Page 100 of Sully

“Hmm?”

“You said this place could be a pet project, or therapy, for someone. But you said there could be another reason.”

“Right. Well, this place is paramilitary, but it’s also, in case you didn’t notice, a survivalist project. They have solar panels, hand-pump wells, air filtration, gardens, food storage, chickens for eggs, and a whole load of other stuff like that. I think thismight also serve, in Chris’s mind, as a taste of the outside world if something ever happened to force them all to lock down in here long-term.”

“That’s both sad and really lovely at the same time. I think most people who prep kind of go about it very practically: food, water, weapons, that sort of thing. But what good is all that if life is nothing but a barren hellscape? This would remind people about the beauty in the world.”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “Hey,” I said, reaching to pull her legs over my lap. “I’m sorry I barked at you earlier.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I was just… not prepared for that. Still not an excuse. But I won’t speak to you like that again.”

“It’s fine, really. We all have moments where we aren’t careful about our tone. I have a feeling in about… four or five days, you are going to get snapped at if you breathe on me the wrong way.”

“Baby, I don’t think you’re capable of snapping. Not even when you’re chasing the cotton mouse,” I said, getting a choked laugh out of her.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, but leaned her head on my shoulder.

“Which might be what you like best about me,” I agreed, resting my head on the side of hers. “Next to my Hawaiian shirt collection, of course.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “What happens now?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “That’s gonna be a discussion with Fallon once we have a name. But it’s nothing you have to worry about,” I assured her, running my hand up and down her thigh.

“And after that?” she asked, voice smaller. It always was when she was talking about something that really mattered, but she felt unsure about.

“We sleep at your place for a change.”

“Zima,” she reminded me.

“Right,” I agreed. “Then we leave Zima in the capable hands of my brothers, then we go to your place, fuck on every surface, then come home to our dog.”

“I like that plan.”

“Me too. Then, who knows, maybe we can find a place where we can sleep and have Zima with us too.”

“With a fenced yard?”

“And our very own fat squirrel,” I agreed.

She was about to say something when we heard a soft humming followed by a woman’s voice calling out, “Cassandra! Where are you?”

“We should let her know we’re here,” Bonnie whispered.

“Marco,” I called.

There was a pause, then, “Polo?” she called, her tone guarded.

“Marco,” I called again.

Then there she was, appearing before us. She was tall and almost painfully slight with a cascade of copper hair around her delicate face.

“Who are you?” she asked, stiffening.

“We just had a meeting with Chris,” I told her, tone soft. “I’m one of the Henchmen,” I told her.

Her gaze slid to my cut. “Right,” she agreed, nodding.

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