Page 35 of Killer Bones

That bit of acting I’d pay to see.

I return to the screen. “I’ll start a new game?”

“Sure.”

Playing is relaxing, it takes me back to sitting on my bed or messing about with friends—calmer, fun times. And when he makes observations, offers advice or congratulations, it almost feels as if we are friends. Killing raiders and collecting the myriad stuff in Fallout is like therapy.

“Your turn.” I note my level progress, total caps, and scratch my head over what else to note. “That should do it.”

When he’s out of Vault 11, my curiosity rears its head.

“Tell me about yourself? Why you do what you do?”

“Hmmm.” He’s rifling through a hideout for gear and sends me a glance. “I guess it won’t hurt. You know even if you get out of this alive, I can’t release you into the wild. You’ll know too much. I’ll have to keep you locked in my bedroom, forever.”

Hope kicks my shins, makes my heart pump harder and glow, just a little. Not a bonfire but gods what he said sounds promising. And hot.

“You want to keep me, after?”

He doesn’t pause. “Sure. Chained up, of course, like the sick little kink-kitten you are.”

Now he looks at me.

I’m actually smiling. “Well. Being alive is a start, but how about access to the kitchen so I can make a sandwich?”

“We can work on that—areas I let you into, on a leash.”

“Jesus,” I whisper. I’m definitely blushing, and the room has heated up.

He chuckles. “You wanted to know about me. A quick history. Hmmm.”

“I never said quick.”

“You get what you get.” He’s rummaging in a deserted armored vehicle on an island.

Fuck, though, I’m staring at him. Sitting beside me, shirtless, with his massive shoulder muscles shifting slightly as he uses the keyboard and mouse. The scars that run down over chest and back are scribed deep by the harsh shadows. The light above sucks, but it’s enough for me to see how utterly attracted I am. Fewer than twenty-four hours and I’m getting more and more smitten.

This is not the time or the place.

Tears gather in my eyes. I inhale then let it out, shyly wiping beneath both eyes.

I point out he’s taking radiation. “Shhh. Let me play.”

In Fallout the dying is actually fun.

“I…was brought up poor with my brother. Orphaned after my mother died of some sickness. Never found out what. We ran with the street gangs, learned how to be hard, uncaring. We had to, to survive.”

“Understandable.”

“I killed a man when I was thirteen. I starved off and on, until then. I was good at killing, efficient, and it made people see me as an asset. So, long story short, we took over a gang and made money doing bad things. I got religion at one stage. Not my brother. He was smarter. By the time I first saw you at that bar, I had killed over fifty men. Your man that night was my assigned hit.”

“Oh. I figured it was so.” I shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I didn’t know him well.” Callous but true.

“Yeah. So he was no innocent, but someone else horned in and burned the place, tried to kill me too. With the help of my brother, I hid my identity and went under the radar after that. Tomorrow is the finale of what happened back then.”

“Montez?” Shit. Even knowing this room should be devoid of listening devices, I can’t help but look about and wonder. If he’s wrong, he just fried himself.

“It is clean of bugs.” My skittish study of the ceiling and walls was noticed.