Standard Disclaimer: No copyrighted material used in this chapter belongs to me. This story belongs to Linda Howard/Jones with some RIB and the writers of Glee mixed in. A necessary reminder for this crazy hot mess of a chapter that I could have changed like I am prone to do, but I am still a working woman, and don't have the time to make sane sensible actions for our girl. Just know that Sam is not the only one a few fries short of a Happy Meal in this story. Our girl has lost her mind...blame it on the shooting, Herb, Lauren, and years of suppression and not sharing her pain and depression along with CME, she is plum crazy which is completely understandable, or I wouldn't include the insanity. We will see how Crazy Sam reacts to his unexpected visitor. So, without further ado, Samcedes and a tiny cliffhanger...
Chapter Fourteen
Cedes couldn't drive by Roz's house without stopping to let them know where she was going. Any vehicle on the road now attracted notice. To her relief Roz was napping, and luckily Carmen and Bree didn't ask many questions.
She was crazy but not batshit crazy enough to walk up Cove Mountain. Sam might be willing and able to make that hike—he'd done it at least three times since the CME that she knew of, and likely more times than that—but she wasn't. She was in the best physical shape of her life, but it was afternoon already, and she wanted to get up there and back before dark.
She couldn't stop the butterflies from jittering in her stomach at the thought of seeing Sam again. It had been a month since he'd sat on her porch and drank tea with her, and looked at her as if . . . well, she still wasn't certain how he'd looked at her. At the time she'd thought he looked aroused. Then she'd thought maybe he'd been alarmed that she might make a pass at him, because how could he know she'd never made a pass at anyone in her life? And what did it say about her that she couldn't tell the difference between arousal and alarm?
It had been weeks since he'd gifted her with not one but two solar lights . . . and then stalked away as if he couldn't bear to look at her. Was she entirely wrong about the way he'd looked at her? She didn't think so, but then again, maybe it was just wishful thinking on her part brought upon about mania from the CME. Some kind of brain inflammation symptom that the stress had triggered.
Because she was so fiercely attracted to him, that it scared her to death. Being that attracted to someone meant she was vulnerable, that she was exposing herself to the pain of rejection, even if that rejection wasn't personal. Her instinct for self-protection screamed at her to turn her small SUV around.
The only thing that kept her from turning around and going home was her innate sense of duty.
She needed Sam, not just physically, but she also needed his help. Everyone in her community needed him. Most importantly, her aunt and cousin needed him. And she would do whatever it took to get him to agree with helping her because they needed his expertise, his brain, his tactical thinking and military experience.
He would also solve the Herb problem. There was something about Sam that said "dangerous" to anyone with a lick of sense about them, or at least "this man can kick my ass seven ways from Sunday." And even if Herb, or anyone else, didn't want to listen, they'd do so anyway, precisely because of this dangerous aura.
She remembered Mike had said something about a big rock that was in the middle of Sam's driveway, so she stopped short, well down the hill where there was a bit of a shoulder, so she could be able to safely turn around. Doing so left her with a longer hike, but that was better than trying to drive in reverse down the narrow, winding private road.
Big, tall trees loomed around her on both sides, blocking out the sunlight and making it seem as if sundown was near. Being from the Great Smoky region, (her father's family were the reason why Jones Cove Road was called Jones Cove. They didn't originally live in the mountains, but black people had called the mountain area their home even though they were not talked about in the area's history, as they had built many of the roads that made the area accessible after the war). She never lived on top of the gorgeous mountains but enjoyed living in the valley below and being reminded of their majesty.
When she got out of her Honda the difference in temperature immediately struck her, too; there was a good fifteen, maybe twenty degree difference between here under the big trees than and down in the sunny valley. Cautiously she looked around, and listened for the sound of anything like a bear moving in the brush, but there was nothing alarming.
Even though there was no one around, no sign that a human other than Sam was anywhere near, she locked her car and stuck the keys in her pocket, and started up the steep road, which narrowed more and more and finally transitioned from asphalt to two parallel paths of gravel divided by weeds, testimony that even before the CME no one had come up here very often, if at all, and Sam had rarely driven down.
The way was steep, so steep that within fifty yards she was huffing and puffing, her legs aching. To ease the strain on her muscles she changed tactics and instead of tackling the mountain head-on she zigzagged her way up, like a boat tacking into the wind. Wind sighed through the big trees, the tops gently swaying, and the rich smell of the forest wrapped around her.
