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“I felt bad,” I say.
“I mean,that, I know,” she says. “But what’s your tragic backstory? How’d you become a mercenary? Where were you before the Rig, before Austin, before…everything? Did you live through the Convergence or were you born after, were you always a mercenary—”
“I don’t like talking about my past,” I mutter.
“Okay,” she says. “Sorry. My friend Tilda told me I should be more careful asking, but I…I like to know people’s stories. I like getting into the texture of their lives, figuring out what makes you who you are, you know?”
Of course she does—maybe because she herself is such a mystery. I don’t know how the Rig made this ray of sunshine, but she somehow came out of the darkest place I’ve ever been.
“I’m really not that interesting,” I say.
“I find that hard to believe,” she replies. “You’re kinda, well…an apocalypse pirate? Is that a thing?”
“Not a pirate,” I say.
Her lips part and I see her blush even in the dim light. “I didn’t mean to call you a criminal or nothin’,” she says, her southern accent coming out more when she’s embarrassed. “Just—the general swashbuckling of it all.”
“That’s a million dollar word,” I say.
“One of my favorites,” she replies.
I glance back at her to find her smiling, and it’s like light is pouring out of her.
And that makes me…
Fuck me.
I can’t do this with her.
“Do you have a favorite word?” she asks.
I ignore the question. “If you’re going to stay awake, you should at least help me look for a charging cable.”
She hums. “I can’t—I got nothin’ to wear.”
I look back at her.
“You’re a shifter,” I say. “You should get used to it.”
“Back at home we’re given a lot of privacy,” she says. “And I don’t…I don’t shift very often. I prefer to cozy up with a nice sweater and I hate it when I lose my clothes.”
I sigh and roll my eyes, then stand and strip off my shirt to toss over to her. She catches it in one hand, but the gesture makes the sheet slip from where it covers her chest. I get an eyeful of her gorgeous body before I avert my gaze.
“Put it on quick,” I say gruffly, everything in me begging me to give up this resistance. I listen as fabric rustles behind me, then she joins me at the pile of loot. The black t-shirt swallows her up, though it’s snug around her upper thighs. She pulls it down self-consciously when I glance at her, so I try not to look again.
“Okay,” she says. “What are you doing?”
I squat beside the pile of trash, then show her one of the phones. “This is an old communicator,” I say. “Shouldn’t be functional, but if I can charge it we might be able to get a signal out.”
“You…” she pauses, her brow furrowing. “You want to escape.”
“Of course I want to escape,” I mutter. “But keep your voice down. We don’t know who’s listening from outside the door.”
“Sorry,” she says.
I grimace. “You apologize a lot. Stop it.”
“Sor—” she catches herself “—I’ll cut it out.”
