Page 21 of Obliterated
“Good,” I say, pushing my empty glass forward. “I’ll be here tomorrow. Be ready at noon.”
He actually fucking pouts. Lips pressing, eyes narrowing like I’ve just told him I’m dragging him into the Pit. “Where?”
I can’t help the grin that curls my mouth. I pull another silver coin from my tin and set it beside the one already on the counter. More than enough for the drink and bread. Too much. But that pout? Yeah, it deserves a tip.
“Don’t worry,” I murmur, low enough only he can hear. “I’ll find you.”
His spine stiffens, cheeks coloring as he glares.
“Stay out of my room, Max.”
I get up off the stool to leave, light another smoke, and let the corner of my mouth twitch. “No promises.”
Chapter six
Max
It’sbeentwoweekssince we kicked this investigation off. Until now, we’ve mostly circled the hotel. Talking with employees while Kieran patched them up, trailing drunks down alleys, slipping bribes for scraps of gossip. Have found little more than some quiet whispers. A couple of employees saying two girls from the Den went missing last month, that it happens on occasion.
I checked back at the Watcher post, our little fortress in the middle of the wall, and there were no reports of them turning Walker, no records of them leaving for the northern villages orswitching “careers”. They could’ve slipped onto a boat, or holed up in the forests inland, but that’s a long shot. Chances of survival out there are close to none.
I wish I could’ve checked the documentation in the locked hotel offices, but I need time for that and my job keeps pulling me away. It’s still off the books and all. Most evenings I’m out patrolling, and before dragging myself to my bed, I check in on Kieran for a couple of hours.
It’s cute that he thought locking the balcony door would keep me out.
I broke in with some nifty tools I borrowed from Sami, our recruit. He’s loud and obnoxious, can’t shut up for five seconds, but somehow useful. He worked the docks for the last eight years, registration office specifically. No wonder Roe stuck him in our detail. Sami’s the one who came to him with suspicions about Joyeus in the first place. That the ledgers didn’t match and he saw people in this brothel that didn’t come through his office first.
It’s good that he can help us. Not because I think this job is too big for us, that we can’t handle it, but because they can cover for me when I’m busy doing other shit. Like sneaking into hotel rooms while Kieran and the employees are working, and look for clues.
Sneaking in is something I’m good at. The first night after I re-broke into Kieran’s room, I put a pair of sneakers in his size on the lone dresser. Those stupid flip-flops will be the death of him someday. If he’ll not step in some glass behind that damn bar, he’ll trip over himself running from a Walker someday.
When I showed up the next morning, he threw them at me.
Feisty fucker.
The second night I brought him more clothes, couldn’t help myself when I saw him drowning in that same baggy shit again on wash day.
It cost me a hefty coin I could have spent on blades, booze, or drugs, but I don’t care about money. He needed something that actually fit and I earn enough in my Pit fights.
All I got for my trouble was a sharp glare when I met him outside of his room for our round of interrogations, like I’d just insulted him instead of handing him a gift. I tried to swallow the smirk pulling at my mouth, because the little shit was wearing the clothes.
Of course he was.
He liked them, whether he’d admit it or not. Pride’s a hard thing to peel off, and he wears his like armor. Still, he couldn’t hide the way the fabric sat better on his frame, how he didn’t look like he was drowning anymore. He knows it. I know it.
Those fucking people that keep eying him know it.
Not that they’ll have any chance. Even if I’ve got fuck-all experience with attraction and lust and all that shit, I just fucking know he’s not interested… at least not inthem.
I think.
He doesn’t bother locking his door anymore, and fuck, I’ve caught him stirring a couple times when I came in at night.
Me, leaning against the wall by the door, smoking my Ashleaf, watching him. And him… watching me right back. Those pupils flickering in the moonlight, sharp and restless, like he’s trying to figure me out even in half-sleep. Sometimes it lasts minutes, sometimes hours. Until his lids drop heavy, lashes brushing his cheeks, and he sinks back into sleep while I’m still there, a shadow in his room.
He doesn’t mention my stalking much… Maybe he doesn’t dare, maybe he doesn’tcare.Once or twice I’ve caught the ghost of a grin. Like he’s amused I can’t stay away. Or maybe that’s just me seeing things I shouldn’t. Either way, he lets me haunt his nights, doesn’t push me out, doesn’t tell me to fuck off.
That silence says more than words.