She stopped and just stood there for a minute, something in her connecting to the vibrant power of the mountains. She wished for more time. She wished for a camera, to record what her eyes were seeing the mountains in the fall the beautiful tree leaves the scenery was breathtaking, but what she felt wasn't something that could be caught in a photograph.
Another hundred yards and she rounded a curve, and saw the big rock Mike had mentioned. It was an effective security measure, one positioned exactly where no car could go around it on either side, and only a truck riding on a frame as high as Sam's could clear it. The rock was mute testimony that she wasn't making a mistake coming here. Sam would know what to do, how to give them a tactical advantage.
Finally she puffed around another curve and abruptly there was his cabin, sitting on a miraculously flat piece of ground, with Sam's truck parked there on the side. The mountain continued rising on the left; on the right, the valley spread out before her. She slowed to a stop, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted as she stared in awe. A wide porch encircled the cabin, and she could see a rocking chair on the end of the house looking out over the valley. The view was delicious.
The cabin was one story, dark brown planks or siding running horizontally; from the valley it would be impossible to pick out, especially in the summer with the trees in full leaf. It wasn't in the traditional cabin style at all, with a roof and chimney. There were solar panels and only a tiny spot that was covered in panels that a chimney came out of.
Speaking of the chimney, a thin haze of smoke rose from it, which meant he was at home. She would have hated to waste all this momentum and energy for him to not be here, because she wasn't sure she'd be able to work up the nerve to come back. Abruptly she realized that he might not be home anyway, despite the presence of his truck and the woodsmoke. He could be cutting wood. He could—
The door opened, and he stepped out on the porch.
He was wearing jeans, boots, and an untucked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his muscled forearms, a couple of days' stubble darkening his jaw. The sight of him twisted her insides in knots, started her heart beating so loudly she was sure he heard it. The dog, no longer a little puppy darted past him and leaped off the porch to race toward her, barking as it ran around and around her in a fit of joy. Sam watched the dog with an impassive expression, and gave a shake of his head. "Calm down dog." But there was no irritation in his tone, just an acceptance of the young dog's exuberance.
Giving herself time to school her expression, Cedes bent down to stroke the animal's head. He twisted against her legs in joy.
At least Sam wasn't carrying the shotgun which he'd greeted Mike with, so he didn't intend to shoot her for trespassing. That was a promising sign, although he didn't exactly look welcoming. Still, he'd been on her private property more than once, he'd drank her tea, so maybe they were past the shoot-on-sight stage. She wished she felt welcome here, but right now she'd settle for "tolerated." He stood there, big and intimidating, his hard face as unreadable as stone; maybe tolerance was an optimistic expectation.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Because of course something had to be wrong, or she wouldn't be here—and what wasn't wrong? Pretty much everything was wrong. She was in over her head and overwhelmed. Where did she begin?
She took a deep breath and walked up to the steps, which was as close as she dared to get before she lost momentum. Her voice wouldn't quite work, with her heart pounding so hard and her stomach filled with butterflies. She stood there staring up at him, wondering if he could see the desperation reeking from her skin.
He only stepped aside and said, "Come on in."
She wanted to go in, and she didn't want to. She wanted to say what she'd come here to say, and leave before she embarrassed herself by breaking down. Yes, she was curious about his house, how he lived, but at the same time that old sense of caution and self-preservation was yelling at her to keep her distance, that distance equaled safety, and safety equaled . . . what? Never enjoying life again?
She went up the steps. Maybe no one other than her would ever know what an emotional effort that took, but she did. The dog scampered past her, darted inside, and before she reached the door was standing there with a shoe in his mouth, tail wagging.
Despite her attack of nerves, the idea of the dog chewing one of Sam's shoes made her smile. "You gave him your shoe as a chew toy?"
"It wasn't exactly giving it to him as much as it was that he stole it. It was an old pair anyway. Move out of the way, dog."
The dog moved. Sam put his hand on her lower back and ushered her inside, a light touch that nevertheless burned through layers of clothing and left her scorched. She almost faltered to a stop but managed to keep her feet moving—for a few feet, at least, when astonishment brought her to a halt.
