Page 44 of Monstrous Serpent

“You've been wearing it three days straight. It’s been dirty.”

“How many times do we have to go over this? I wear a shirt underneath. Do you wash your jacket every time you wear it?” He hits the start button on the controller. “Bet I get more kills than you.”

“What do I get when I win?”

“I’ll clean the bathroom.”

I breathe out hard through my nose. It’ll never happen. Just like I ended up cleaning the truck because he kept pushing it off.

The lobby loads, and we drop into a match. I sink deeper into the couch, knees falling open. A few minutes in, some of the tension in my body eases even with Atlas talking the whole time.

“Behind you, behind you—Oh, I got him. Did you see that? That was nasty.”

I take out two enemies crossing a doorway.

Atlas whistles. “See, that's what I'm talking about. We're disgusting together.”

He calls out an enemy on the left. But there’s another on his right. His character dies. “Oh, come on!”

I grab a taco and finish it in four bites. Then a second one. The ache in the left side of my jaw flares when I chew, so I massage near the joint.

Atlas glances at me. “Oh, my god. You're such a baby. You don't see me bitching about my lip.” He sticks out his lower lip to show the scab. “Actually, no. He should've come after me. That's our thing. Not you and him. Me.”

I smack him upside the head.

“Ow.” He rubs the spot. “I'm just saying. Surprised you didn't clock him for hacking you in the legs with that stick.”

I shift on the couch, the bruise across the backs of my thighs throbbing. It was deep purple when I checked it this morning. Jenkins put weight behind that hit.

When I spun around, he was standing there, glowering. No shirt. Blood trickling from his eyebrow. Spit at the corner of his mouth every time he sucked in air.

We were the reason he was worked up. He didn’t need me to crush his eye socket. He needed to calm the fuck down.

So, I dropped my arm.

I grab another taco and take a bite. “He likes being restrained.”

Atlas starts coughing and pounding on his chest. Then he turns to me with watering eyes. “What? How do you know that?”

“His pupils dilated when I pinned his wrists.” I finish off the taco, crumple the wrapper, then toss it into the bag. “His neck flushed too.”

Atlas clears his throat, takes a swig from his can of pop, then goes back to playing. He doesn’t say anything for a full thirty seconds. But I catch it when he adjusts himself.

“What map we playing next?”

He shrugs.

I chuckle low. “Cat got your tongue?”

He bumps his whole body into mine. “Fuck off.”

Going to miss this.

I shove down the thought. Still got time before we’re in two different cities, playing for two different teams.

“How'd the meeting go with your advisor?”

“Fine.”