Afterglow: An Apocalypse Romance (24 page)

“Nina. Hold on.”

She turned back to him.

“I have something for you,” he said.

“OK, but can it wait, Creed? You’re, like, lying in a pool of your own blood!”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine! You’re hurt, Creed, and…”

“Will you please shut up for a second and let me talk?”

Nina’s mouth dropped open. Had he really just told her to shut up? She was about to object, but he interrupted her. Again.

“Nina.” He lifted his hand, closed into a tight fist, from where it lay on his wounded side.

“What?” she hissed, irritated that he wouldn’t just let her help him.

“Marry me,” he muttered. He closed his eyes, his brow furrowed in pain, but then he opened them again and stared at Nina. “Will you marry me, sweetheart?”

He held out his fist, and as it relaxed, his grimy, bloody fingers spread to reveal a ring, the diamond shining in the sunlight around them.

“Will I
what
?”

“Marry me.”

“Creed, I… you’ve been shot! And you’re all bloody! And I’m scared you’re going to die!”

“I’m not going to die. I’ve lived through worse.”

“And you’ve never even told me you love me.”

He muttered a curse.  “You’re right. I guess this is a little backwards. Nina, I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. I knew it deep down when you were kidnapped, when I thought I’d literally die if something bad happened to you. Even before that, though, there was something I denied for a long time. But I can’t anymore. I love you, Nina. I fucking love you.”

“Oh,” she gasped. “Creed. Yes, I’ll marry you. But first I have to sew you up. Again. And my parents…”

“Your dad already said yes.”

Tears sprang to Nina’s eyes, and she laughed as they spilled down onto her cheeks. “So that’s why he and Logan were acting all weird. I love you, Creed. Even though you’re an asshole. But don’t die, OK?”

“Promise.”

“Let’s get you back to the farm.”

(Six Months Later)

The May air was fresh, filled with the scent of lingering rain and early blossoms. Afternoon was settling over the farm as everyone headed outside after lunch to finish their chores. Nina had spent the morning hunting with Logan, and was planning to spend the second half of the day planting seeds with her grandmother.

Winter had been harsh, thick snow settling over the farm, holding fast for months without even the tease of a thaw. They’d shoveled paths between all the cabins and the main house, and though Charlie loved sprinting along them with P.J., even he grew tired of the snow by the time spring began to hint that it might be coming soon.

In January, Katusha had gone into labor, giving birth to Daniel, a healthy and beautiful baby boy.

Creed, Benjamin, and Stan were working on converting half of the barn into living quarters in anticipation of more people joining them.

“Can I play with the puppies? Please?” Charlie grabbed Nina’s hands and looked up into her eyes, a pleading expression on his face.

“Of course.” Nina smiled and followed him as he scampered over the grassy area outside the main house. So often, Nina stopped to stare at Charlie in amazement, constantly awed by how helpful he was, how willing to jump in and work on anything that needed doing. He was as good at working in the garden as he was helping Creed on the barn project—or as good as a child his age could be.

Nina carefully carried the large wicker basket, lined with blankets, in which the three stray puppies they’d found spent most of their day. The puppies were still so young—maybe only six weeks old—and Charlie tirelessly fed them warmed milk from an eyedropper multiple times throughout the day. At first, Nina had been terrified the puppies would die, terrified that Charlie would have to suffer the heartbreak of more loss. But they didn’t. Every day they grew stronger and fluffier.

Gently, she lifted each puppy out and set it on the grass, watching as one sniffed the ground and sneezed hard, its legs giving way so it fell to the ground. Charlie laughed hysterically, then sat down in the grass to let the tiny animals crawl over him.

Nina sat down and watched, reflecting on how absolutely crazy it was that this was her life now. Thoughts of
before
hit her less and less, but every once in a while she couldn’t avoid thinking about what things would be like if disaster hadn’t struck.

