Afterglow: An Apocalypse Romance Read online

  A few seconds later the person emerged from the garage, black skull cap pulled down low, and slunk around to his back door. The intruder held a gun, a revolver from the looks of it, and Creed’s heart rate accelerated. He’d known it would come to this eventually. Fights, with weapons. Death, either his or his opponent’s. But he’d hoped it would wait a bit until he was back to 100%. He supposed, though, that in an apocalypse nothing waited for you. You either had to keep moving or die, and he was planning on staying alive for a while.

  A knock sounded on the back door, and Creed crept into the kitchen, keeping watch from behind the pantry door. When a rock smashed the window next to the door, Creed thought one thing: I’m going to kill this asshole. He crouched down, muscles taut, ready to leap out at the intruder and mentally kicking himself for leaving his gun in the front room, and within seconds he had his chance.

  As soon as the person stepped into the kitchen, Creed flew from his hiding place and landed two hard kicks. The first sent the revolver flying, and the second, to the side of the asshole’s head, knocked him out and down. Creed stepped over the person on the floor and retrieved the gun—a pretty Ruger .38 snub nose. After checking that the hammer was in the safety notch, he stuck it into the waistband of his jeans, then stalked back over to his intruder.

  With his foot, he prodded the person lightly and heard a moan, unmistakably feminine. What the hell? He crouched down over the body, and now he could see it was in fact a girl, her face, despite the instant swelling where he’d kicked her, undeniably beautiful. Her eyelashes, resting on her cheeks, were long and dark, and her lips were full and perfect. He leaned over and, in one quick motion, pulled the cap off her head, releasing a cascade of dark red curls that fell onto his kitchen floor around her head.

  Well, fuck. A chuckle left his lips as he stood for a few seconds staring down at her. In what new reality was he that, in the middle of the probable end of the world, a girl like this broke into his house with a gun? And got kicked in the side of the head by him?

  He couldn’t let his guard down, though, so he quickly rolled her body to the side, grabbed the kitchen twine from one of the drawers, and tied her wrists together behind her back. When he picked her up, she let out another small moan, and even though it was completely inappropriate given the situation, his cock throbbed once. It sounded so sexual, like the kind of moan she’d probably make if he were touching her... Nope.

  He wasn’t going to go there. He couldn’t let his dick lead the way right now. He needed to keep his wits about him, especially since he didn’t have all his strength back yet. With new resolve, he walked into the living room and deposited her onto the couch. Then he turned the armchair sideways, so he could watch both the outside of the house and the girl.

  In a few minutes he heard her gasp, then struggle to sit up. Her hands were still tied behind her, but she managed to do it, her big eyes focusing on him and her revolver, which he now pointed directly at her.

  “You... don’t hurt me.” Her voice trembled, but he could hear more than a little anger too. It occurred to him that in addition to being scared she was probably pissed that he’d taken her out.

  “Looks like I already did. You shouldn’t break into people’s houses.”

  “I knocked first.”

  “And because I didn’t answer, you assumed it was OK to break in?” Creed checked her out. Awake, she was even more beautiful than when she’d been asleep. Or unconscious, if he were being honest with himself. Her hair danced around her head when she moved it, and her eyes were a gorgeous pale green. Like light passing through a Heineken bottle. He should fucking write poetry, he thought to himself, one of his lips turning up in a half-grin at the thought.

  “This isn’t funny. Untie me!” An angry blush tinted her cheeks.

  He just stared at her impassively. “I don’t think you’re really in any position to be making demands.”

  “Please? If you untie me, I’ll leave. I’m sorry I broke in. I didn’t think anyone lived here. I won’t come back.”

  Glass shattered outside the front window before he could answer. Adrenaline surged through his body as he scanned the area. A raccoon caught his eye, sifting through garbage and throwing objects out in the process. A damn raccoon. In the middle of the day. Things really were going to hell.

