DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 10, SECTION 4

Despite Chris's hangover, he managed to knock at just about every one of the dwelling doorways that morning with impressive speed.

"Group meeting!" he shouted, slapping his hand against sandstone walls and roughly shaking door blankets as he ran along the dwelling's narrow passageways. "Wake up!" he screamed. "Like anyone's asleep anyway! Central square! Emergency meeting! Right now! Pronto folks. Group meeting!"

All fifty or so refugees sheepishly shuffled into the central square. The previous night's bonfire, now mostly ashes, released a slowly curling wisp of smoke .

"Alright," Chris said, stepping up onto a ledge. "Really sorry, folks. But I gotta do this."

He cleared his throat, looked out at the crowd as if trying to figure out what, exactly, he was going to say, then finally he shrugged.

"So, raise your hand if you had sex last night . . . or this morning."

Slowly, three or four people tentatively raised their hands. Then three or four more, and three or four more after that, until just about every single refugee had a hand up. Even poor Tim Huckabee, the ninety-something pharmacist I'd practically scared to death during our antibiotics raid, held his hand timidly aflutter.

"Jesus Christ." Chris let out a sigh of exasperated awe. "Why I am always the only one who never manages to get laid?"

The only people I could spot who didn't have their hands up were the young couple who'd arrived that fall with an infant, and the two Bottorff children, whose parents were covering their kids' eyes while holding up their free hands.

And then I spotted my dad. He stood at the back of the crowd with his hands in his pockets. Meanwhile, my mom, who'd managed to dress and make it to the meeting, covered her face and forced herself with a great effort of will to keep her hand in the air.

My dad just hung his head. I wanted more than anything to go to him and try to offer some small measure of comfort, but I couldn't just then. . . I had my own hand raised awkwardly toward the sky.

"Jesus, Ash." Chris shook his head at me. "Seriously?"

I couldn't tell if he'd deduced that I'd slept with Shawn, but he probably had.

The very last person I spotted without a hand up was Lindsay, Bryce Tripp's widow, who'd made the long trip from the locker room all the way to the dwellings with her son at her hip. Now the little boy was asleep at her shoulder. 

Lindsay shot a glance across the square, so quickly that I almost didn't notice it.

But I followed the path of her gaze directly to Shawn. He was standing against the far wall with his hand aloft. He caught Lindsay's glance. She shook her head with a look of disappointment. For a moment, Shawn watched Lindsay as she turned and left, slowly walking away, then he stared at the stone floor.

What was that about?

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