What would she be doing? Teaching seventh grade, probably. Maybe dating someone. Spending time with her family on holidays. Hanging out with her friends. Once in a while she was nostalgic for the old world, where she could run to the grocery store for ground beef if she wanted a burger—or go to a drive-through—instead of heading into the woods with a rifle.

Yet life had never felt so
rich
before, as though with each passing second things were becoming more and more
right
. Which sounded weird, when everything about the world was so uncertain.

When Creed sat down on the grass next to her, she smiled up at him. “Hey,” she said. “Heading back to the barn?”

“I am. First, though, I want to sit with my hot wife for a few minutes.” His words were low and growly, and Nina couldn’t help feeling a spread of warmth through her body, just from the timbre of his voice.

“Dad!” Charlie’s face lit up when he saw Creed, and he headed over, gently cradling one of the puppies. “I think I want to name this one Cowboy!”

“I like that name,” said Creed.

“What do you think?” asked Charlie, turning now to Nina and scrunching up his nose in thought.

“I think it’s perfect,” she replied.

When Charlie turned, heading back to the toddlers with the puppy, Creed squeezed Nina’s hand. “When I said I liked the name, I wasn’t talking about the puppy,” he whispered.

“I know. I love when he calls us Mom and Dad too.” Over the winter, as Charlie grew closer to Nina and Creed, he stopped using their names and instead started using “Mom” and “Dad.” It was completely unprompted, taking them both by surprise.

Nina scooted closer to Creed. When he put his arm around her, she burrowed against him, loving the feeling of him. Big. Strong. Safe.

“I love you, Nina. I love our family. Me. You. Charlie. And Phoenix.” Creed’s palm found her round stomach, warming it through her clothes.

“Phoenix.” Nina spoke the name like a prayer, a whisper of the future. Already she could feel the baby moving, flipping and swimming and reminding her always that no matter what, where there was life, there was hope.

She’d found out she was pregnant not long after Creed had proposed. Her grandmother, with as much foresight as with everything else, had stocked up on all sorts of personal products, including tampons and condoms and pregnancy tests. So when Nina realized she’d missed at least one period, she hadn’t had to wait long to find out if it was due to stress or something else. They’d decided to name the baby, whether it was a girl or a boy, Phoenix. Rising up. Powerful. Strong and vibrant. New life in a new world.

“I’m glad you said yes to me,” said Creed.

“I’m glad you didn’t die.”

“Why do I put up with you, Nina?” growled Creed into her ear.

“
I’m
the one who puts up with crap from
you
,” said Nina.

“Oh yeah? I have a scar on my arm that says otherwise.”

Nina pushed the arm of his T-shirt higher so she could run her finger along the raised line of the scar she’d given him. “I’m sorry I marred your otherwise flawless body,” she teased.

Creed pulled her closer to him. “Actually? Of all the markings on my body—and I guess you could say there are quite a few—it’s my favorite.”

“Really? Even better than your tattoos?”

Creed shrugged. “It’s kind of like a tattoo. A really ugly one commemorating the day we met.”

“I don’t know if that’s sweet or just weird,” said Nina with a laugh.

“You know? If you’d asked me a year ago what I wanted to do with my life, this, here, is not what I’d have described.” Creed gestured at the farm, bustling with the sounds of Charlie laughing, Daniel crying, Grandma Lottie giving directions to someone, Logan talking loudly with Nina’s father. “But I feel like this is where I’m supposed to be. I know that sounds fucking crazy…” He shrugged as his voice trailed off.

“Not crazy,” said Nina. “I feel the exact same way.”

There were chores to do. A barn to fix. Crops to plant. An uncertain future in a strange new world. But it was spring. The earth was teeming with life. And they could steal a few minutes to sit there on the grass, watching their family, dreaming of everything that lay ahead.

THE END

Thank you for reading Afterglow. I hope you enjoyed Nina and Creed’s story.

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And keep reading for the first chapter of Julian & Lia, the sexiest college romance around!

Maria Monroe lives just outside Chicago. In addition to reading and writing steamy romance novels, she loves playing Pokémon, drinking wine, the Oxford comma, and burning stuff in her back yard.

