dick. I adjust my package as my heart speeds up and dread settles in my chest. If she picks it up, I’ll shoot.
And maybe she should. I’ve been planning my scouting in grid sequences around the place I first saw her. To my team, it looks like I’m being thorough. But I’m not. I’m looking for—looking out for—her.
She needs to go. Now.
Taking a breath, she drops her hand, and retreats a step. Interesting. She bites her lip and stares longingly between the window and the fridge, before finally reaching into her bag, retrieving one of the eggs, and replacing it in the box.
If she weighs a hundred pounds, I’d be surprised. I don’t know when she’s eaten last. But she’s putting food back.
My chest expands as my breath gets heavy. She’s beautiful. Fucking beautiful. The feeling is everything I dreaded, and worse. I’m seriously fucked up, always have been. I’m obsessed with getting her; I’m her stalker and I’ll never stop. I’ve never been able to with any of them. The only reason I didn’t land in jail last time was a super-volcano blew and I got called up to my Guard unit.
This has got to end. Hanging out, hoping she’ll come, wandering the streets hoping for a glimpse. I need to either fuck her raw and kill her or let her go. One or the other.
But not tonight.
I watch as she climbs silently back through the window, and for the first time I realize she’s not wearing any shoes. Of course. Her boots. That must have been her only pair.
With no more reason to hover in the doorway, I return the sidearm to the top of the dresser and flick the goggles onto the bed. How did I become such a bastard? I sink down and bury my face in my hands. All I can think about is jackhammering her with my cock and shooting cum all over her face. Of shoving myself so far down her throat she gags. Of fisting that mane of hers and riding her so long she bleeds. And I know I’m going to do it.
I always do.