He shifted in his seat, causing his foot to press against Walker’s, who raised a brow, bumping his booted foot harder against Kota’s.
The contact lingered. Neither of them moved away. Was this…flirting? Were they playing footsie?
“You should be,” Walker murmured just as Kota picked up his glass, catching his straw between his lips. “I would have just killed anyone else.”
Kota began choking violently at Walker’s casual statement. “What?”
“I’m kidding,” Walker said, his tone suggesting he wasn’t kidding at all.
Kota slouched in his seat, kicking his own foot up onto Walker’s bench. At some point, the foot thing had become a game and he wasn’t entirely sure who had started it. “Are you gonna kill me? Like, is this all part of some elaborate plot to get me to let my guard down? I won’t even be mad, I just have a few requests.”
Walker blinked at him stupidly. Kota would have almost found it comical if not for the whole murder thing. After a minute, the corner of Walker’s mouth twitched like he was trying—and failing—not to smile.
He studied Kota carefully, like he was genuinely considering the request instead of dismissing it as ridiculous. “I’m not going to kill you, but I have to admit, I’m curious about your requests. Lay ‘em on me.”
Kota sat up straighter, like they were suddenly negotiating. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do this,” he said, trying to psych himself up for the morbid conversation. “Don’t set me on fire. Not even if I’m already dead.” He shuddered at the thought. “Nobody is gonna come look for me, but if someone happens upon my body, I’d like them to have some ability to identify me. Like, to put on a grave or something.”
Walker snorted out a laugh, then composed himself. “Sorry, no fire. Noted.”
“No drowning me either or, like, strangling me. I definitely did not like that,” he said, absently rubbing at the red handprints on his throat. Even now, the bruises felt too fresh. “I used to think I’d like the whole autoerotic asphyxiation thing, but I’m definitely second-guessing that now.”
Walker nodded, his lips twitching again, like he was desperately fighting back a laugh.
“Getting choked during sex and fighting for your life aren’t quite the same thing, but I see your point. Is that it?”
“No,” Kota said. “I don’t want it to hurt, and I’d also prefer not to see it coming. I’d like it to be a ‘just look at the flowers’ situation.”
Walker snorted. “A what now?”
“You never watchedThe Walking Deadbefore?” Kota asked, voice dripping with judgment.
“I don’t have a lot of time for television,” Walker pointed out.
Kota frowned. “Howdoyou entertain yourself while driving?”
“Podcasts mostly,” Walker said.
“True crime?” It seemed the obvious answer.
Walker huffed out a laugh. “History, mostly.”
“Oh, I get it,” Kota said. “I guess I wouldn’t want to listen to a podcast about my co-workers sucking at their jobs either.”
Walker shook his head. “I’ve never thought of it that way, but…I suppose you’re not wrong.”
His smile lingered longer than it should have, softening the harsh lines of his face.
Kota drained his glass, slurping the dregs of his soda, before he asked in a quiet voice, “Did you decide to be a truck driver before or after you decided to be a contract killer?”
Walker grinned, revealing perfect teeth. God, that should not have been attractive. He looked unfairly sexy for a man in an old t-shirt and a backwards trucker hat. “After. I realized killing wassomething that came naturally to me. Being on the road all the time was a built-in alibi.”
Came naturally to him? Like breathing? Like being a piano prodigy? How did someone come to that conclusion, unless…
“How old were you when you realized it came naturally, exactly?” Kota asked.
Walker met Kota’s gaze, almost like he wanted to gauge his reaction. Like this answer mattered. Like Kota’s opinion mattered. “Fifteen.”
“I don’t suppose you made this realization after a long bout of meditation? Or maybe one of those career counseling questionnaires?”
