Page 7 of Redemption (Devil Dogs of the Apocalypse #4)

With my eyes still closed, my hips begin to feel the music, grinding against the dirt and the prodding steel at my backside.

My shoulders join in a moment later as my worries begin to evaporate.

A smile pulls at my lips as the song crescendos, realizing I’m about to be one of the few lucky motherfuckers who gets the chance to belt out the chorus with Bob Fucking Marley of all people, when suddenly the man at my back’s hand wraps around my face even tighter, muffling my impending karaoke session with one of the greats.

I huff an annoyed breath at the utter audacity. How dare he keep me from enjoying the afterlife. I’ll be sure to haunt him for all eternity for this, Rick-Rolling his ass, day and night.

Footsteps return to my right, causing my body to stiffen, the hand around my face tightening even more as his free hand moves to his side.

“Anything?”

“Nah, man. We got the other three, though. Might as well just leave a few of the new guys back here with Drone to keep a lookout. No reason for all of us to go hunting for her. She’s just one fucking girl; they’ll find her.

No one survives out here on their own for long and, even if she does hide, she’ll fuck up eventually and show herself. ”

There’s a grunted agreement, and then the footsteps race off again.

At their departure, I press my hands against the dirt, tired of being a mattress for the jolly green giant on top of me.

But as I try to lift myself up and out from under him, he doubles down, forcing me back into the grass.

His mouth finds my ear a moment later. Soft puffs of hot air escape his lips and stir against my sensitive flesh, creating all kinds of nonsense to build low in my stomach and between my legs.

Ooh tingles.......

Ok... At least that proves that I’m definitely not dead... Jury’s still out on Darius, however.

Remember when he used to give us tingles? That thing he’d do with his fingers? Ooh, and his tongue? Remember when—

I shut the horny bitch down. That asshole doesn’t deserve wistful butterflies. He’s more like an annoying mosquito that needs to be smooshed.

“Not yet. Don’t move. We need to stay hidden until we know they’re all gone. There could be others in the area we don’t know about.” The potential threat stills my struggles, allowing his body to fully surround mine. The close proximity, familiar yet confusing.

We stay there, huddled under what looks to be a blanket of leaves and shrubs, for what feels like hours.

As he’d indicated, others did end up wandering into the area a few more times but thankfully left as quickly as they arrived, leaving us still and silent.

Through it all, we lie there pressed against one another in some sort of pseudo-hug, not uttering a single word to one another as we wait out the intruders.

There’s only the sound and feeling of his breaths against my ear and neck to break the perpetual silence and, apparently, my inner self’s restraint.

OoOOOoOoOoOoh.... Tingles....

No... Absolutely not. Over my dead body. Besides, I already have three insanely virile men. My dance card is already filled to the brim, thank you very much.

But, regardless of my overflowing hatred of the man, a betraying tremor races through the length of my body.

The familiar feel of him and his weight against me, combined with the knowledge that it could in fact be him, brings me back to all those years lost, so long ago. I had loved him once, but not anymore.

One of his hands graces my side, his palm floating along my ribs with gentle, reassuring pressure.

His thumb rocks alongside my hipbone—a silent declaration that everything is going to be ok.

It’s soft and soothing. I know he probably doesn’t mean it in a sexual way, but with the way we’re positioned on the ground, it’s alluring and intimate.

And absolutely not happening.

I force a wall up and around my psyche, shoving those building feelings deep into the dark recesses of my mind and hopefully losing them for good in the pit of despair that is my past. It works for a second, but in the next, I feel an unmistakable twitch against my backside.

TINGLES!!!!

Fucking dammit....

With a grunt, he finally decides to move off me, standing and allowing me to see him for the first time in years.

He’s... He’s...

Holy motherfucking cock-o-nuts. He’s fucking hot!

Can it, you damn Pokémon Trainer... Acting like you gotta catch ‘em all over here. Sheesh. And by the way... Absolutely fucking not.

But still...

He’s changed since the last time I saw him.

Grown.

A lot.

Before he left me in that Godforsaken airport lounge, he was handsome, don’t get me wrong. A young man in his prime, budding muscles just waiting to be used. A youthfulness in his facial features that showed his age and inexperience in life.