She has three cool kids, two dogs, two cats, and is the only person she knows who’s taken in a stray fish that she found abandoned on a park bench. Also: she’s got the most supportive husband in the world.

A sexy college romance novel

Chapter One

"Oh my god. I'm so sorry." I put a hand over my face and turn to run out of the dorm bathroom.

"No, it's cool. We're almost done here," says a girl as she sits straddling the sink, her back against the mirror. I think I recognize her from down the hall.

"Almost done" apparently refers to her boyfriend shaving her
down there
while she smiles lazily at him. He dips the razor into the steaming water from the tap—how come it never gets that hot in the shower?—then runs it along her crotch before rinsing it off again.

He turns and grins at me. "You're next if you're interested," he says with a wink. "Just, you know, drop 'em and hop on up." He gestures at the sink next to the one where his girlfriend sits.

"Stop!" shrieks the girl, hitting him playfully. "Leave her alone. I think that's Greer's roommate," she adds in a whisper and tosses her hair back. How in the world her hair is so smooth and shiny is a total mystery to me, as are most things related to hair and makeup. Or fashion of any kind, to be honest. Their laughter bounces off the tiled bathroom walls.

I can’t believe she’s sitting there on display and doesn’t even care that I’m here. Yet I'm strangely transfixed by the two of them. How is it possible to ever get to the point where you can be that comfortable with someone else? Jealousy swirls up inside me, and the loneliness that I've been feeling since starting college a few weeks ago intensifies. It's not lost on me that my identity here is defined by the fact that I room with Greer; I'm pretty sure nobody except my roommate even knows my name, and that's only because she was assigned to live with me.

"It's OK, I'll just . . . " I let the words trail off as I hurry out of the bathroom and back down the hall to my room. Once inside, I slam the door and throw myself on the bed. I realize that I'm being melodramatic, but I can't help it. Besides, there's nobody to witness my episode of self-pity; Greer spent last night in a friend's room. Down the hall. Because apparently it's so much more fun to be in someone else's room than stuck here with me.

For what has to be the millionth time I wonder why I decided to move into a coed dorm. It's three weeks into my freshman year at college, and I should be used to things by now. Everyone around me seems to be so comfortable, already moving around campus in little whispering groups, meeting each other outside the dining hall before heading upstairs into the mess of noise and smells that is, to say the least, overwhelming when you don't have anyone to sit with. Which I don't. People are already hooking up, couples already formed, and I'm not even comfortable peeing in the dorm bathroom.

There's no time to wallow in regret, though, because I have a class in ten minutes. I'll use the bathroom somewhere on the way to class, since I don't want to take the chance of walking in on the shaving couple again. Or the "mad crapper" from down the hall, who spends at least twenty minutes every day straining so loudly in the bathroom that the R.A. has written him up twice already. Apparently he's planning some sort of revenge on the R.A., and everyone on the floor seems to be in on it, except for me.

I pull on a jacket and head out to my Film Studies class, which I decided to take as an elective because the rest of my schedule is filled with boring requirements like math and English. The class is fun, and it's early, which, pathetically, makes me happy.  My favorite time of the day is morning. I like campus best when there aren't many other students so my complete lack of friends isn't so conspicuous.

I use the bathroom and grab a coffee at the cafeteria, then pull the sleeves of my jacket over my hands and huddle into myself against the cold as I hurry down the sidewalk. I'm pretty sure I'm late, and I glance down at my watch for a second.

I run, hard, into someone. Hot coffee spills onto my hand and also onto the first thing I see, an arm covered in a gray sweatshirt.
Oh my god.

"The
fuck
?" says a low masculine voice.

I stare at the coffee stain on that gray sweatshirt, not daring to look up. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I stammer, my eyes still refusing to see whom I've assaulted.
Great. Making friends all over the place.

