I nodded. "He crawled like a crab because his knees were bloody," I said, my voice barely audible. "Alika was carrying her baby. They hadn'

t named him yet because they weren't even sure if he would live. I thought he was a newborn because he was so small, but he was three months old and starving. Her breasts," I said, my voice a whisper. "She had no milk left. They were like deflated balloons."

Then, I couldn't go on and covered my mouth, forcing a smile, unable to continue. Nigel finished the story for me.

"We put them in the back of the truck and took them to the camp. Once Chinua knew they were safe, and that they had food and water, he up and died despite everything they did for him." Nigel turned to me and squeezed my shoulder. "We were able to save Alika and her baby Maya, though. They got I.V.s and food and the last time we checked, both were doing well."

A murmur went through the people listening, and I smiled, but I felt anything but pleased to be telling the story. I saw the camps only briefly, staying for only a few weeks, but it was enough. At times, they were terrible places of death, especially when the famine was raging and dozens, if not hundreds, died each day.

I wrote objective, journalistic pieces that described in stark language the horror of the wars and human-induced famine. What my pieces didn't reveal was the human behind them, horrified by what I saw, so much so that I had a breakdown.

My father – former Marine – smiled like a proud parent, unaware that I was on the verge of tears. That was how he'd been all my life, blind to my true emotions like an idiot.

"Excuse me," I said and squeezed Nigel's arm. I had to leave the group, who were now speaking amongst themselves and examining photos. I went down the hall to my old bedroom and sat on the bed, trying to get a hold of myself.

Then, the door opened.

Drake.

I glanced away, my cheeks heating – partly in anger that he followed me, partly in embarrassment that he'd see my tears.

"I'd like to be alone," I said.

"Being alone is the last thing you need right now." He sat beside me on the bed, close enough that his thigh pressed against mine, his shoulder against mine. Resting his elbows on his knees, he turned to look at me. "I'm sorry. Your father doesn't seem to understand how upset Africa still makes you."

I frowned. Drake understood.

"He always sees everything, every event, every word, for its strategic purpose. How it can aggrandize him and our family – or hurt us. He doesn’t really pay attention to people. What he said about those photographs being key to what makes me tick? He thinks it means I'm some great humanitarian – some angel of mercy – but really, I was just a student looking for a topic for my honors thesis. I had no idea what I got myself into."

"You didn't like Africa?"

I said nothing for a moment, my arms wrapped around myself.

"I hated it – the corruption. It was so hard. Painful. As soon as I could, I changed my topic. I couldn't do it. I'm not strong enough, but he can't see that because it would mean his daughter isn't up to snuff."

"You saw the worst of the worst." He turned to me, trying to catch my eye. "Where the people have resources, they're full of hope. I see it in the hospitals. The young doctors and nurses – they've been trained in America and they want to raise their countries out of poverty."

He pressed his shoulder against mine. I didn't say anything but I didn't move away either. It was kind of sweet what he did, trying to comfort me.

"I admire you for going. You didn't have to so that does say something about you, what makes you 'tick'."

"You'd be wrong to think that." My voice was bitter. "My father has no idea what makes me 'tick'. He practically chose my thesis topic and arranged everything. I wanted to do something on the fine arts, but no. It had to be political."

Drake frowned. "Your father chose your honors thesis topic?"

"You're surprised?" I turned away. "You obviously don't know my father."

"What did you want to do?"

I didn't say anything for a moment. Finally, I sighed. "What did I want to do? I wanted to do a series on young artists in Manhattan, and how they're using social media and new technology in their art, but that was too 'airy-fairy' for him, as he put it. He only sees art for its value as an investment, not for its social or cultural value. I tried to explain but he just dismissed me." I frowned, my emotions so close to the surface. "I was too much of a chicken to fight him and do what I really wanted."

"I'm sorry." He sounded as if he actually meant it. "University should be a time when you explore who you are and what excites you. It shouldn't be a time to please your parents."

I turned and looked at him, and it was one of the few times our eyes met – really met. I actually looked into his eyes, like it was for the first time, and it surprised me how much it affected me. I noticed once more how beautiful his eyes were – how blue, his eyelashes long and dark. In that moment, something passed between us. Attraction. I felt it in my belly, in my groin. In a moment of irrationality, I wanted him to lean over and kiss me, but he just smiled. Just a brief smile.

Then he glanced away.

The door opened and my father popped his head in.

Tags: S.E. Lund Unrestrained Erotic
Source: readsnovelonline.net