Kicking It(23)

The doors swung inward, and what used to be a woman shuffled through, her sluggish steps sliding through the muck.

Her black hair had once been in a ponytail, but was now hanging askew with bits of leaves clinging to the elastic band. Several buttons on her blouse were undone, and the tail on one side was hanging over her slim skirt. Beneath torn panty hose, dirt stained her knees. There was a gash on one ankle that had scabbed over, but was swollen and red with infection.

Simone simply stared, all logical thought slipping from her head. In the space of a split second, she told herself half a dozen different stories about who this woman had been. A schoolteacher who’d devoted her life to children, an executive who’d taken the wrong turn while attending a business meeting out of town, a soccer mom on her way to pick up a kid from a friend’s house . . .

Simone wondered who this woman had left behind, and if those people who’d loved her even knew what had happened to her.

The shell kept coming. A few more seconds and she would run right into Simone and Brighton. And yet she stood frozen, unable to get past the loss the woman represented.

Brighton’s body quivered with anxiety. He gave Simone’s hand a squeeze as if to tell her to pull it together. She’d ordered him to follow her lead and yet here she was, not leading.

Still her mind reeled at the loss. How many lives had been shattered because of what the ’Gasts had stolen?

One second Simone was standing there, too overwhelmed to move. The next she was pressed against a cool door with Brighton’s bulk pinning her in place. He didn’t let go of her hand, which caused their arms to twist awkwardly between them. Her breasts flattened against his forearm. The blunt, wide edge of the ax dug into her skin. His thigh was wedged between hers, their clothes doing little to shield her from his heat.

Within the shimmering web that cloaked them from sight, she could make out his bulging jawline. Her nose was only inches from a thick vein in his neck, pulsing with his heartbeat. She could smell his skin and the hint of soap clinging to him.

For one insane moment, she wanted to snuggle right in and bury her face in the crook of his shoulder. Just like she used to do with Jeremy.

The thought trickled through her like ice water, making her body go stiff. She suffered through the stab of betrayal, accepting it as her due punishment.

“Stay still,” he whispered right into her ear, so close she knew the sound wouldn’t travel.

Simone forced her body to relax, forced her breathing to even out so that her frantic panting wouldn’t be heard by the passing shell.

The exterior door at the end of the hall opened and shut as the shell left.

Brighton’s heavy body eased away from hers, and he looked down at her with fury riding his features. In the red lighting, his eyes glinted with a fiery blaze. “What the hell was that? You nearly got us killed.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“It better not. I’m not dying in here tonight. Got it?”

Simone nodded and gave him a shove with her arm—just enough to get him to back off, taking his intriguing, distracting scent with him. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Before he could argue, she tugged on his hand, dragging him along with her.

She pushed the swinging doors open just enough to peer through a narrow crack. A low hum and the scent of ozone struck her like a slap in the face.

She’d been surrounded by that once before. Trapped, with no way to escape what was being done to her. That smell had shoved its way into her nose, stronger than the stench of rotting shells ever could be. She’d choked on it, knowing that she would die doing so—that the smell would stop only when she was dead.

Her body began to shake, and her breath became a constricted, terrified pant.

Brighton pulled her back from the swinging doors. His voice was harsh, conflicting with his grip on her chin. He tipped her face up so she had no choice but to look at him.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he told her. “You clearly can’t handle this.”

Simone dug deep, using her pride to fuel her recovery. She forced her lungs to relax, taking slow, even breaths. After a couple, she felt stronger, steadier. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not even close.”

“Go back if you want, but I’m finishing the job.”

His mouth went hard, but he gave a tight nod. “One more freak-out and I’m tossing you over my shoulder and carrying you out.”

She ignored his threat and slipped a knife from the purse. The reassuring weight of the weapon comforted her and gave her the confidence she needed to push the swinging door open again.

This time, she let the assault of sounds and smells hit her and pass right by. She focused on what she saw, forcing herself to think only of tactics. All that mattered was finding that hammer and getting the hell out. Simple. Easy.