Killer Love - Kiss. Kill. Repeat #2 - ch. 2 (Patreon)

Unbeta'd/Unedited. I know I loaded this chapter before but I'll be damned if I can find it. Dropping the whole book tonight.

Walker

TxsRngr: Uh…I have a slight issue.

BugReport404: Like you need bail money issue or a body fell out of the back of your truck issue?

Walker huffed another longsuffering sigh. He liked this app back when it was just a message board for contract killers. But the gamemaster—Tris—had turned it into a literal game and now the app was flooded with a bunch of wannabe assassins who thought murder was nothing more than points on a score board. 

Walker had met Cade and Tris one night at The Morgue when he was meeting with another asset who was proposing teaming up for a kill. Two minutes with the asset in question had Walker contemplating killing him instead. When the asset had left, another asset, Cade, had come to the table at the request of his husband, Tris, a chatty little brat who’d never met a thought he didn’t voice. He’d admitted that he was the gamemaster and that he knew Walker’s handle. 

He should. The little shit was the one who’d given him the stupid name when the app had updated. 

Despite Walker being as gruff and unlikable as possible, Tris and Cade had glommed onto him. They considered him a friend. He did not return the sentiment. He didn’t have friends. 

TxsRngr: Like my target was mid-kill when I found him. I saved the victim but now I don’t know what to do with him.

BugReport404: I don’t suppose he’s also a monster and you could maybe just hit a double and clean up loose ends?

TxsRngr: Nope. He’s a pretty little thing with big cartoon eyes who never shuts up and whose second language appears to be sarcasm. He wanted to call the cops and claim I killed the man out of self-defense. 

BugReport404: Uh, so where is he now?

TxsRngr: He’s tied up. 

BugReport404: Tell me you’re using ‘tied up’ as an idiom and not that you tied up an almost murder victim. Wait, did you say he’s pretty? I didn’t strike you as someone who, uh, tasted the rainbow. 

Walker ignored him.

TxsRngr: He’s currently duct taped in my bed. Carrot Cake is keeping him company. 

BugReport404: I have no idea what that means. You have him duct taped to your bed? Kinky, I guess, but seems in poor taste unless he’s one of those who processes his trauma with sex in which case, like, who am I to judge, you know? But also, this isn’t some creepy schmexual schmassault shit right cause I will make you the next target on the game.

TxsRngr: I said he’s tied up on my bed, not tied to the bed. Honestly, by now, he’s probably chewed through the duct tape and called the cops on my radio. I cleaned up the scene and wrapped the body but I can’t guarantee I’ve removed all traces of the kid. Hopefully, he’s not in the system. 

BugReport404: Do you know his name? I can run his name through NCIC and see if he’s got a record or if he’s ever been fingerprinted. 

TxsRngr: Uh, not yet. I needed to move quickly. 

BugReport404: You’ve got him tied to your bed and you didn’t even ask his name first?

TxsRngr: On my bed. On it. Stop making it weird. What do I do with him?

BugReport404: Oh, I don’t know. Just spitballing here but maybe find a way to convince him not to press charges over you murdering a man in front of him then kidnapping him?

TxsRngr: If I let him go now, he’s definitely going to the police. 

BugReport404: He’s not an animal. You can’t just keep him like a stray you found on the side of the road. You need to convince him that you only kill bad people which probably would have been an easier sell if you hadn’t taped him to your bed. 

Walker shook his head. Fuck. What did he do now? He had to get out of there. Had to get them out of there before people got a good look at them. The kid was hidden behind the curtain that separated his sleeping quarters from the cab, but he hadn’t bound his feet. He could still try to flag someone down. 

It was that thought that got him moving. He pulled open the door to the sleeper, climbing inside then stopping short. The kid hadn’t run away. He was lying on his side, facing him, eyes closed, Carrot Cake balanced on the side of his thigh, blinking at Walker like she thought he might make her leave her current bed. 

Walker was far more concerned the kid had asphyxiated, but when he got closer, he saw his chest rising and falling slowly. He huffed out a laugh. He was sound asleep, little breaths of air puffing from his nose. Walker sighed, pulling his knife free from his belt and kneeling one leg on the bed to reach behind the sleeping boy and cut the tape on his wrists. 

He stirred, wincing as Walker pulled the tape free. He grimaced himself as he noted the raw skin beneath the bindings. He tried to be gentle as he peeled the tape free, but still the kid dragged open heavy lids, giving him a hazy look. The tape around his mouth had left the same raw skin as around his wrists. 

Walker took in the kids brownish blonde hair and his blue eyes. His hair was a bit too long, falling into his eyes, his cheeks were round, his lips full. He had a kind of baby-faced prettiness that had Walker staring long enough for the boy to stare back. 

“What’s your name?” he asked. 

“Kota,” he mumbled, eyelids fighting to remain open. 

“Kota what?” 

