Page 79 of Fragile Facade

HOW DO YOU KNOW?

GHOST

Director calleda meeting that starts in thirty minutes, but I still haven’t left Killian’s room. I wouldn’t say I slept, but I drifted in and out, and when I came to, we were back-to-back like we were at the hotel. It’s not my natural instinct, but I offer to change his bandages and help him clean his wounds, but when he denies me, claiming he’s going to see Medic right after the meeting, my teeth clench.

I’m not the fucking caregiver type! So why does it piss me off that he won’t let me fix him?

He smiles at me, his new teeth even prettier than his old ones. Only a few of them are implants, but they give his charming smile a whole new edge that sets me off. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. You’ve never given a shit about anyone else a day in your life.”

I have. But only Remi and Selena, and to be honest, when Remi almost died, I didn’t want to be the one to take care of him. I wanted to ensure Krypt did it, or Director. Anyone other than me. I’d be a terrible pet owner. The thing would die in three days because I’m too self-absorbed to remember to feed it.

But I fed Killian last night…

“Whatever. I’m going to this meeting.” I grab the doorknob.

Killian’s fingers wrap around my other wrist and turn me back. Just like in that room before we started the Reaper City job, his lips softly land against mine. My stomach gets warm, swelling with pride or something, and his long fingers wrap around the side of my neck. I close my eyes and let him kiss me, unsure if I’m kissing him back because it’s so quick and soft.

“Just in case,” he whispers. Then he opens his door, pushes me into the hallway, and grins at me with a bruised face before shutting it.

I’m just standing here, my lips alight and my mind blown, staring at his closed door. What the hell is happening? Back-to-back sleeping, smoothies, handholding, and now these gentle kisses that mean so much more than a forced dick down the throat? I shake my head, trying to stabilize my thoughts.

“Hello.”

I’m usually the silent one, so it startles me to realize I’m not alone. Shirtless, Facts leans against the wall at the end of the hall. His chest is tattooed with Latin words and ancient runes, and he’s glistening with sweat because he’s an avid morning exerciser. He dances, too. Ballroom style, and he’s damn good at it. His lithe body is his temple; his brain is his power.

“You didn’t see anything,” I warn him.

“I did,” he corrects, because everything has to be fucking accurate with him. He pushes off the wall and follows me into my own room. “But I won’t say anything about it if you help me with something.”

I strip down and don’t give a shit that he’s here. He never looks anyway. Stepping into my shower, he stands outside the glass wall to chat with me. “Help with what?”

“A personal matter.” He jitters.

I close my eyes and lather shampoo. “Get on with it.”

“Well,” he starts, “I seem to have found myself in a predicament.”

“Facts, my patience level is at an all-time low. Get to the point.”

“I’m sexually attracted to a strange man.”

I drop the body wash bottle. “What?” I gasp. If anyone is less sexual than Krypt, it’s Facts. He’s never, not even once, shown interest in another person. Not romantically, not sexually, not even at all, really. He’s selfish, but it doesn’t come from his ego. It comes from his inability to slow himself down enough for anyone else and his weird relationship with what is real and what isn’t. He cares about us, but only in the sense that we’re some sort of family he’s never had, so he understands what loyalty is, but he’s not interested in friendship or comradeship in the same way the rest of us are. He likes belonging, cares about our wellbeing, and that’s about it.

“Yes,” is all he adds, a jerky nod following with another, “Hello.”

“What strange man?”

The screen of his phone slaps against the glass wall of the shower. I look, seeing a man I sort of recognize but can’t name. He’s a Ransom type, by the looks of him. Authoritative, sorta calm, and masculine. He’s older than Facts, judging by the photo, and I’ve seen him around town but never talked to him.

“Why’s he strange?”

“He talks slowly,” Facts says, turning his phone around to look at his crush. “Walks slowly. Keeps eye contact. Listens to people chat without interrupting.”

I snort, picking up the bottle. “Yeah, he sounds like a real wacko. You love people who don’t interrupt.”

“I know. So, what do I do?”

“This is what you need help with?”