The Believers (The Breeders Series - Book 2) (3 page)

So we sleep on empty bellies, folding our bodies under the broken tabletops with mounds of sand for our pillows. I look up at the underside of the table at a wad of gum hardened to a black nub. What did the people who stopped here long ago eat? Pies? Bacon? Across the room a washed-out sign pictures a frothy mug with the letters A&W on the front. I sound out the words Root Beer Floats $3.99. I'd give my right arm for a foamy mound of cream right now.

Clay limps in the door and slides in beside me. I lean over, prop my head up on my hand, and stare into his face.

“All clear?”

He nods, taking off his hat and tossing it aside. His brown hair is messed into adorable wet curls that lap at his forehead. He rubs his good hand over the scruff on his chin.

“Nothin' out there but dust and car husks.” He sighs and sets his revolver down.

“Think we can repair any of 'em enough to get 'em running?” I ask, stifling a yawn.

He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “Nah. They're all busted to hell. No wheels. No interior. Somebody picked 'em over a long time ago.” He rolls over to face me. Suddenly I'm aware of how close our bodies are, of how his blue eyes scan my face hungrily.

“I could take first watch, but it'd be nice if I had some help stayin' awake.” He reaches out, fingertips grazing my cheek, my bottom lip, before he runs a finger down into the hollow at the base of my neck. I shiver. “I can think of a few things that'll keep me from driftin' off.” He slides his fingers down my neck and then slowly undoes the top button on my shirt.

“Clay,” I say, nervously. He smiles and presses his lips to my jaw line. Heat rushes through me.

I should tell him to stop. Mama and Ethan snore lightly from the shadows a few feet away and who knows where Rayburn is. And, frankly, I'm nervous. I've only kissed two men in my life: Hatch, who forced me, and Clay. I have no idea what I'm doing. What if I'm bad at this? What if we go too far? But instead of stopping, my hand presses to his chest. The steady beat of his heart accelerates. It pounds for me. I lean in and run my nose along his jaw line.

His good hand reaches around my back and draws my body to his. The other hand, the puffy bandaged thing I feel at my back, is more tentative. What if I hurt him? His cauterized leg is still red and angry, but maybe this will help distract him. The trickle of dawn light from the holey roof lights up small parts of him as he moves closer. This is Clay. Clay who saved me. Clay who nearly died for me. Clay who I love. He scoots over a few more inches until his chest touches mine. My body begins a rhythmic hum. My breath quickens and my scalp tingles. His scent is warm earth and male musk, and it makes me want him even more. His breathing pulses against my face and an aching in my gut moves lower.

His head shifts down and a brush of stubble grazes my cheek. Then his mouth finds mine.

He kisses me urgently, kisses me until I can't help but draw up to him. I arch my back and press myself against him, fit myself into his body. I slide my hands over his back, the muscles flexing. His good hand cups my neck, my back, slips around and rests on my thigh. I stifle a low moan in the back of my throat. I’ve never known wanting like this.

He shifts me toward him, the sand making a shushing sound as if it too knows our need to be silent. He tugs up my shirt, the pads of his fingers circling my waist, inching higher. The skin there flares with sensation. My body molds into his as if it has a will of its own, but somewhere, as if at the bottom of a well, my brain is blinking
warning, warning
. But, my body wants him.
Wants
him. I lean in until there's no space between us, just his body touching my body. He's panting now, groping for me. His mouth finds my neck, kisses the hollow of my throat.

Stop!
my brain says.
You're under a table in the dirt and your mama and brother are a few feet away.

But they're asleep,
my body argues. Clay's hand brushes my bare rib cage and my body ignites. Soon he will undo the binding on my breasts, unwind me, and lay me bare.

Then you'll be undone,
my brain says.
You can't do this.

I turn away from the voice and press my lips to Clay's. My tongue finds his and he tastes like warm earth. He moans and pulls me tighter.

What if you get pregnant?

Pregnant. Pregnant like Mama, sick and vulnerable on the road. Pregnant like poor Betsy whose fate I'll never know. Pregnant like the Breeders hoped to make me before I escaped. I picture myself hobbling down the road, my round belly pulling me down like a lead weight, my legs giving out. How could Clay want me then? I'd be nothing but a liability. Pregnant is the last thing I wanna be.

