you didn’t want them, I’ll ask the questions, and you can earn the alcohol you crave so deeply.”
Again with the judgment. I saw it in his eyes and heard it in his tone. Asshole.
“Fine. Start asking. I’m thirsty.”
“Where did you live before Tolerance?”
“You mean before the earthquakes that freed you and destroyed everything good in the world? I lived in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma.” I slid my glass across the table to him. “Fill her up, buttercup.”
He dribbled a few drips into the glass. I seethed but was careful to keep that reaction from my expression and my tone.
“That’s not much of a drink,” I commented.
“That wasn’t much of an answer. Did you have family?”
“Yes.” I looked pointedly at the glass.
He didn’t move.
“I answered.”
“With one word.”
“First, when I answered with more words, you barely poured anything. Second, if you don’t want one-word answers, don’t ask yes or no questions.”
“Did you have a family and what were their names? What did they look like?”
A vise-like pressure squeezed my chest at the thought of talking about them. I should have kept my mouth shut about the simple questions. Staring at the bottle in his hand, I disconnected myself from the moment as best as I could and answered.
“My dad’s name was Dylan. He was fifty-three years old, had a goatee, sandy blonde hair, and loved cats. My mom’s name was Heather. She was forty-five years old, short, had wavy dark brown hair, and was adopted when she was seven. They were the best parents ever, and now they’re dead. Would you like to bring up something else painful? You should ask how they died.”
I shifted my gaze to his. He didn’t blink as he poured a tiny bit more into my glass without commenting on my suggestion.
“What do you miss?” he asked when he finished.
“Fucking privacy.”
For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t pour. But he did. Cheaply again.
“What do you dream about at night?” he asked.
“Puppies and rainbows. Stop being cheap with those dribbles.”
Despite my warning, he only added maybe five more drops to my glass.
“Stop giving me fake answers,” he countered.
“Fine. I dream of death. Of blood and infected and the hell I’ve lived since those fucking earthquakes. Want more detail?”
He gave me a healthier dose, but not by much.
“I want to know why you jumped.”
The words were like a fist to my gut. I struggled to breathe for a moment as I stared at him.
“You don’t really care about the reason. You only want to know how to fix the broken baby-maker. Every vagina counts, right? Even the ones attached to fucked up people. Give me my drink. I’ve earned what’s in that glass.”
He didn’t push it toward me, but I didn’t let that little fact stop me from grabbing it myself and slamming back the contents. It wasn’t much more than a swallow. The liquid burned in the best way, and I closed my eyes to focus on the sensation rather than my overwhelming need to cry.
“Emily thinks you will hurt less if you speak about what hurts you. I think you are angry and mean because you enjoy being angry and mean.”
My eyes flew open.
“What did you say?”
“Your ears work, Hannah. You heard me.”
My fingers clamped onto the edge of the table. The need to flip the piece of furniture on him and jump on it, cartoon style, while he was pinned underneath it nearly overwhelmed me.
“I’m not small enough to hope you die,” I said in a strained voice. “No, I hope you live. Live and watch as, one by one, your precious humans fall to the infected. All your hope of a future will be wiped out before your eyes and rotting as they moan for a bite of you.”
“Food!” Emily practically shouted as she shoved out of the kitchen with two bowls in her hands.
She set them down before us, her gaze darting between Merdon and me.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked.
“A new dinner partner,” I said, still staring at Merdon.
“No. Thank you, Emily,” Merdon said, turning his gaze from mine to nod at her.
She gave him a weak smile and fled back into the kitchen.
“Eat the soup, Hannah. I will give you more of your drink.”
He had to know I was two seconds from getting up and walking out. Which was the only reason he’d dangled that carrot, and the alcohol was the only reason I stayed.
Staring at the bottle, I woodenly took my first bite of soup. My stomach turned