Patient Z (22 page)

“Come on,” he said. “Do it.”

“Give me a chance,” Mitch said. He knelt over Cal, lubing himself up, then slathered some on his fingers and slipped a couple of fingers into Cal’s ass.

“Careful,” Cal whispered, hoarse, barely able to speak. His eyes were closed. He bit his lip. He would come instantly if Mitch touched his prostate, he was sure. Mitch maybe misunderstood, made his touch more gentle.

“I’m sorry. Are you sore? We don’t have to do this.”

Cal’s eyes sprang open. “What? No! Do it. I meant careful what you touch. I’m so close…”

Mitch nodded. “Okay. Relax.” He gripped the base of Cal’s cock, applying pressure in the right spot, and Cal breathed a long sigh as the urgency receded a bit. He regretted ever dumping his collection of cock rings. Some of them had been gifts. He wasn’t a man to keep the gifts men had given him. Most he’d sold, but he’d never been quite desperate enough to brave the embarrassment of taking the cock rings to sell for the weight of their gold or silver. “Better?” Mitch said.

“Yes. Yes. I’m ready, Mitch. Please.”

Mitch took his cue, moving with a swift and uncharacteristically smooth motion, thrusting into Cal. As he buried himself deep, going slow, the boat rocked in a gust of wind, and Cal tightened his grip on the rail above his head. He didn’t dare take his hands from there, because if he did, he’d grab his cock and finish himself off quickly. He didn’t want it to end yet. He wrapped his legs around Mitch’s waist, changing the angle of penetration and feeling the friction on his prostate. Hot-button time. He groaned and rubbed his cock against Mitch’s belly.

“Do it. Fuck me.”

Mitch pulled back slow and pushed in fast, making Cal cry out. He did it again and again, until Cal was yelling at every thrust. He pushed his cock into Mitch’s hand and Mitch stroked slowly.

“God, I’m burning.” Cal let go of the rail to rip his shirt off over his head and toss it across the room. Then he wrapped his arms around Mitch and pulled himself up toward him. Since he still had his legs around him too, that meant he was asking Mitch to take his whole weight. Not possible. Mitch fell forward, big and heavy on Cal, pinning him to the bunk, Cal’s cock trapped between their straining bodies. And coming, his cum hot and sticky on their sweating skin.

He kissed Mitch, almost devoured him, hungry for his pleasure, wanting Mitch to cry out his ecstasy as they kissed. To orgasm in a kiss. He got his wish. Mitch tried to pull away to cry out, but Cal kept their mouths locked, muffling the sound, sharing the pleasure it expressed. Inhaling Mitch’s climax, making it part of his own. The world rocked, the ceiling over his head wobbling, partly the boat, partly his head swimming with the intensity of the pleasure. And for a while there was no ceiling. Only the black sky and the stars. The stars he’d barely known before the world went dark and they shone unopposed again, humanity’s brief fires extinguished.

He came back to himself with Mitch lying at his side, arm around Cal’s waist and eyes closed, breathing evenly in a way that looked suspiciously like a man about to go to sleep. Cal wanted to let him do that. Sleep in this gently rocking bed, soothed by the motion and the warmth of his lover beside him.

But if he did, he’d wake up a weakened man, agreeing to stay. He couldn’t afford to do that. He’d stayed too long. He glanced down and realized they were both completely naked. Ah, damn. That had not been the plan. He didn’t even know when Mitch had taken his pants all the way off. Still, that had not been lazy Sunday-morning sex.

No, that had been mind-blowing, seeing-stars sex you only got with someone special.
And you know that how?
his mind asked him.
You always ran from anyone who even seemed like they might be special
. No. He knew, because in the past, sex like that had been the signal to run. He saw stars, and the next thing he saw was the road out of town.

He shoved Mitch’s shoulder. “Mitch, wake up. You’re not sleeping here.” He tried to make his voice as cold as possible. It wasn’t very convincing. Mitch opened his eyes and gave Cal a goofy smile.

“Hasn’t been like that for a long time.”

When he still loved Dex, Cal supposed he meant.

“Not sure it was ever like that,” Mitch went on.