The interior wasn't anything like what she'd expected. She didn't really know what to expect, but what she found wasn't what she expected. The big open room was kitchen, dining, and living space all together, wide plank flooring, with a flat-weave rug under the eating table and another defining the living area, which contained a leather couch, two leather recliners, a coffee table, end tables, and a couple of lamps. She had expected pine walls, and instead found drywall painted a no-nonsense beige. No knickknacks, of course; she couldn't imagine Sam Evans owning even one decorative piece, much less several. No art on the walls. If a gun rack filled with multiple weapons could be considered decoration, then that was his effort at it. The room was comfortably warm—warmer than her house, anyway—thanks to the wood-burning stove.
There were a couple of oil lamps sitting around, and heavy curtains that were pulled open to let in the sunshine. She suspected those heavy blackout curtains did a lot at night to help hold the heat inside.
"Do you want some coffee?" he asked.
She didn't normally drink coffee this late in the day, but the warmth would be welcome, as well as something to occupy her hands. "Yes, thank you," she said, and took the chair at the table that he indicated.
"How do you drink it?"
"Ah . . . black." She did now, anyway.
He made two mugs and brought them to the table, setting one in front of her and choosing the chair across from her for himself. Then he waited. He'd already asked once what was wrong, and evidently saw no need to repeat himself.
She took a deep breath. There was so much weighing on her, and maybe she'd be more coherent if she laid things out chronologically.
"You asked me what wrong. There is a lot that has gone completely wrong. One: Roz fell down the stairs yesterday and broke her leg. She's out of action for a couple of months, and evidently I'm heir to be community leader, because no one else wants to do the job other than Herb Duncan, and no one wants him to do it, so I'm the dupe.
"Two: about three this morning, someone broke into the Carlisles' house. Jim and Mary Jo heard him, got up, and"—she swallowed—"he shot at them, the shot went wild and Jim shot him, twice, and killed him. Jim and Mary Jo are okay, just upset. The man was from the Nashville area, according to his driver's license. We recorded what happened and his identity as best we could, and buried him."
At that news, Sam straightened, his green eyes turning almost feral, but he relaxed some once she said the Carlisles weren't hurt.
"Finally, at the meeting today, I told everyone about the gasoline in my tanks. Brett Bukowski is going to rig a suction pump and we'll start distributing it tomorrow morning at nine. If you need to fill up, tomorrow's the day."
He nodded.
She left out the part about Lauren Zizes because, while it had been upsetting, in the long run it hadn't been important.
"I'm afraid the man from Nashville is just the beginning. If he could find his way here, so can others. I don't know what to do, and no one else seems willing to make any decisions. We have the community patrol, but slipping past them wouldn't be hard at all."
He nodded again and said impassively, "You should expect trouble, from here on out."
She already did, and that was why she was here. "I don't know how many people are on the move—"
"A lot. Pretty much everyone in the cities who survived the first month. I get news over my radio system, and now that the atmosphere has settled down I'm hearing transmissions from coast to coast."
She didn't know whether to be happy that people were getting news out, because that was a tiny bit of civilization returning, or alarmed by the phrase "survived the first month."
"How bad is it?"
"In the big cities, it's a total disaster. The smart ones were the ones who got out right away." He regarded her for a moment, his eyes grim. "You don't want to know the details."
No, she probably didn't. If Sam said it was bad, it was bad on a level she didn't want to know. "If a lot of people are moving out of the North . . . Herb Duncan, the one who wants to be community leader, thinks we should let them in, that there's safety in numbers—"
His eyebrows went up. "Idiotic thinking." The succinct answer echoed her own gut instinct, that letting in people they didn't know was risky, and would strain their resources to the point that everyone suffered. She wanted to be good person, but she also wanted to survive. This first winter would be the hardest. If the power was still out next winter, at least they would have had the summer to plant and harvest, and they'd be better prepared.
"What should we do?"
"Shoot first, ask questions later. That's what I plan on doing."
The simple, brutal advice left her breathless. Despite the violence at the Carlisle house, part of her hadn't quite accepted that things would come to that.
"You do have a weapon, don't you?" he asked, his eyebrows going up again as if he couldn't conceive of not being armed.
"Yes. Roz and I both have .22 rifles."