Clay's lips find mine, but I pull back. My body fights me every inch, the low throb in my groin turning into an ache.

“Come on,” he breathes, his lips grazing the skin of my neck. “Don't you trust me?”

Trust him? Sure I trust him, but not with
this
. I draw my arms up and cross them over my chest. His hands fumble a moment more, then slip off. He blows out a frustrated breath and rolls over on his back.

I sit up. Through the hole in the ceiling, dawn light brushes the sky. I look over at the shadow that is Clay. Even if I could explain why I pulled away, I can't tell him here. Not with my mama and Ethan sleeping nearby. With my heart thudding and my body aching, I stand up, fix my shirt, and shuffle to the open diner doorway.

I step outside through the doorless entryway and peer around. The sun's already a huge round ball, cresting over the ridge. It'll be hotter than Hades in an hour. I walk around the side of the little breadbox restaurant, trying to get out of sight of the road. I pass a window sign that reads 50s Diner. Good Grub. Good Times. Too bad the good grub and good times are long gone. I kick an empty aluminum can and it skitters away. We have about three days worth of rationed food, four days of water. I lift my eyes to the horizon. How can I keep my family alive? That's the question I ask myself every single day.

I tromp down a little hill and into the hardpan where I'm hidden from the road. The dusty plain is quiet. In the east, a slash of orange is creeping over the horizon. The buttes and scrub brush will soon be awash with golden glow and the land will come alive. I rub my hands over my arms. My shirt has gone threadbare in the last few weeks. My boots are even worse; wiggling toes peak through holes in both boots. But I’ve got bigger problems. Like water. I lick my chapped lips and wish we could stumble on a vast blue lake. I'd dive in and swim around like a fish. I'd drink until the lake disappeared.

A little lizard skids past me on the path. If he can find water, we can. My eyes trace over the knobby cactus, the scraggy scrub grass, the rocks warming to orange with the first rays of day. To my right is a prickly pear; its flat oval leaves are covered in giant spines, but on top is what I want. I take my hunting knife from my pocket and cut a slice off the bulbous pink fruit growing from the top. I pluck the fruit from the ground, careful of the spines, and slice into it. As the juice dribbles into my palm, my stomach seizes. I press it to my mouth. Sweet and gritty, I suck and suck until it’s a husk. It's not much, but it soothes my dry throat. I chuck the shriveled remains over my shoulder and reach for more. Ethan and Mama will love these.

Something behind me stirs. Someone or some
thing
is shuffling along the ridge behind me. Whatever it is, it's big and coming fast.

I whirl around, gripping my hunting knife. I think of the rifle I left back in the diner. Stupid. No time. I lock my eyes on the ridge and wait.

A figure lumbers into view, a dark shadow moving fast. It drops to its knees beside a rock. The sound of retching finds me. Mama.

When I reach her, she's bent over two rocks, spitting the last of her measly lunch onto the ground. I bend down and rub her back. “You okay?”

She nods, a trail of spit arcing from her mouth. One hand clutches the rock she's kneeling beside. The other circles her swollen belly. She spits once again and tries to rise. Her legs are so weak they almost buckle. I put my hands under her arm and help her up. When she turns to me, her eyes are sunken and wet, dark bags below them like bruises. Her gaunt, burned face forces a smile. “We gotta get back inside.”

“Okay.” I let her lean on me for support and we shuffle back to the diner. She pulls to a stop inside the diner's little entrance—a six-foot square area with double doors on both sides. The front doors are glassless, but the doors leading into the diner are intact and dusty as hell. The sides of the entrance have half-walls that can hide us from the road if we scrunch down. We do this now, our backs resting against the chipped paint. Near the floor someone's penned the words Domine, libera nos ab Orco and drawn a stickman hanging from a noose. On the floor beside Mama, a broken corkboard rests, brittle bits of paper still fluttering from tacks. She plucks one off and the paper crumbles between her fingers.

“Let's not go in just yet,” she whispers, eying the dim diner through the dusty glass doors. “I wanna make sure I won't be sick again.”

I hug my knees to my chest, frowning. “Is it the baby?” Her stomach rounds out of her shirt and she rests a hand there. She looks too far along to only be a month or so pregnant. The words of Nessa Vandewater, Clay's mother, ring in my head.
There were some mutations to the fetuses.

