certain
whether he should be relieved or
terrified that Remy actually responded to
the kiss. He decided to settle on relieved
that he hadn’t damaged her even more—
though the last thing he needed was her
wanting something more from him.
He had no business even thinking
about that.
Thus, he was glad to work in silence
as they dug through more old and rotting
packages in the trailer. Maybe he was
distracted, but he didn’t have much good
luck today. The only thing he found
worth keeping was a leather belt and a
shrink-wrapped
iPod. Why the hell
hadn’t anyone shipped a case of wine
or liquor? This olive oil isn’t going to
do us much good, old as it is.
“Veronica
Mars?”
Remy
said,
breaking the silence.
“Who’s that?” Wyatt looked over and
saw her holding a DVD package. He
shrugged. “Never heard of her. Are you
ready to wrap it up? I want to do some
fishing.” After two days cooped up in
one place with a crazy, gun-toting
female, he needed some quiet solitude.
S o me sober quiet solitude; yesterday
didn’t count.
“Sure. I’m ready to go back,” she
said, and began to gather up her things.
The trip back to their camp was
uneventful except for the discovery of
wild scallions and some raspberries,
and once back at the rig, Wyatt didn’t
delay in taking off again.
Less than two hours later he and
Dantès once more returned to the truck
rig, to find Remy crouched by a small
fire in the clearing. She was still
wearing that damned white tank top that
fit like a second skin and showed a
ridiculous amount of cleavage. Thanks to
this afternoon’s incident, Wyatt now
knew she wore a lacy pink bra that
belonged in a Victoria’s Secret catalog
—not
in
a
gritty,
dangerous
postapocalyptic world. He knew from
firsthand experience that the women here
generally wore simple white sports bras
out of necessity and practicality.
Dantès rushed over to greet his
mistress, who looked up at his approach.
Her eyes lit with pleasure and she lifted
her chin as her pet swiped it with loving
kisses. She had a long neck that looked
pale and delicate next to the loose black
braid. Too bad he wanted to wrap his
hands around it more often than not.
And that, he told himself, was a good
thought to focus on. Not what had
happened this afternoon.
“I have two fish, more potatoes and
asparagus, plus some wild tomatoes I
found,” he said, laying the offerings on
the cloth-covered stump she indicated.
Her makeshift kitchen. He noted with
interest that she had the basics—a skillet
and a few metal utensils—as well as
some things he hadn’t expected: salt,
dried garlic, oil of some sort, green
onions, and . . . flour? For frying the
fish?
This could be the best meal he’d had
in a while.
And so he set about trying to ruin it.
“About this saving my ass twice,” he
said, sitting down across from her. He
picked up a tomato and began to slice it
with his knife. “What the hell are you
talking about?”
She looked up at him from dredging
the fish in flour, lifting an eyebrow. Her
eyes were such a brilliant blue they
startled him every time she fixed them on
him. “Who thought of the torch? Who
gave it to you? I do believe that was me.
And without the torch . . .”
“Right. I remember you screeching
my name the whole time, distracting the
hell out of me so I couldn’t think clearly.
If I hadn’t been distracted—”
“Right,” she said. “That’s just about
as bad an excuse as the one you gave me
today.”
Wyatt suddenly had an unpleasant
feeling in the pit of his stomach. He
knew better than to ask what she meant
so he kept slicing tomatoes.
But of course she was going to tell
him anyway. “Your so-called excuse for
kissing me.”
He picked up another tomato, his
hand very steady, and said, “I’m not Ian
Marck. I’m here to get you safely to
Envy. That’s all.” He kept his voice
perfectly casual, with just
whether he should be relieved or
terrified that Remy actually responded to
the kiss. He decided to settle on relieved
that he hadn’t damaged her even more—
though the last thing he needed was her
wanting something more from him.
He had no business even thinking
about that.
Thus, he was glad to work in silence
as they dug through more old and rotting
packages in the trailer. Maybe he was
distracted, but he didn’t have much good
luck today. The only thing he found
worth keeping was a leather belt and a
shrink-wrapped
iPod. Why the hell
hadn’t anyone shipped a case of wine
or liquor? This olive oil isn’t going to
do us much good, old as it is.
“Veronica
Mars?”
Remy
said,
breaking the silence.
“Who’s that?” Wyatt looked over and
saw her holding a DVD package. He
shrugged. “Never heard of her. Are you
ready to wrap it up? I want to do some
fishing.” After two days cooped up in
one place with a crazy, gun-toting
female, he needed some quiet solitude.
S o me sober quiet solitude; yesterday
didn’t count.
“Sure. I’m ready to go back,” she
said, and began to gather up her things.
The trip back to their camp was
uneventful except for the discovery of
wild scallions and some raspberries,
and once back at the rig, Wyatt didn’t
delay in taking off again.
Less than two hours later he and
Dantès once more returned to the truck
rig, to find Remy crouched by a small
fire in the clearing. She was still
wearing that damned white tank top that
fit like a second skin and showed a
ridiculous amount of cleavage. Thanks to
this afternoon’s incident, Wyatt now
knew she wore a lacy pink bra that
belonged in a Victoria’s Secret catalog
—not
in
a
gritty,
dangerous
postapocalyptic world. He knew from
firsthand experience that the women here
generally wore simple white sports bras
out of necessity and practicality.
Dantès rushed over to greet his
mistress, who looked up at his approach.
Her eyes lit with pleasure and she lifted
her chin as her pet swiped it with loving
kisses. She had a long neck that looked
pale and delicate next to the loose black
braid. Too bad he wanted to wrap his
hands around it more often than not.
And that, he told himself, was a good
thought to focus on. Not what had
happened this afternoon.
“I have two fish, more potatoes and
asparagus, plus some wild tomatoes I
found,” he said, laying the offerings on
the cloth-covered stump she indicated.
Her makeshift kitchen. He noted with
interest that she had the basics—a skillet
and a few metal utensils—as well as
some things he hadn’t expected: salt,
dried garlic, oil of some sort, green
onions, and . . . flour? For frying the
fish?
This could be the best meal he’d had
in a while.
And so he set about trying to ruin it.
“About this saving my ass twice,” he
said, sitting down across from her. He
picked up a tomato and began to slice it
with his knife. “What the hell are you
talking about?”
She looked up at him from dredging
the fish in flour, lifting an eyebrow. Her
eyes were such a brilliant blue they
startled him every time she fixed them on
him. “Who thought of the torch? Who
gave it to you? I do believe that was me.
And without the torch . . .”
“Right. I remember you screeching
my name the whole time, distracting the
hell out of me so I couldn’t think clearly.
If I hadn’t been distracted—”
“Right,” she said. “That’s just about
as bad an excuse as the one you gave me
today.”
Wyatt suddenly had an unpleasant
feeling in the pit of his stomach. He
knew better than to ask what she meant
so he kept slicing tomatoes.
But of course she was going to tell
him anyway. “Your so-called excuse for
kissing me.”
He picked up another tomato, his
hand very steady, and said, “I’m not Ian
Marck. I’m here to get you safely to
Envy. That’s all.” He kept his voice
perfectly casual, with just
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