He didn't look impressed, but then she hadn't expected him to be, not by something used for squirrel hunting. "There are a lot of hunters here in the valley; they'll have more suitable rifles for self-defense."
She mentally worried about the situation. Obviously the dilemma was ammunition; they had to have enough ammunition to hunt, but if they didn't defend the valley, hunting wouldn't matter because they'd be dead. And if they defended the valley but then weren't able to hunt and feed their families . . . If there was a solution, she didn't know it. Sam would. She clasped her hands around the warmth of the mug and went for it. "If you could come down to a community meeting for a couple of hours, meet with some of the community leaders and give us some tips, maybe talk to Herb..."
"No." He didn't let her finish, and she couldn't see even a flicker of interest in his eyes. Despite living here the past few years he had no sense of community, no ties to the people who lived here. The only interactions he'd had, that she knew of, were with the Carlisles and herself—that and giving Mike Chang the same answer he'd just given her: No.
Until that moment she hadn't realized how desperately she'd wanted him to say yes. She was holding herself together, barely, but scratch the surface and she was terrified that she'd do something wrong, not think of something crucial and get someone hurt or even killed. She needed his help . . . but what did he need? Nothing. He had everything here to make it through the crisis. All she could do was plead with him, because she had nothing to offer in barter.
An idea, a realization, blasted through her like an explosion. She had nothing he needed, but what about something he wanted?
Did she dare? She, who had never dared anything? If she wasn't desperate and out of her mind with worry and panic and stress-induced psychosis, would she be willing to do this?
She was too self-aware to fool herself into thinking she could do this as a personal sacrifice for the good of the community. The truth was that she wanted Sam, sexually, in a way she'd never imagined she could want a man. She had never taken chances since leaving college; her life was built around making the safest choice, not pushing, not demanding, not attracting attention. She only thought he might be interested, but she'd never really propositioned a man before.
She knew she wasn't a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model, but she was attractive enough, unless he required a woman who was white. Roz said that deep down men weren't picky. That when the lights were out that we were all the same color.
If Sam said yes, she would get what she wanted, which was him—and they would get his knowledge and maybe training on how to survive.
She could ask . . . or she could duck her head and quietly leave, backing away from the challenge and live the way she always had before. She had never reached out to take what she really wanted.
She had never tried.
The challenge to be more than what she'd been, to risk not just something but herself, was so overwhelming she thought her bones might buckle under the pressure. And yet she couldn't just do nothing, not and live with herself. This wasn't chickening out on a skydiving lesson, this was a chance to have something with Sam. No matter what, she wanted that chance.
As if from a distance she heard her own voice, low and only a little shaky: "I'll have sex with you, if you'll help us."
His expression didn't flicker. Had she actually spoken those words? Was the offer only in her imagination?
Then he said, "I don't know who that offer insults the most, you or me." He paused. "No way in hell pretty lady."
She had taken a chance. and he refused her, and it was completely devastating.
She lost feeling in her entire body. The heavens didn't tear apart, the floor didn't open to swallow her up, no matter how much she wished it would. She had to sit there, exposed and humiliated, fighting to breathe through the crush of pain, of rejection.
If her heart was beating, she couldn't feel it.
Slowly she managed to push to her feet, though she didn't know how. She would also somehow manage to go down the steps, walk down the steep driveway. She told herself she'd do that, no matter what. Where she would find the strength was something else entirely, but that, too, she would manage.
Except she couldn't, not like that. She couldn't leave things unsaid, because that would bring even deeper regrets that she had left with him thinking she was willing to trade herself to anyone. Dredging up the last tattered remnants of her pride, she said, "It isn't just the community. I wouldn't have made that . . . offer . . . to anyone else. Only you. Because . . . because I thought, I felt . . ." She stumbled to a halt, gathering herself. "I felt . . . attraction." She was done. She couldn't take any more. She said "I'm sorry I offended you," in a thin, stifled tone and turned to leave.
She hadn't taken a single step before his hard hand closed around her arm and pulled her to a stop. Everything in her rejected being halted; she needed to get away, get out of his sight, before she broke down completely. She didn't want him to see, to know. Helplessly she tugged on her arm, knowing she could only break free if he let her, but trying anyway because she couldn't stop herself.
