Folsom (End of Men, #1)(46)
“I started making them for you the night we met,” he says.
“I can’t believe you did.”
“It wasn’t all me,” he admits. “While I was in the hospital Krystal worked on them.”
He picks them up and hands them to me. “Do you need a pair in every color?”
“Yes! Yes, I do.”
He laughs and pulls out the chair for me to sit and try them on. They slide on easily and he bends down to secure the clasps and tie the laces.
“Like they were made for me.” I bite my lower lip, beaming. I tap the boots together and look up at him. “Thank you, Folsom. I love them.”
“Your smile…” He taps his chest. I want to hear the rest of what he was about to say, but he bends down and kisses me instead.
When it quickly gets heated, he backs away and grins.
I’m about to suggest lunch when I remember he has to make up his morning appointments.
“You have to go soon, right?” There’s a dread that follows those words, images of him with other women fill my mind. I hide my hands from him so he can’t see them shake.
“Yes,” he says simply.
Before he leaves, he sets me up on the sofa with snacks, drinks, books, and old movies playing on the Silverbook. I feel like a child being tucked into bed. But there’s something about being taken care of by a large, unemotional man that touches me, and so I mutely accept. Robin comes to check on me during the day while he’s gone, a stiff smile on her face. I want to ask her questions about him, but I know that Robin isn’t Folsom’s friend, she’s his handler, the Society pimp.
I wait all day for Folsom to get home so we can have dinner together. Sometimes he brings food from somewhere: fried chicken from the lower end, biscuits that melt on your tongue like butter—and sometimes he cooks. Since I have never cooked anything in my life, it fascinates me to watch him. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, he handles cookware with the same grace that I imagine he handles a woman’s body. I grow jealous when he flips things in a frying pan. I inwardly seethe when the muscles in his forearms flex as he stirs. Everything is tainted. My jealousy is ridiculous, thickly cloying, and I acknowledge this. Folsom is not mine. We are not in a relationship. But I want to be and so I’m sick with insecurity. After a week of sitting, sitting, sitting, I am bored and restless. One afternoon, I’m tired of waiting for Folsom to get home. I search the house for the Silverbook and carry it back to my place on the sofa, my intention to read the news, but as soon as the headlines pop up, I freeze.
END MEN CRUSADER HOSPITALIZED AFTER PREGNANCY SCARE
WHERE DOES THE RED REGION GO FROM HERE?
GWEN ALLISON AND THE RED REGION’S SON
LATICUS DONAHUE TO SAVE THE REGIONS
The last headline catches my attention. My hands grow clammy as the article opens in front of me. I shake them out, already knowing that what I’m about to read is not going to be good.
Laticus Donahue, the fifteen-year-old son of the renowned End Man, Folsom Donahue, has spent the last two months in the Red Region, being tested at Genome Y. As Folsom’s firstborn male, Laticus is the next eligible male who will join the End Men. The group, started seventeen years ago by late philanthropist Earl Oppenheimer, has become the Region’s last hope, its sole purpose being to repopulate. Genome Y released a statement today.
“After running extensive tests on the bright young man, we have found Laticus to be of extremely good health. His production of semen is high, and the Y chromosome is abundantly evident, more so than in any male currently living in the Regions. We have great hope in his future and the future of the Regions.”
I throw the Silverbook before I can read any more and bury my face in my arms. This is strategic on their part: Genome Y, the Society…even the President. They are aiming for Regional support, getting the private citizens excited and on their side. If everyone sees Laticus as a hero instead of a victim, they can quell the small pockets of uprising we’re starting to see. They are also trying to strong-arm Folsom into allowing Laticus to join the End Men early. Good luck to them. If I have learned anything about Folsom thus far, it is that his will is unbending. And that’s what scares me most. What will they do in order to make him bend? I sit for a long time, my mind churning until I finally make a decision. Retrieving the Silverbook from the floor, I reposition myself on the couch and start writing.
TWENTY-THREE
FOLSOM
If you were to ask me what I would remember most about Gwen ten years from now, I’d tell you that it’s not her wild-looking hair, or her exotic cat eyes, or her perfect breasts and their rosy nipples, which balance perfectly in my hands…it would be her reckless defiance, which she displays any time she’s angry. And though she doesn’t get angry often, when she does, there are always casualties.
I am on my way back from my last appointment of the day. I showered while there so when I walk through the doors to Gwen I won’t smell like another woman’s pussy. I sip water in the backseat wishing it was bourbon as Sera navigates the car through the narrow streets. I want to be home, I want to see her, and touch her, and smell her. I scroll through the day’s headlines, trying to distract myself. First I see the article about Laticus and suddenly my craving for something strong to drink increases. I burn as I read the words, my breathing ragged. But the headline that pops up afterward takes my breath altogether.