Page 70 of The Last Man on Earth
“I need a wax,” I say absentmindedly.
“Shut up, I don’t five a fuck about that.”
I pop my head up. “Did you just tell me to shut up?”
He locks eyes with me as he slides three fingers inside.
My head falls back as his tongue glides over my sensitive flesh, and judging by his groans, he’s enjoying my pussy more than he enjoyed lunch.
“Right there,” I moan. “Stay…right there…”
I cum with a long, keening wail, exploding on his tongue. His fingers keep playing in the wet, sticky mess between my thighs, prolonging my pleasure until I finally have to slap his hand away.
Then another sound pierces the air.
At first, I think I’m imagining it. A distant hum, rising and falling. Then Vincent jumps to his feet, his eyes wide.
“A plane!” he says.
I scramble out of the shelter and run behind him. We tear out of the tree line and run across the sand, waving our arms, screaming. “Hey! Hey! Down here!”
The plane gleams bright in the sun, passing high in the sky, but low enough that I swear it can see us. Ithasto see us. My heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe.
But it doesn’t slow down.
And it doesn’t circle back.
It keeps right on going.
The sound of the engine gradually fades, swallowed up by the endless sky.
When it’s fully out of sight, I drop to my knees in the sand, hands trembling. All that noise, all that hope, and now…nothing. Just the waves. Just the silence again.
Vincent stands a few feet away, his hands on his head.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck! What the fuck?”
He storms off toward the tree line, sand kicking up behind him as he goes.
But I stay where I am. I stay until the last light of the sun spills over the water, turning everything gold. My throat burns. Body aches. Head pounds.
But I get up and do the work of fixing the HELP sign. There’s not much to fix, really, but I shape it until the lines are the most crisp they’ve been.
And I’m reminded that no matter how routine life gets here, I still want to go home.
Chapter 33
Vincent
It’s morning here. Daylightbleeds through the canopy. Ari’s laying in my arms tracing the ink on my arm with her fingertips, slow and curious like she’s studying a map.
“This one,” she says, her voice soft. “The one that looks like a knife.”
“It’s a knife,” I deadpan, which makes her laugh.
“Why a knife?”
“Cuz I cut bitches off.”