"Well, now." His voice was low, almost a growl; she hadn't heard him move but he was standing right behind her, and the timbre of his words was a stroke along her exposed nerve endings. "That changes everything."
Blindly she shook her head. "No. It doesn't." She pulled on her arm again.
"Hell yeah, it does. Let me show you if you don't believe my words."
He released her arm but closed both of his hands around her waist, turning her around to face him. She didn't want him to see her face, to know how devastated she was; quickly she ducked her head, and found herself with her forehead resting on his chest. He smelled of soap, of man, of heated skin. She could hear the beat of his heart, strong and steady, luring her to nestle her cheek against him so she could feel as well as hear. She resisted the lure, too shattered to do anything other than endure.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he eased her body against him.
She felt more of that heat. She felt his chest and abdomen, like ridged iron covered with warm flesh. She felt the grip of his big hands, sliding down to her hips. She felt the long, muscled thighs. And she felt the thick ridge pressed against her stomach, felt him move her hips and rock her back and forth against that thick ridge.
Whiplashed first by rejection and now this feeling his erection, strung out on nerves, she shook her head. "I don't understand."
His left hand stroked from her hip up her back, fisted in the hair at the back of her head and tugged, tilting her head back. The expression in those sharp green eyes mesmerized her.
"Understand this." He kissed her—and nothing about it was anything like how she'd been kissed before. He kissed her as if he wanted to devour her, possess her, wipe the memory of every other kiss out of her mind forever. The kiss was hard, almost punishing; his lips were firm, his tongue in her mouth before she had realized what he was doing. He ate at her mouth, holding her head back to give him complete access. He kissed her as if he was about to strip her clothes off, pick her up, and put her against the wall.
The taste of him . . . oh, the taste of him.
A small part of her wanted to push him away and yell at him. He'd said no, and the single word had gutted her. Now he was kissing her as if he intended to never let her go. She wasn't good at this man/woman stuff and being jerked back and forth like this was so unsettling.
Instead she put her arms around him and clenched her fists in his shirt, returned the kiss with her own hunger and fervor, reveling in the strength she could feel under her hands, against her body. That wasn't enough; she released the fabric, dug her fingers into his back, tried to squirm closer because the only thing that would be enough was being naked with him, under him, having him inside her where she ached with emptiness.
Her hand was wet. And sticky.
The discordant sensation took a while to sink into her consciousness, to register as being not right. He finally lifted his head and she caught her breath, staring up at him. Absently she rubbed her thumb against her forefinger. He was bending his head down for more when her brows drew together in a puzzled frown and she said, "Wait."
He went still, sensing that something had fractured her attention. He cocked his head, listening, alert for an unusual sound. The dog lay panting contentedly under the table, though, not showing any sign of alarm. Sam looked back to her. "What? Did you hear something?"
"No." She withdrew her arms from around him, stared in puzzlement at the red stain on her hand. "What is that?"
He glanced at her hand and his expression cleared. "Blood. Mine, to be specific. Nothing serious, just a little cut, but it must have started bleeding again."
Her mouth fell open. "You're kidding."
"About what?"
"It's started bleeding again, but it's nothing serious? Turn around Sam Evans right now and let me see."
He gave her a hard look, the one that said he wasn't used to going along with whatever other people wanted him to do. Cedes understood that he didn't want to be fussed over, but . . . but she was shaky inside after what had just passed between them and she needed something else to focus on, and checking on his wound was that something.
"You kissed me," she said fiercely. "That gives me rights, and sorry if you don't like it. Now turn your ass around."
The impassive look morphed into something close to amusement. "A kiss gives you rights?"
"That one did." She'd never been kissed like that before, but on a cellular level she knew that something was happening between her and Sam that went beyond anything she'd imagined. She'd never been so pushy before, either, but she'd had twenty-four very rough hours, and she seemed to be making a habit of doing things she'd never done before. Knowing she was so far out of her comfort zone, out of her ever-loving mind, and was still functioning, made her both excited and terrified. What the heck, she might as well keep going. "Pull your shirt off and turn the hell around." Then she waited, barely breathing, to see what he did.
I warned you that it was a tiny cliffhanger. Now we are into the 12 days of Samcedes Christmas with the rest of the story being ooey gooey Samcedes, suspenseful action, and sexy times ahead, I may have to change the rating according to how I am feeling when it comes to those scenes...