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“Nope. No time. I have a shift in an hour, and you need to go before people come home.” He’s not a secret exactly. Jack and the Meyer crew were the only ones who knew initially but everyone knows by now, having found out in various and explicit ways. Thing is, having him hanging around gives the wrong idea, and I don’t want people to get used to seeing us together. He’s a shameful not-secret I’d rather stick to the shadows with.
“What are you still working at that place for? You don’t need the money.”
“Some of us know what loyalty is, Sutter,” I say, prying him from my body so I can look for my clothes. Damn, we made a mess of the place. Knocked a few things over. I catch a glimpseof myself in the mirror on the wall beside the fridge. “Is that a fucking bite mark, Sutter? God damn it.”
He laughs, not the least bit sorry. “You love my bite marks. You even said it yourself.”
“Not when I have to go to work. Look at this. Everyone’s gonna make fun of me.” But yeah. I kinda love the marking shit. It’s forming a nice bruise, too. I wish I could ink his hickeys into my skin. He spins and it’s my turn to laugh. His back’s now sporting long claw marks, slowly turning into embossed welts thanks to my nails.
Sutter’s laugh’s cut short. “What the fuck?”
His face, though. It’s priceless. I whip out my phone, something else possessing me, and click an image of his face, risking life and limb to do so. Fuck him, though. He gets to take pictures of me, I’m taking pictures of him.
“You tore my back apart, Alderchuck.”
“Hope you’re not expecting an apology.”
I leave him to his horror, grabbing up my clothes, dressing like a madman. My hair’s fucked. I look as fucked as I am. By the time my focus returns to Sutter, his dick and that fucking sumptuous body of his is tucked away. Post-sex awkwardness sets in like a third wheel. This is the part where neither of us knows what the fuck to say.
Does that mean he’s as inexperienced as I am with this kind of thing? Or is he just an ass? Probably the latter for him. For me, I hook up all the time, but never with the same person. This is turning into some kind of fucked up situationship.
“Y’know, Sutter. We’ve been doing this a lot,” I say.
“So?”
“It’s not weird for you?”
“It’s weird as hell for me.” He yanks me to him by the waistband of my pants. His fingers ghost over the new markings he left. He’s staring at me funny, like I’m a wonder of the world.“I can’t figure out why, but the sex issofucking good with you. I’ve stopped trying to figure it out. I say we keep doing as much as we can, live out all our sexually depraved fantasies until the curse wears off.”
“Like, we’ve been given some kind of magical sex juice and we capitalize on it?” I say.
“Something like that. Because it will wear out, Alderchuck. Then we’ll wish we’d got our fill while we could.”
“Kinda like leaving the last bites of pizza—every time I leave them, they haunt me.”
“Are all your analogies food-related?”
“Yep.”
“You’re the most unusual person I’ve ever fucked.”
I shrug. “Right back at’cha. I’ve never learned so much about the dawn of the apocalypse.” On top of being the nation’s best Boy Scout, Sutter’s a paranoid maniac. We’re talking full-on prepper levels. Turns out, paranoia is a full-time job for him. Bet he stuffs dry chicken noodle soup mix in the crevices of his condo. “Next you’ll be telling me about your secret bunker somewhere in Northern BC.”
“Nothing wrong with having a bug-out location. When the zombie apocalypse hits, you’re gonna come knockin’ and will I let you in? No way.”
“Zombies? You’ve lost the plot, Sutter. But even if that happened, I know how to finagle my way into your hideout.”
“How?” His lips find their way to my shiver spot. And lemme tell you, there are shivers. Shivers down to my fucking dick.
Heavy breaths heave from my lungs. I arch my neck to give him better access. “I know the best ways to suck your dick. You’ll need s-someone to s-suck your dick through the apocalypse. And remember, everyone else is zombies.”
His calloused hand slides up my black t-shirt. “My very own apocalypse whore. Don’t have one of those up there, yet.”
I’m starting to think his fictitious bug-out location isn’t so fictitious. That’s a talking point for later. “Pass me my phone,” I breathe.
He snags it off the counter, and I shoot off a quick text. He quirks a brow. “Just sent a text to Dashie to tell his dad I’ll be late to work.”
“Late…?” But then he smiles, understanding.