“Dakota King,” he mumbled. “If you’re worried someone is gonna come looking for me, don’t worry. Nobody cares if I live or die. Promise.” 

With that he rolled away from him, displacing Cake before burying his face in Walker’s pillow with a contented sigh. Walker just stared at him for a long minute, contemplating what kind of person would tell a killer that nobody would ever care if he went missing. 

Walker watched as Kota rolled onto his belly, rubbing his face on Walker’s pillow like he was bedding down for the night. When Kota rolled onto his belly, Cake stepped onto his back, sinking her beefy body into the curve of the boy’s lower back. Walker tried not to stare at the generous swell of the kid’s—Kota’s ass—but it was right there, encased in jeans that clung to him just right. He wore a white t-shirt, still dotted with the other man’s blood, and a flannel shirt that wasn’t thick enough to keep him warm. 

Walker pulled the boy's worn out sneakers from his feet and grabbed the heavy blanket from the edge of the bed, draping it over him, securing the straps to the ceiling so he wouldn’t roll off the mattress as Walker drove. 

Once he’d made him as comfortable as possible, he hopped into the driver’s seat then looked at Cake, patting the spot on the dash where he usually slept. 

Cake stood, turned in a circle on the boy’s lower back, then settled facing away from him just as the boy—Kota—had done. 

He wasn’t very popular today, it seemed. 

###

He’d been driving for two hours, a history podcast keeping him company, the steady drone barely registering, when he heard Kota stir. His gaze flicked to the rearview mirror as he blinked in confusion, then sat up, looking at the straps that effectively caged him in before glancing in Walker’s direction. Their eyes met for half a second—long enough for Walker to register fear, then resignation.

He could see Kota calculating whether he was allowed to leave the bunk or not, but he stayed silent, testing the air, the rules, seeing what Walker would do. Finally, he heard the clips give and the straps fall. Kota swayed with the motion of the truck as he stood, looking around, then slid into the passenger seat.

“Seatbelt,” Walker said, the word coming out harsher than he meant it to, but Kota didn’t seem to notice, already reaching for it. Good instincts.

Walker had never really been much of a conversationalist. He found trying to make small talk tedious. Nobody ever wanted to talk about anything that mattered to him. Not that much did. Still, the kid’s silence was worrisome after he’d been so chatty earlier. 

He glanced over at him, noting the finger-shaped bruises on his throat, the purple blooming on his temple, and the dark circles under his eyes. Evidence of violence layered over exhaustion. Despite all of that, he was still attractive. Distractingly so. 

“Where are we going?” Kota asked after a while, staring out the window at the world flying by, voice raspy but steady.

“I’m going home. You?” Walker asked, wondering where he’d wanted to go before Early got a hold of him.

Kota fixed him with a flat stare. “You abducted me, remember. I’m kind of at your mercy. I’m going wherever you take me. Is this your first kidnapping or something?”

Walker snorted out something akin to a laugh. It surprised him how easily it came. “Yeah, something like that. I mean, where were you heading before Early attacked you?”

Kota’s shrug spoke volumes. “I was gonna try to find my aunt in LA. But it seems stupid now.” His mouth twisted, like he’d already lost the argument with himself. “She hasn’t seen me since I was a baby. I doubt she has any interest in meeting her jobless, homeless, deadbeat nephew. And I don’t know anything other than her name and her last location, which was more than ten years ago.” He paused, staring at nothing. “But I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I figured it was worth a shot.”

The words landed heavier than Walker expected.

He didn’t say it like he was feeling sorry for himself. He said it like he couldn’t believe he’d thought a plan like that could work, like disappointment had already settled in.

“I can get you to LA. I live in Oregon. I’m already gonna be on the West Coast.”

It would be out of his way—far out of his way, really—but it meant more time to convince him not to call the cops. More time to assess, to contain the problem.

Kota pulled his knees to his chest, making him look much smaller than he was, folding in on himself like he was trying to take up less space. “Just…take me wherever you’re going. I’ll figure something out from there.”

Walker just grunted in acknowledgement, eyes on the road even as his jaw tightened.

They sat in silence for a while. The kind that stretched, not awkward but heavy, full of things neither of them wanted to say. Cake jumped into Kota’s lap, curling into a tight ball and staring at Walker with an accusatory look.

“What’s his name?” Kota asked.

“Her name. Carrot Cake,” Walker said. “I just call her Cake.”

Kota snorted at the name but began to stroke the cat’s soft fur, his fingers gentle, absent-minded, like he’d done this a thousand times before.

“What’s your name?” Kota asked, like it only just now occurred to him to ask. “Or is that against kidnapper protocol?” 

Walker could hear the humor in his voice. 

“Walker.” 

“Like the Texas Ranger?” Kota asked. 

Walker gave a heavy sigh. Yeah, he was never putting Tris and Kota in the same room together. 

He frowned at the thought. Why was he acting like Kota would still be there later? 

“Yeah, something like that,” he said, too tired for sarcasm. 