My mama rubs her stomach. “Probably something I ate. I told Rayburn those cans looked bulgy.” She presses a hand to her forehead, her face contorting. Then she offers me another pained smile. “My good girl.” She tilts her head giving me that proud mama smile. “Thanks for your help.”

“Anything,” I say, working my finger through a hole at the hem of my T-shirt. I watch my mother for a while as if my vigilance could keep away whatever is tearing her up inside.

That baby.
She'll never say it, but I have a feeling whatever is inside her can only do her harm.

She looks out the glassless front door, glowing orange with the rays of dawn. “Can't sleep?”

I shake my head.

“We got a long walk tonight.”

I nod.

She folds her burned hands together, the bumps and ridges of her skin like the road a few feet from where we sit. “Sometimes when I can't sleep I think of happy times. Like when you were seven and Arn took you to see the wild horses foaling in the back pasture at our house in Santa Fe. Do you remember that?”

Somewhere in the dusty recesses of my brain I find an image of me riding on Arn's shoulders as he steps toward a mare and her newborn foal. The small brown horse folds wobbling legs beneath him and pushes up, unsteady. Then the image fades out. “Yeah, I remember some. Did Arn take me a lot of places when I was little?”

She nods, her face animating. “He'd sit you beside him in his workshop while he worked on car parts. He'd give you something to tinker with. You loved working with your daddy.” She looks up at me, a frown creasing her face. Arn is not my daddy. But I loved him. Truly.

I sniff and pick at the dry caulk inside the windowless frame above my head. I miss Arn, but I know my mother aches for him. She never got to say goodbye and it eats her up. I suspect it's not just morning sickness that keeps her sleepless.

She swipes a hand at her eyes and stands, using the wall to help her. “I'm feeling better, love. I think I'll go in and lay down. You should give sleep a try, too.”

I nod, though I feel anything but sleepy. I watch her slip through the interior doors. When they shut, the dust caked to the glass blurs her into shapes. Then I can't see her at all.

A few minutes later the door creaks open. At first I think it’s Mama coming out to be sick again, but then I see how tall the shadow is and my heart beats faster. Clay slips out and limps over. In the morning light, he's just as handsome as ever: tall, with his strong chin and wild dark hair.

I smile as he sits down beside me, his feet digging wells in the dust.

“So,” he flicks his eyes up at me, “not very romantic under the table? I thought the decor in there was real homey.” There's an unusual shyness on his face.

“Homey for rodents and snakes, you mean.”

He nods, smirking. “Lately I been feelin' pretty rodent-like. Yesterday I got a craving for cheese.”

I laugh. “That's funny. I had a craving for
anything
.”

He chuckles and digs around the edge of the bandage on his injured hand. The bandage is fraying, the white gauze now the dirty brown like everything else. There's a long pause as we both look out toward the road and the orange light spilling over the desert.

“Are we okay?” he asks, breaking the silence. “I mean, you and me?”

There's uncertainty in his eyes. It's funny how things have changed. Before the hospital, it was me speculating on what he was thinking and what he might want. Me longing for him but never being able to have him. The tide has turned. I'm not sure how I feel about it.

I reach for his hand and lace my fingers through his. “We're together.” I look up at him, my heart pounding, awash in a love that surges through me. “That’s all I ever wanted.” I drape my arms around his neck and he wraps his around my waist. Being this close sets my heart to galloping away.

Clay shrugs. “I just wanna make you happy.” He looks out at the sand-swept highway and shakes his head. “As happy as I can, considerin'. I wish I could make this all go away.”

I press my cheek to his chest. “We gotta get to a town and Rayburn can barter for a truck and gas. Those meds of his are worth enough to get us home. In the meantime, you gotta trust that you and me are fine.” I lift my head and look into his eyes. “Okay?”

His blue eyes look deeply into mine. “Okay.”

Then he's kissing me. Kissing me, kissing me, kissing me. And his hands are under my shirt and my heart is tearing through my chest as his fingers inch upward.

I push away.

He drops his hands, his eyes on the ground. “Sorry,” he mumbles. He pushes up and limps back through the door.

“Clay,” I say, but I let him go. First watch it is. It'll give me time to torture myself about all the things I've done wrong.