Not anymore.

The man before me is just that. ALL MAN. Sharp, chiseled jawline. Wide shoulders. Slim waist. Even beneath the tattered frock he’s wearing, I can see his barely hidden pectoral muscles and impressive arms. Even his hands....

He offers one of those hands to help me stand, but I refrain from taking it. I'm not a baby back bitch or a holla back girl, even to ghosts, so I smack it away and rise of my own accord.

Finally free from his oppressive weight, my legs pounce, immediately springing into action as I leave him in the dust and race right back over to the Palace.

I still can’t wrap my head around the possibility that it’s actually him, and until I’m able to, I’m not going to trust this guy as far as I can throw him. And we all know me...

Yeah, that shit ain’t happening any time soon.

Fuck... they shot the guys. “Got them,” they said .

But that could mean anything. A shot in the shoulder is reparable.

A bullet to the thigh could be stitched up.

Just because they said they shot them doesn’t mean they’re dead.

Which means I need to get back to them as quickly as possible.

To help them in any way I can, even if it’s a diversion to help them fight back.

I can't just wait out here in the sticks and do nothing.

Unfortunately, the ghost of Darius-motherfucking-Cruz must think we’re in the middle of some sort of supernatural football game since he chases after me and throws me down to the ground like a damn ragdoll once again.

His hand wraps around my head, trying to protect me from the fall, but we go down hard, and I smack against the ground regardless, just enough for me to see stars for a second and turn even more pissed off.

“Jesus fucking Hell! Get off me! I need to get to them!” I yell at the giant grizzly bear of a man smothering me into the dirt, but once again he doesn’t listen, choosing to drag me kicking and screaming—or would be if he wasn’t muzzling me again with his big meaty paws—back to the hiding spot instead.

Once we’ve returned to the secluded garden’s cover, he releases my arms but keeps my hand imprisoned within his, continuing his incessant need to drag my ass away from the Palace.

“Mi Alma, we need to—”

“No.” I shake my head emphatically, ripping my hand from his and pointing a finger at his chest as I force him to stop and listen to me this time.

“It’s time for you to listen to me, fucker.

If you are in fact Darius, my ass-hat of an ex-fiancé, you lost your right to call me that name the minute you left me.

That includes the real you, the dead you, and this imaginary version of you.

” I raise and lower my hand at him, making sure he knows that all of him has done fucked up.

It must work because he throws his hands up, surrendering.

“Of course it works. He’s a figment of our imagination!”

My inner-outer voice chimes in, the voice echoing....

Louder than usual...

...Now wait just a damn second.

Everything around me pauses, frozen in time and mental acumen, as I realize with a jolt that it’s not just a voice in my head this time. That voice came from over there ...

Reluctantly, I turn my wide gaze to the side and see there’s another person beside me, facing Darius and holding the same stance I am. Only... it’s not just any person. It’s... me .

A duplicate me .

She gives me a wide grin before she starts bouncing eagerly on her toes, her hair flouncing around her face in ridiculous pigtails. An outer manifestation of my inner self.

Oh, holy fuck nuggets. There’s my proof, right there. It’s official. I’ve gone bonkers.

If I could scream, I would, but instead, I do the only thing I can think of at the moment, which is shutting my eyes as tightly as I can once again—closing off the evolving hallucination—and humming the song “I’m Not Crazy,” by Matchbox Twenty.

Come on, Rob Thomas, bring me back to that normal, old-fashioned, millennial goodness. This is all too much to process. Too much... Much too much. I’m done. Cooked. Brain officially fried.

My fists clench and unclench at my sides, trying to reign in my psychosis.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.

“It’s totally happening, bitch!!!! I’m alive!!!!!”

Um... Mr. Freud? Mr. Jung? Little help, please? Fuck’s sake, Cole’s going to have a field day with this new development...

Me-number-two starts prancing around the garden as if it was her first time out from the loony bin, while I just stand there, consumed in my hysterical fate while sighing in mental exhaustion and utter bewilderment.

These are the days of my life...

“And I’m living the dream, baby!!!”

Unfortunately, I can’t think too hard on it at the moment because I have another shitstorm to deal with in the form of a dead/undead ex-fiancé.

Fuck, my brain hurts...