Page 25 of Longing for Liberty
“What are they doing out there?” I pointed to the window. “Are they separating us by race?”
“I said sit down!” the man yelled at me, his words like a slap. “And keep your mouth shut!” He swung his gun down.
Jeremy yanked me hard by the back of the shirt, and I sat this time, my heart going faster than a spooked rabbit.
A collective gasp filled the air at the sound of gunfire close by. Onebangfollowed by a series of rapid shots and then screaming. My hands went to my ears because it was so loud. I looked outside, and a sob rose up from my soul into my throat. The people, civilians, were fighting, and several military men were being taken to the ground by the citizens—yes! But the other military men…they were shooting. Shooting to kill.
“Oh, my God!” I screamed and covered my eyes to block the image of blood spurting from bodies, people indiscriminately being murdered right in front of us. “No! No!” I screamed. Jeremy braced an arm around me and forced me to bend, covering my body with his as I wailed my fury.
“Go! Drive!” the military man on our bus shouted to our bus driver, who cranked the bus into gear as everyone on board cried and covered our heads while blasts and screams sounded from outside. I had to look again, had to hope that the people, who outnumbered the armed men, were getting the upper hand.
The last thing I saw before we pulled away was a group of citizens rocking one of the military vehicles until it flipped. I hoped their uprising could take down the gunmen and stop the other buses. Maybe people all over the country would rise up and stop this…whatever this was.
And even then, I still hoped and told myself I was probably wrong, that it wasn’t something nefarious, that everyone was just running scared. I knew it was stupid to deny my eyes and my intuition, but hope was a strong coping mechanism.
Who would have ever expected hope to be a bad thing? Collectively, the country’s combined hope made us hesitate to fight, and that hesitation was our ruin.
I would later learn that the State Force had been quietly forming for months and had mobilized all over the country with no media coverage. Martial Law was invoked in silence. No unarmed uprisings or skirmishes could stand against their war-grade weapons and the men who had no hesitancy to use them.
NINE
STATE NEWS: COMMUNITY THREE WOMAN IN STOCKS AFTER SHARING PORNOGRAPHIC IMAGE!
To my relief,Secretary Fitzhugh did not come to the penthouse the next couple of days while I was there. Since he’d given me permission to take off my shoes while I worked, I was able to get everything done early and didn’t have aching legs and feet each day. No wonder maids were getting plantar fasciitis, though they didn’t call it that. They just limped around with their face in permanent winces. Cleaning in heels was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard of.
With a belly full of rich foods like pancakes and thick bacon or French toast and ham, I left work on those days feeling strong and accomplished. I loved being able to tell Jeremy that Fitzhugh wasn’t there and to watch his shoulders and face relax. Perhaps the Secretary had realized I was boring and trustworthy and didn’t need to come home to check on things. I let that idea fuel me.
My libido had not lessened, which was so insanely out of the ordinary for me. Twice that week after being awoken by the spotlight, I’d reached out for Jeremy and we’d come together in the darkness, half asleep but frantic for each other. It felt like my body was having its last big hoorah, wanting me to reproduce again. I guess it hadn’t gotten the memo about my tubes being tied. And while it felt nice to feel alive in that way, it was also a constant distraction to think of sex all the time. Good grief.
On Friday, the Secretary broke his cycle of not coming home, arriving at three-thirty in the afternoon with his laptop. He barely acknowledged me, seeming preoccupied, which was good. Linens were almost dry, so all I needed to do was make his dinner and his bed. I washed my hands and started prepping the food. A gorgeous marbled piece of steak with a potato and broccoli. I cleaned the potato, poked it with a knife, and stuck it in the microwave. Then I seasoned the steak, let it sit to get to room temp, and got a pot of water ready to steam the veggies. This was the first time I’d felt semi-comfortable while the Secretary had been home. We both worked in silence. Soon the penthouse smelled like sizzling beef.
I’d learned years ago how to cook a medium steak because that’s how my dad liked his. I pressed the center until it had the slightest give, then took it off to rest. When everything was finished, I had twenty minutes to make his bed. Perfect timing. I wondered if I should bring the plate to him now and was about to ask if he was ready for dinner when I noticed he was no longer sitting there.
I listened carefully but heard nothing. Had he left?
I put the plate in the microwave so it wouldn’t get cold while I made his bed. Gathering the sheets and blanket, his bedroom door was wide open. I poked my head in and found it empty.
By that point, my heart was racing yet again. I rushed to his bed and dropped the linens just as I heard the shower turn on. My face spun toward the closed bathroom door, and I gaped, horrified. The Secretary was showering. A single door separated me from a naked Fitzhugh.
Shit!
I needed to get out of here. Jeremy could shower in two or three minutes. Maybe the Secretary would take longer since he had more body mass and hair, not to mention warm water. So that gave me how long? Five minutes, maybe?
I fumbled to find the edges of the fitted sheet and began racing around the bed, pulling it taut with my shaking arms. Next, I found the bottom of the flat sheet, telling myself over and over to focus and calm down. I was fanning out the sheet when the water stopped and the blood drained from my extremities, making my hands tingle. It seemed the faster I tried to go, the more I messed up. I could hear him moving around in there as I finally got the top sheet smooth and grasped the plush blanket.
I decided then, fuck it. I wasn’t going to finish the bed yet. He could walk out at any second, and I couldn’t take that chance. I would come back in to finish once he was dressed and out of the bedroom, even if it meant going past five o’clock. I turned to flee when the bathroom door flung open.
I should have kept moving, but I froze.
I shouldn’t have looked, but I did.
It was one second. One long second, taking in an eyeful of Amos Fitzhugh, his bare, broad chest with a patch of dark hair in the middle, massively defined arms, and wet hair that hung down his forehead. I’d never seen his hair not done. And around his waist was a white towel, tied tightly around his lower waist, and a bulge with a distinct outline—holy shit. I looked away. That one second of gawking was way, way too intimate.
I started to move, rushing toward the door with an awkward, “So sorry, sir,” but he stepped out to block me. I looked to the side. “Excuse me, sir. I’ll be out of your way.”
“You’re not in my way, Liberty.”
“I…” Oh, no. I was tingling all over again, starting at the back of my neck and zinging down, then around, making my skin too sensitive. “I’ll come back.” It came out like a choked whisper.