Walker was bad at this shit. Bad at conversation, bad at relating to people, but he needed to say something, to explain somehow what Kota saw, to draw a line between himself and the man Kota had seen bleeding out in the cab of that other truck.

“He was a bad guy, you know,” he said, then winced internally.

Kota gave him an incredulous look, gesturing towards his neck as he said, “Yeah, I kinda picked up on that while he was trying to strangle me to death.”

“I mean, you’re not the only one,” Walker continued, pushing through. “He’s left victims up and down the highway. And the shit he does to them…even after they’re dead.” His hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel. “He deserved what he got.”

“How do you know all this?” Kota asked. “Like, I know you weren’t there by coincidence.”

“How do you know that?” Walker asked, genuinely curious as to how much he’d picked up on his own.

“I guess it’s possible that you knew the guy personally and that’s why you know he’s such a piece of shit,” Kota said, thoughtful, eyes still on the blur of trees passing outside, “but it seems unlikely. Do truckers just, like, run into each other on the reg?” he pondered out loud, before barreling on without pause. “And you had a suppressor on your gun—that’s what it’s called, right?—which seems like you do this often enough to need it. I figured hitman? Is that still what they call it? Contract killer? Assassin seems a little too grandiose for that piece of shit. Though I suppose—especially given my track record—you could be a disgruntled partner who is just luring me into a false sense of security so you can, like, torture and kill me later yourself.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering. “Or a rival serial killer. Is that a thing?”

Walker found himself smiling as the kid rattled off every thought he had out loud, each one more absurd than the last, the tension in his shoulders easing despite himself.

When he finally finished talking, Walker said, “Ray Early was a monster. He was a serial killer and a necrophiliac.” He kept his tone flat, factual, like reciting weather patterns. “He was arrested two years ago, but got released on a technicality. Someone entered his name into a deadpool and put a price tag on his head.”

Kota went very still.

“So you’re not a serial killer, you’re a vigilante?” Kota asked, expression dubious.

“You had it right the first time. I’m a contract killer. I just only kill people who deserve it. I don’t know if you can call me a vigilante since I get paid a small fortune to do what I do.”

“So you’re not actually a truck driver? This is a pretty elaborate disguise. Also, who brings their cat to a murder? Is this even your truck? Is this even your cat?” Kota frowned, looking slightly uneasy as he asked, “Are you licensed to drive this thing?”

Walker was smiling once more, the muscles tight from disuse. He shook his head. “Yes, I’m a truck driver. Yes, it’s my truck. Yes, I take my cat with me so she doesn’t starve to death while I’m on the road.”

“Weird coincidence that Early was a truck driver, too.”

“That’s why they gave me the job,” he explained. “They knew he wouldn’t see it coming from another driver.”

“They?” Kota asked, sounding like he thought the they he referred to might be the voices in Walker’s head.

“Mm. The company who runs the site.”

“So you work for a murder-for-hire company? Is that even a thing?”

“I wouldn’t call it a company so much as a…game. I’m just a player.”

Kota made a noise of derision. “You look like a player.”

“Somehow I don’t think you mean the game,” Walker said dryly. “I’m too busy for playing with anyone. Besides, my life isn’t really conducive to relationships. Not many people want to live on the road and occasionally murder people.”

“I don’t have the stomach for killing people,” Kota said. “But living on the road sounds nice.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “Is being a killer a prerequisite?”

“Why? You applying for the job?” Walker asked, giving him a hard once-over. Noticing the way Kota sat—alert but exhausted, like he’d learned a long time ago how to stay ready. “How old are you anyway?”

Kota flushed. “Twenty-two. You?”

“Thirty.” Kota nodded, absorbing that. “And killing isn’t a prerequisite. You just have to make peace with living with a killer.”

“I don’t think enough people are being killed, if I’m being honest,” Kota said. “Some people don’t deserve to breathe air.”

The words weren’t there for shock. It wasn't said as a joke. Just…stated. There was way more to the words than Walker was prepared to crack open. At least for now.

Walker glanced at him again, really looked this time—and wondered how a kid who smiled so easily had learned a truth like that so young. Kota’s eyes stayed on the road, calm and unblinking, like he’d already made peace with that belief a long time ago.

“In about an hour, I’m gonna pull over and get some sleep.” When Kota’s eyes went wide, he said, “I’ll just bunk down on the floor. Don’t panic.” 

Kota looked him over with an intention that had his gut clenching and his dick taking notice behind his zipper. “I’m not panicking.” 

Walker let his gaze roam Kota’s face. “No?” 

He shook his head. “You can sleep in the bed…if you want to.” 

The invitation was clear. Was it wise to sleep with someone who’d thwarted death just a few hours ago? Had Walker ever been called wise? He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to him. He wasn’t a kid, even if he had an innocence about him that made Walker want to take care of him. 

“Mm,” Walker said, eyes on the road.