There's no response after the initial harsh words, and finally I raise my gaze, right into the eyes of
him
, that guy from my Film Studies class. Julian. The one who always sits in the back corner, scruffy and slouchy and half asleep, but redeemed completely whenever he answers a question, which is seldom, and proves himself to be insanely smart. He's not a freshman—that much is obvious—and I'm not even sure why he's in the morning class when he can barely keep his eyes open. Now, he stands before me, a pissed off look on his face as he peers out from under the hood of a gray sweatshirt and looks at the coffee spilled on his arm.

"Oh. Hi," I say, blushing furiously and trying to talk my cheeks out of turning pink, but failing miserably.

He doesn't respond, just stares at me, a perfect mix of annoyance and amusement on his face. A corner of his mouth turns up in a sneer.

"We're in class together?” I continue. “Now. I mean, in a few minutes. Film Studies?" It feels like I'm physically unable to stop the stupid words cascading out of my mouth. I'm usually quiet, pathologically so, but when I get nervous, it's all I can do to keep myself from rambling on and on. "Anyway, I'm sorry. For, you know, crashing into you?"

Shut up,
I will myself.
Just. Stop. Talking.

His eyes are so green, surrounded by a ring of brown, and he looks so different from, and older than, the Abercrombie contingent that lives in my dorm. Instead of being clean-shaven and preppy, he has the distinct look of someone who doesn't give a fuck. Because he doesn't have to. Those eyes, and that stubble on his jaw, and that look like he's just gotten out of bed and thrown on whatever clothes he could grab is enough to make me feel tingly inside.

For a few seconds there is silence, and I have to use all my will power to stop myself from senselessly babbling again. When he speaks, his voice is low and with an edge to it, like he wants to laugh but is holding back, and also like he's a little bit pissed.

"As stimulating as this conversation is, I've got to get to class," he says. Then, to my horror, he mimics my tone and adds, "It starts in a few minutes? Film Studies? We have it together?"

With that he turns and saunters off, the frayed cuffs of his jeans almost scraping the ground. For a second I think—hope—he's going to turn around and smile or wink, something to let me know his joking was fun and not mean, but he doesn't.

"It starts in a few minutes? Film Studies? We have it together?"
The words, his mocking tone, echo in my brain.

"Oh my god," I whisper to myself. "That was the worst
ever
."

I stand completely still, not wanting to seem like I'm following him or, God forbid, trying to catch up to him. Should I skip class? I could avoid him that way, but the one thing I've got going for me is my grades, and I'm not about to give that up. I'll just have to suck it up and admit, once again, that my reality never matches up to my fantasies. It never even comes close. The truth is, I've thought of Julian before. In my day dreams, it happens almost exactly like it just did, or at first it does. But in my imagination I'm collected and sexy, and Julian reveals his hidden kind side, and maybe we have lunch together, or coffee, or watch a movie, realizing we have tons in common besides one single shared class at nine in the morning. The actual encounter, though, was worse than awkward. I'm a dork, and he is, sad to say, an asshole. And I wish, not for the first time, that I'm somebody else, somebody witty and sexy and able to turn a chance encounter into something more.

***

In class we're watching the old 1974 version of The Great Gatsby. I've read the book about a dozen times—it has just about the best last line of any novel I’ve ever read—but the movie is so boring. How people ever considered Robert Redford a heartthrob boggles my mind, or maybe I'm just attracted to dirtier, messier guys. Like Julian.

As usual, he's sitting in the back corner seat of the classroom, legs sprawled out in front of him like he doesn't quite fit into the desk. Also as usual, his jeans are rumpled, like he picked them up from the floor of his bedroom and put them on. He hasn't taken off his gray hoodie, but he's unzipped it slightly, and I can see a black T-shirt under it. For some reason I can't stop looking at his neck, and I keep thinking about touching it, running my finger along the top of his T-shirt. And then . . . I don't know what I'd do then. My innocence frustrates me, mostly because I never chose to be a prude. It just sort of worked out that way. I never had a boyfriend, so I never had any experience. Then I was afraid to find a boyfriend because I didn't know what I was doing, and so on: a vicious cycle of unwanted innocence.