“Well, that’s very flattering, but…”

“Please, Cal, don’t make me beg to stay for just a few minutes.” The pain in his voice and his eyes was hard for Cal to bear. So hard he wanted to reach out and flick off the electric light so he at least couldn’t see the eyes. But if he did that, it could be an invitation to stay the night. To sleep here. So instead he turned away so he didn’t have to look at Mitch. Mitch leaned up on one elbow and touched Cal’s shoulder, his chest, small caresses. Gentle. Seductive. Touches you’d have to be made of stone to ask to stop.

“Will you say good-bye before you go?” Mitch asked. “To the others, I mean. To the children.”

Cal winced, glad Mitch couldn’t see that. “No. It’s best if I go at first light, before they’re up. I don’t want to get the kids upset.”

“I think that’s inevitable.”

Cal closed his eyes. It didn’t matter, he told himself. And Mitch was just trying to manipulate him. He doubted Mitch had thought about the reactions of the children when he tossed the badly behaving men out of the group.

“Tell them I’ve gone to join Santa Claus and his band of zombie killers.”

“I’ll tell them to pray for you.” The words surprised Cal, and he turned to look at Mitch.

“You’re a praying man?”

“Sometimes,” Mitch said.

“I would have thought after the last few years, before all this, any man of our kind wouldn’t want anything to do with religion.”

“Well, I can’t say I ever had much to do with organized religion. But God never called me a fag, so…” Mitch shrugged. “You’re not a believer?”

“No. I was raised Catholic, but it didn’t stick. I never actually believed.”

“Right.” Mitch went quiet again. He had his hand on Cal’s arm. His thumb drifted slowly back and forth, and all the hairs on Cal’s arm stood up. “Are you Italian, then?”

“What?” The words jolted Cal from starting to drift too, into a postorgasmic haze, almost sleeping.

“You look Italian-American,” Mitch said.

Cal knew he did, with his black hair and a slight olive tone to his skin. It had always been a very effective part of his toolbox. Now it felt like a dirty secret exposed. Because there was that dirty secret behind it. He
was
a dirty secret. From the day he was born. He didn’t want Mitch to know anything about his past. None of it. He pulled away and got out of bed.

“We agreed one last fuck. You’ve had it. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep.”

“Cal, what did I—”

“No arguments. Get up.” He gathered up Mitch’s clothes and dumped them in his arms when he stood.

“Cal, please, don’t end it like this.”

“We can say good-bye in the morning. You can dress out in the galley.” He shoved Mitch out, closed the door, and then opened it again to toss his boots out too. Mitch was still standing there staring, naked, arms full of his rumpled clothes. Cal closed the door.

He climbed back into the bed—which still smelled of Mitch.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Cal made a last trip back onto the rig before first light in the morning. He went to the infirmary, where one of the nurses was on duty, and had her take a last blood sample for the doctor. Mitch got one last fuck; the doc got one last blood sample.

He finally got his weapons, after waking up Bren. She glared at him the whole time they were in the armory, giving him the silent treatment. When he went to his and Mitch’s room to collect his gear, he found his backpack and jacket outside the door. So Mitch clearly didn’t want any last good-byes. He took his gear to the boat.

As he came back on deck after stowing them below, Bren appeared with a box that she handed over to him, followed by several big bottles of drinking water.

“Five days of food and water,” she said. “After that you’re on your own. And there’s some medical supplies.”

“Okay, thanks.” He put them all on the deck and then reached toward her for a shake. “Good-bye, Bren. It was great knowing you.” He smiled. “How about wishing me luck?”

She grabbed his hand in such a firm grip he thought she was going to try to pull him back aboard and drag him back down to the cell to chain him up again.

“How about you stop being an idiot and don’t leave?” she suggested.

“Sorry.”

She hung on to his hand for a moment, looking like she was seriously considering the holding-him-prisoner option, before she shook the hand and spoke in a hoarse voice.

“Good luck, asshole.”

He took it as a term of affection. “Thanks. Can you winch me down now?”

She did. As the boat descended, the glint of the rising sun off metal caught Cal’s eye, and he looked up at the helipad. Someone was up there. Just a dark shape in the dawn light. But the shape was not that of a woman.

When the boat touched the waves and started to bob, Cal quickly disengaged the hooks for the winch and stepped well away from them. “Haul away!” he yelled back up. The hooks slid across the deck, then rose. He fought down a ridiculous urge to grab at one as his last connection to the rig ascended out of his reach. Instead he powered his engines and steered the boat carefully away from the rig. He didn’t look back.

