Page 18 of Russian Roulette
“You eat raw hot dogs?” I frown at the paper plate. “Is that safe?”
“No, I don’t eat them raw unless I’m starving. We’ll grill them over the fire. Give me a few minutes to get one going in the fire pit.”
He builds a fire while I take the time to enjoy his magnificent muscles and tattoos running down the length of his back. Lucky for me, he hasn’t taken the time to put on a fresh shirt after bleeding all over the other one.
“Enjoying the view?” He glances over his shoulder and catches me staring at him. “I don’t mind. You can even touch, if you want. Knock yourself out.”
“I was only trying to figure out your tattoos. You have a lot of them. Do they have special meanings?”
“Yes,” he replies curtly.
“I guess you won’t elaborate further on their meanings?”
“If you hang around long enough, I might tell you one day. If you’re still interested.”
“Why would I hang around? If you guys think this is going to be a Stockholm Syndrome situation where I’ll start identifying with my kidnappers, you’re nuts. You’re holding me captive against my will, and I don’t appreciate it.”
“It’s for your own good and you’re an idiot if you don’t realize that,” he says. “The Russian mafia will come for you once they realize you’re not dead. They have guys all over Vegas with their grubby little fingers into everything dirty. You need to stay low and out of sight. The Russians aren’t Boy Scouts. You don’t want to mess with them.”
“They tried to kill me, remember? You don’t need to keep reminding me how dangerous they are. There’s something else you’re not telling me. Is someone searching for me besides the Russians?”
His hands still, and for a second it seems he might tell me something important. Until he decides against it. “We might consider swapping information with you once you tell us the truth about why you’re in Vegas and what you’re up to.”
I walk over to sit on a chair closer to the fire pit. “Why would I do that?”
He pokes the fire with a stick to stir up the burning embers. “Maybe we have similar interests and goals,” he says after a moment. “We may be more alike than you think.”
“I doubt it.”
He shrugs as if he couldn’t care one way or the other. “Time will tell.” He hands me a metal skewer. “Grab a hot dog and stick it on the end of this. Hold it over the fire to grill it as done as you want. I prefer mine charred black. The hot dog is finished cooking when it splits open.”
We sit close beside each other by the fire and fall into a comfortable silence as we cook and eat our simple meal. After I hungrily scarf down the first hot dog, he picks up another with his bare hand and tosses it to me.
“You look as if you’ve missed a few meals lately.” His eyes linger on my body. “There’s plenty more we can cook if you’re still hungry. When is the last time you had a proper meal?”
“Is this considered to be a proper meal?” I ask.
“Hot dogs and potato chips cooked over my own fire qualify as a proper meal to me,” he says.
I try to remember the last time I ate a full meal, but the memory is out of reach. I’ve been surviving on snacks and caffeine, trying to stay one step ahead of the Russians. “A few days ago,” I reply nonchalantly. “I’ve been busy lately.”
“I bet you have. I’d love to hear what you were doing a week ago. Besides, running from the Russian mob, of course.”
“I wasn’t running from them because I didn’t realize they were after me. My mistake, and it was a whopper. One I won’t repeat.” I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a yawn and fail. I’ve been putting off mentioning sleep for as long as I can because I dreaded asking Vulcan about the sleeping arrangements.
“I’m exhausted,” I say after finishing off another hot dog. I stand and stretch my sore muscles. “Where can I sleep?”
“In the bed,” Vulcan says, without glancing up from the fire. “There’s a blanket and a pillow. You should be comfortable. It’s warmer in the RV than it is out here. The temperature drops fast at night in the desert.”
“Okay,” I say. “But there’s only one bed. Where are you sleeping?”
“With you, of course. Where else?”
“No fucking way.” I plop back down and wrap my jacket tighter around me. “I’d rather stay awake all night in this lawn chair than crawl into that tiny bed with you. Or any bed, for that matter.”
“You’ll change your mind,” he says. “Take the bed. I’ll sleep outside for now.”
“Where?”