I don't realize I'm staring until suddenly Julian catches my gaze, a grin spreading across his face, but it's a slightly menacing expression rather than a friendly one. When he lifts an eyebrow at me in recognition—of what? when I slammed into him this morning?—I blush, like usual, and look away.

The movie starts, and I scribble idly in my notebook. I want so badly to look back at him, but I'm sitting a few rows ahead, and it would be obvious; there's nothing to see back there except Julian. Class has never felt so long. I'm restless in my seat, unable to focus on anything but Julian. It's like I can
feel
him back there behind me. And in my mind, he's all I can see. That jaw, that neck, that chest, not quite visible under his sweatshirt. He looks so much older than any of the guys in my dorm, like a man as opposed to a teenager, and I feel a tingling begin, subtle but there, between my legs. I shift slightly to try to get rid of the feeling, and, as surreptitiously as possible, sneak a look back—I can't resist any longer.

He's looking at me, like he was waiting for me to turn around. There's that grin again, that cocky smile that leaves me both thrilled and inexplicably terrified. I whip my head back to the front of the room, hearing a low laugh from behind me, even though there was nothing funny happening in the movie. Or I don't think there was; it's not like I've been paying attention.

"Ms. Hudson." Professor Chooch's voice startles me into attention, and I cringe and slink down lower in my seat as he says, simply, "The movie's in the front of the room."

Oh god!
My heart is pounding and my cheeks are flushed and hot. At least the room is dark so nobody can see.

***

Outside my dorm room, I brace myself, but I'm annoyed that I have to. I know my roommate Greer's schedule by now, and I know she'll be there. But all I want at this moment is to be alone. It's not that I hate Greer or anything. She's been perfectly nice to me. Or at least, she hasn't been mean. We seem to have so little in common, though, and the more friends she makes, the more it hurts me that I don't have any yet. It's worse when she invites them all over and they crowd onto her bed, sometimes spilling onto the fluffy pink rug that she brought, laughing and gossiping and trying not to obviously exclude me. But it's even worse when they throw an obligatory comment my way every once in a while, and we all know the one fact nobody will say out loud: They'd be happier if I wasn't there. Or rather, they probably wouldn't even notice, which might actually be worse. I always pretend to be so engrossed in a book or on my computer that they don't feel the need to say hello, feigning respect for my studying. It lets us all off the hook.

Greer's alone, lying in bed instead of getting ready for class.
Great
.

"Hi," she whimpers when I come in.

"Hey," I say, pretending she sounds normal, pretending it doesn't bother me that she's not getting dressed. It's not that I care about her grades. Obviously. I do, however, care about my privacy, and I'm starting to get the feeling that she's going to skip class today.

She moans a little, making it obvious that something's wrong and that I should ask about it. I glance quickly her way, slightly awed that she can look so pretty while being sick or hurt or whatever she's pretending to be. Her long blond hair is as shiny as when she goes out at night, and her pale complexion is perfectly even, in a way that suggests she put on makeup just to stay in bed. I swear she's wearing lip gloss too.

I sigh. "Are you OK?" My question is based solely on obligation, not genuine concern.

"No," she say. "I'm not OK. Cramps? And I took my pain pills? Not the addictive kind," she assures me. "I can't get out of bed, though. They make me groggy?"

"Mm hmm?" I'm not sure what she's going for. I put my backpack down and start to take off my jacket.

"So?" she continues. "I'm starving? But I'm too, like, dizzy to get up. Could you possibly go to the cafeteria and bring me lunch? Please?"

I want to say no. I know she's taking advantage of me. But I don't know how to turn her down; my social status is shaky at best as it is.

"Fine." I'm sure she can hear how defeated I feel.

"Lia, you're the best," she says, but we both know she doesn't mean it. "So, I want a salad? And I wrote down the toppings and, like, the approximate amounts of each that I want. It's like important to get the right stuff. The dressing? I wrote Italian, but I need the lite, not the creamy. It's important . . . "