  Relieved, he stuck the girl’s revolver into his waistband, turning back to her.

  She leapt off the couch, hands somehow untied, and sprinted for the front door.

  Creed grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her from behind. He hissed into her ear, “No way, sweetheart. You need to tell me what you were after in my garage before I let you go.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, writhing to get free.

  He grasped her tighter, but she kicked back, the heel of her boot connecting with his kneecap. He swore as pain shot through him and he inadvertently loosened his grip a bit.

  The girl wrenched her body in his arms, and though he held tight she got enough room to free one arm. By the time he noticed the knife it was too late, the blade cutting deeply into his left bicep.

  He cursed, letting go and grasping his arm in surprise and pain. Blood rushed up between his fingers. “What the fuck?”

  The girl backed up against the front door, poised to fight with her blade out. She looked ready, eager even, and he could tell she was tough. Though he towered over her at practically twice her size, apparently she could hold her own. He reached over to his waistband for the revolver he’d taken from her.

  “Looking for this?” She pulled it out of her holster. Somehow, when he’d been struggling with her, she’d not only cut him but also retrieved her gun.

  “Get. The fuck. Out of my house.” He sank down into the chair, dizziness overcoming him.

  “OK.” Her voice wavered, like she wasn’t as sure of herself as she’d been. “Look, I’m sorry I cut you. I was scared.”

  “Get out.”

  “It’s really bleeding.” She took a step closer.

  He glanced down at his arm, where blood pooled in the crook of his elbow. “Go. Now,” he hissed.

  “Sorry,” she said, and she was out the door.

  He watched her run down the street and turn the corner, keeping close to the cars as she did. Who the hell was she? He could almost believe he’d imagined her, imagined the break-in. Except for the throbbing in his arm and the fact that his T-shirt was getting soaked with his own blood.

  He felt like shit. Weak from being sick. Shaky from not eating enough. But he forced himself up to look for the first-aid kit.

  * * *

  He cleaned the cut and covered it with gauze, then a bandage. It needed stitches, and he could take care of that himself, he was pretty sure, but not yet. Right now he needed water and rest. He popped some Advil just for good measure, then sat back in his chair to watch the front yard.

  At first he thought he was hallucinating as he saw her. That redhead again. Approaching his house with a backpack on. This time she wore a baseball cap, her long hair pulled back into a ponytail that stuck out through the hole in the back of her hat. She looked like the girls at college, waking up late after a morning of partying, and once again, his dick stirred. Clearly his dick had no idea that this was the end of the world. Unlike the college girls, though, she was staying low, hiding below the level of the parked and abandoned cars, darting between them as she made her way closer.

  She rapped twice on the door, tentatively.

  “What do you want?” he growled through the wood.

  “I, uh, brought some stuff.”

  “What the fuck kind of stuff?” He wasn’t in the mood for games.

  “Stuff for your arm. Because I cut you.”

  “I took care of it.”

  “Just let me in. Please? I don’t like standing out here. It’s dangerous.”

  That was probably true, and begrudgingly he pulled the door open, allowing her to enter.

  “Sit down,” she said, pointing at the fl
oor next to the coffee table.

  “So, what? You come into my house and start ordering me around?”

  “If you want me to help you, do what I say.” She took her cap off, tossing it onto the couch, and set her backpack down on the floor. She proceeded to pull out a first-aid kit, fully stocked, from the looks of it. She placed an ice pack on the table, the kind that needed to be cracked to get cold.

  “What’s the ice for?” he asked.

  She looked at him for a long moment, then raised her eyebrows as she said, “It’s for my face. Someone kicked me. I’m getting a black eye.”

  “Right. My apologies, sweetheart,” he muttered as he sat down, back against the coffee table.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “What? Sweetheart?” So she didn’t like terms of endearment. He’d have to use them more often then.

  “I’m not sweet.”

  “I don’t know,” he drawled, teasing her. “You came back here with your first-aid kit after I kicked you in the head and tied you up. That’s pretty sweet.”

