against my mouth.
“Someone’s still here. They always leave one man behind, just in case,” he whispers, his lips soft against my temple. My body goes rigid again. Our hearts beat against each other’s, and his hand stays firm over my lips. The air in the shelter is suddenly so dense I can hardly breathe. Or maybe it’s being pressed against Bowen that steals my breath. For a long time we stand motionless. And then the solitary sound of boots resonates through the factory, fades, and drifts into nothing.
Bowen’s body grows slack, and he moves his hand from my mouth to the back of my neck. His breath cools the sweat on my face, and I lift my face toward his. He sighs and rests his forehead against mine. Our noses bump, and something soft touches my lips—his—an accidental, feathery touch. But then his hand tightens on the back of my neck, and his lips move, tracing a line of fire from my mouth, along my jaw, to the soft skin below my ear. He takes a deep breath and moves his lips back to mine. They press against mine again, soft and firm. And very deliberate. His lips part, and I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been kissed.
My stomach drops, and my knees forget how to stay straight. I grip Bowen’s shirt and let my lips melt against his. But he pulls his face from mine.
The door opens. Cooler, dry air takes Bowen’s place against my body, and he steps into the light. He runs his hands through his dark hair and curses.
“What?” I say, breathless. I lick my lips and taste salt.
He points to the door. Or what’s left of it—a gaping hole in the side of the factory, surrounded by rubble. The mangled door lies beneath the solitary window on the opposite side of the factory.
He turns back to me, pulls me out into the open, and takes my place in the shelter. Kneeling, he begins filling the backpacks with food and water. The shelter is crammed with cans. From floor to ceiling. Except a small space big enough to fit one body. I look at Bowen’s scowling profile and wonder, Did I imagine his lips on mine? I slide my tongue over my lips again and can still taste him.
“Take off your shirt,” he says, peering up at me.
My heart jumps into my throat. “What?”
His jaw muscles pulse. “Don’t ask questions. Just do it, Fo.”
I pull the stained shirt over my head. Bowen stands and puts his hands on my bare shoulders and looks down into my eyes. My knees tremble and I lean toward him. He frowns and flips me around so my back is to him, and pulls the shirt from my hand. It falls to the floor by my feet.
“Arms out,” he orders. I lift my arms. He slips something over my hand and up to my shoulder, the way my mother helped me put on my coat when I was four. The other arm is next and then he spins me back around to face him. He pulls a heavy black vest closed over my chest and zips it into place.
“Bulletproof?” I ask. His troubled eyes meet mine, and he nods. From the floor he takes my shirt and presses it into my hands. I pull it over my head, over the vest. The instant it’s in place, he thrusts a heavy, bulging pack at me and slings the other over his shoulders. Then, without a word, without a backward glance, he turns and leaves.
“What about you?” I say, running after him, thinking of his scarred chest and shoulder—the only things hidden beneath his shirt. “Aren’t you going to put on a vest?”
His stride doesn’t slow. “There’s only one.”
“So, you’re giving it to me? A Level Ten?” I ask, shocked, clumsily following him as I try to get my arms into the heavy backpack’s straps.
He yanks the straps of his backpack tighter. “I suppose I am.”
“Why?”
He slows and looks at me, and his eyes hold mine. I lick my lips again, wondering if I can still taste him. I can’t. He lets out a deep breath, looks at his watch, and curses. “Come on. It’s almost dusk. And shut up. We’ve got to be silent. And we’ve got to find somewhere to spend the night, fast.”
Chapter 20
It is like playing capture the flag. Only if we’re caught by the other team, we lose something much more important than a scrap of