He steered in close to the shore and then down the coast, the opposite way from the naval base they’d raided. He thought about continuing until he was off the coast of Mexico. National borders meant nothing these days, but it would give him a feeling of distance, of separation, even if it was only a few more miles. He had to put the rig behind him—in every sense. He accelerated, and the boat roared on. The wind whipped his hair around, and spray stung his face, but it felt good to be moving like this. The sun was bright, the sky and the water as blue as in high summer. A few clouds scudded along fast. It was a beautiful day, and he was free again.

He refused to feel guilty. Guilt was not an emotion he’d ever cared to burden himself with. It was the most useless. Apart from love, maybe. No, love wasn’t useless. It was dangerous. So he would not feel guilty. He’d gone ashore into danger with them twice on supply runs. He’d fought a battle. He’d stood watches. All without complaint. And he’d given Mitch some mind-blowing sex. He had nothing to feel guilty about. He’d given them more than almost anyone else had ever had from him.

All he’d asked in return was food and lodgings and some training to help him survive. He’d made them no promises. He’d made it clear he didn’t want to stay. He had, hadn’t he? Yes. He was sure he had. Mitch and Bren and the rest had no cause to get mad at him now. And he’d offered to take Mitch with him. Who knew what kind of life they might have made together? Cal might even have taken on that dangerous burden—love—if he’d spent much longer with Mitch. But he wouldn’t make himself a prisoner. Not for Mitch. Not for anyone.

When night fell, he turned off the engines, dropped anchor to keep from drifting into shore with the tide, and made himself dinner. Just a sandwich and coffee. Didn’t have much appetite for anything else. He came back on deck to eat it, sat in the prow, watching the stars. It was a moonless night and very dark. Which was why he noticed the lights.

It was hard to tell how far inshore they were. Maybe a few miles. Not flickering like firelight, but steady. Electric light. So, someone with power. He’d stay well away. He’d had enough company to last him a long while. When the sun rose, he’d get on his way again.

He went below deck after he ate, tidied up, and went into the bedroom. As soon as he turned down the covers on the bed, he caught Mitch’s scent on the sheets and pillows. Dammit, he should have changed them before he left. He didn’t much like the tiny cabin anyway, he decided. The walls were too close together. So he took a couple of blankets on deck, then dragged up the mattress. Dumping that on the deck reminded him of the first time he and Mitch had made love in their nest on the floor.

He lay down, his clothes still on. It was too cold out here to undress. But thinking about that first time with Mitch had a predictable effect on him. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore his hard-on, which was growing, pressing against his fly. It took the usual notice of his attempts to ignore it and grew harder.

For fuck’s sake
. He was going to have the imprint of his zipper on it permanently. He unzipped with a sigh of relief and shoved a hand down into his underwear, hoping the cold hand would stop the arousal in its tracks. Fat chance. His cock quickly warmed his hand instead, and he stroked himself slowly. He was not jerking off to the image of Mitch in his head, he told himself. He was just trying to keep his hand warm and to help himself drop off to sleep.

Would he sleep as well as he had on the rig with Mitch? Probably not. Not again. He wouldn’t have the combination of sleep-inducing factors he’d had there. The safety, the warm body beside him to snuggle against if he felt cold, and the sex, of course. Damn, the sex with Mitch had been good. Kind of vanilla—Mitch wasn’t into anything at all kinky. But still, it might have been a long time before Cal got bored with the sex.

In the past he’d rarely been able to pick and choose the men. Not to suit his personal preference. And since the world ended, it was a case of taking what scraps he could get. Until he met Mitch. He was exactly Cal’s type. A “type” he’d almost forgotten he had, pursuing the men he picked for reasons other than his desires. And with Mitch the sex lived up to the promise.

Okay, so he was jerking off, he admitted when precum spilled over his fingers. But he should not be thinking about Mitch. He let his mind wander to various hot men he’d either known personally or drooled over on the TV or in the movies. But remembering they were probably all either dead or zombies kind of put a crimp in that.

Mitch was neither of those things. He was warm and very much alive. Bulky, a little clumsy. Strong but gentle. The memory of his big hands on Cal’s body made Cal groan and grind his hips. He wanted to be thrusting up into Mitch’s hand or mouth. Or fucking him. He hadn’t fucked him, for all Mitch claimed to be versatile. Cal didn’t mind too much. He had always done what the other man preferred. But it was supposed to be different with Mitch. He’d offered it and then never given it up.