  “I’m just here to get my revenge,” she muttered as she started to arrange some supplies on the table. “Let’s see how sweet you think I am when I’m sewing up your arm.”

  “You think I can’t take a little pain?”

  “I’ll make sure it’s more than just a little.” She’d suffused her voice with fake sugar, and he laughed out loud until she stood up and took off her leather jacket.

  Underneath she was wearing a fitted black T-shirt, its V-neck giving him just a tiny glimpse of cleavage. Worn denim hugged her ass and thighs. Though she was short and small, her body was sheer perfection. Rounded breasts, a slim waist, then hips that curved just enough that he could imagine exactly how they’d feel with his fingers digging into them as he drove into her from behind.

  He shifted, the wood of the coffee table hard against his back. She’d better start sticking that fucking needle into his arm soon so he didn’t get a full-on hard-on that he couldn’t hide.

  “I’m ready,” she said. “Oh wait. One more thing.” She rummaged around in her backpack for a second, then pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

  “Now I know I’m dreaming,” he said. “Pretty girl coming in here to handcuff me? Unless you want me to handcuff you?” He tried to grin suggestively, but ended up wincing as new pain surged through his arm.

  She frowned. “These? Are for safety. Not pleasure.” With that she attached one of the cuffs to the leg of the coffee table and the other around his right wrist. It was cool against his skin, and the clink the cuffs made when she locked it sent shivers down his spine.

  “You know,” he said. “I could just lift up the coffee table and slide that right off in a second.” He wiped at the sweat beading up on his brow and blinked to turn the two of her back into one.

  “I know. But a second is all I’d need to get away from you. You’re big but I’m quick. In case you didn’t notice.”

  He grunted. It wasn’t the only thing he’d noticed.

  She crouched down at his left side and removed the bandage and gauze he’d put on earlier. It was soaked through with blood. “I’m going to clean this up, then I’m going to sew it shut. It’s going to hurt. Can you handle it?”

  “I can handle anything.”

  “Ooh, big brave man,” she muttered, as she began to clean the wound.

  He hissed out between his teeth at the sting. To distract himself, he said, “Sweetheart, you’re here sewing me up and I don’t even know your name.”

  “Once again, it’s not sweetheart,” she commented casually, rolling her eyes, but he saw the look of concern, the furrow in her brow as she gazed as his wound. She picked up the needle and thread, which she’d had soaking in some solution. Probably disinfectant.

  He wondered what kind of training she had, but he didn’t want to piss her off by asking too many questions when she was about to work on him. And she was all he had right now. “Then tell me what it is and I’ll stop calling you sweetheart.”

  “It’s Nina. Now hold still. This is going to hurt.”

  “That’s usually my line,” he teased, but as soon as the needle pierced his skin he grunted, holding back the yell.

  “Does it hurt?” Nina asked, pulling the thread through and piercing his skin again.

  “No,” he muttered. “It feels amazing. Like goddamn kittens and cupcakes.”

  “Kittens and cupcakes?” She laughed, the sound light and pretty.

  Maybe it was the best thing he’d heard in days. Weeks, even.

  “So what’s your name, big boy?” asked Nina, continuing to sew up his arm.

  “Creed. But you can call me big boy if you want.” The pain was dull and sharp in turns, sending waves of nausea rocketing through his body. He took a deep breath to guide himself through it and focused on her voice.

  “I don’t think we know each other well enough for nicknames.”

  “Are you sure it’s just sweetheart you don’t like? I could call you killer. It might be more appropriate.” He was joking around to take his mind off the pain, but it was hard, and he leaned back against the coffee table and closed his eyes as his forehead broke out in a cold sweat.

  “I’d prefer killer to sweetheart. Hey, you don’t look good. Here,” said Nina, and Creed heard a cracking sound, then felt a cold ice pack being pressed to his forehead. “Hold that there. Oh crap. You can’t. Give me a second.” She unlocked the cuff, and he brought his right hand up to his forehead, holding the ice pack in place.

  “Just finish it,” he growled. Then he added, “please.”

  “OK. Hold on.” In a few minutes she was done, and she wiped the area clean, then bandaged it up with gauze.

  When he opened his eyes, she was looking at him, worry in her face. “How are you doing?”

  “Just great, sweet... uh, Nina.” He raised an eyebrow at her and attempted a grin.

  “Take these. With this.” She dropped a handful of pills into his hand and passed him an uncapped water bottle.

  “What is all this shit?”

  “Advil and antibiotics.”

  “I already took Advil.”

  “How many?”

  “Two.”

  “You can take more.”

  “What are you, Nina? A fucking nurse?”

  She gave him a long look as he took the pills. “No, I’m not a fucking nurse. Or a pediatric nurse or an ER nurse or any other kind of nurse. I’m a teacher. Seventh grade.”

  “So how does a seventh grade teacher know how to sew up an arm like that?”

  “Here and there.”

  “Here and there... where?”

  “Why do you care?” She put down the bottle and crossed her arms.

  “Just making conversation, Nina. You’re the first person I’ve spoken with in about two weeks, so...”

  “Huh. I guess me too,” said Nina, beginning to pack her first-aid kit back up. When she moved, her curls danced, and sunlight streaming in through the windows glinted off of them. She was in profile, her cheek creamy white with just a hint of pink, and her neck looked so bite-able. But then she turned her head, and he saw, once again, the angry purple welt, the bruising under her eye. Because of him.

  “Jesus, Nina. Here.” He thrust the ice pack he was holding to his forehead at her. “Your face. I’m sorry.”

  “Right. Thanks.” When she took the ice pack, he fought the urge to grasp her hand, to hold it, so small, in his huge rough fingers. That’d probably freak her out, though, and they’d both done enough damage to each other today.

  She winced slightly as she held the ice pack to her eye and the side of her head, and a pang of remorse coursed through Creed. He’d done that. He’d kicked her in the head. Yeah, OK, so the circumstance was definitely extenuating. Still, though, hurting a girl was pretty much the biggest dick move possible.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  “I’ll live.” She shrugged.

  “Hopefully we both will,” he mut
tered, but he wasn’t really talking about their superficial injuries. The gravity of their new world was hitting him again, and he felt drained. “Anyway, are we even now?”

  “What are you talking about?” A hint of a smile graced her pink lips.

  “You broke into my house. I kicked you and tied you up. You sliced my arm. Then you fixed it up.”

  “Well,” she said, grinning now, “let’s see. I broke in and cut you, but then sewed you up. You kicked me. Tied me up. And didn’t make it up to me yet. I’d say I’m up one, so you owe me.”

  “Fine. What do you want? Got a few dozen cans of beef stew. Some beef jerky too.”

  “I don’t need food.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  She looked at him for a solid ten seconds before she spoke. He waited her out, curious about what she was going to request. Finally she spoke, her voice completely even and confident. “Your bike. The one in the garage. I want it.”

  * * *

  Creed’s laughter filled the living room. “That, sweetheart, is about the funniest thing I’ve heard in a very long time.”

  Nina cocked her head to the side and watched him while he laughed. She didn’t even crack a smile. “You asked what I want. I told you,” she finally said.

  “You’re not getting my bike.”

  “I’ll trade you, then.”

  “Oh yeah? What could you possibly have, Nina, that would be worth my motorcycle?” Creed loved that bike, and there was no way he’d give it up. Yes, she’d sewn up his arm. And she was hot as hell. But she’d been the one to cut him in the first place. And he had more sense than to give something as useful as a motorcycle to the first pretty girl who came his way.

  “What do you need?” She tilted her chin at him, her face calm.

  “Well, let’s see,” he drawled, giving her a suggestive look.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve got a gun, don’t forget.”