Basilisk (The Korsak Brothers #2)(55)
“So why the room with a microwave?” Stefan sat in the chair at the small table. He indicated the four bags of cheeseburgers, fries, burritos, refried beans, and two milkshakes—mine, all mine—with the small brush he was using to clean his gun. “If I know you and food, and, Jesus, do I, there won’t be a crumb left to heat up.”
“Think of it as a science project. All those science fairs I missed out on, what I’m going to build would’ve gotten me an A and maybe laid by the hot science teacher.” At least with Saul around, my use of incorrect and sexually inappropriate language was improving in leaps and bounds. I grinned at Stefan’s bemusement, grabbed my bags of food, and spread it out over my bed, sharing with Zilla when he popped out of the bathroom, dragging one end of the toilet paper in his mouth. I could hear it unrolling as he ran. He passed over the carpet and under the low-hanging blanket, out the other side, up and over the bed, under again, and then back up to perch on my knee, turning my bed into a fairly accurate depiction of a M?bius strip. Spitting out the end of the one-ply, he accepted a French fry with a contented mrrrp.
“My science teacher was named Mr. Wilfred Wyatt, but knock yourself out. Do I want to ask what you’re going to make or be pleasantly surprised when it explodes, disintegrates the motel, or opens up a black hole and sucks in the earth?” He reassembled the Steyr with practiced ease but didn’t slide in the clip. With a curious and thieving ferret around, a loaded gun wasn’t a good idea. Stefan slept with the gun and clip under his pillow. He could jam the latter home in a fraction of a second and Godzilla didn’t have to face manslaughter charges. It was a win-win.
“I’m not going to blow anything up. Anything else,” I amended around a bite of a bacon cheeseburger. It was good, better than good—the perfect amount of grease and cheese and slathered with mayonnaise. The hell with understanding the mystery of the Brussels sprout. I was never touching another one again. “As for a black hole. . . .” I took another bite, chewed, then swallowed before going on regretfully. “If only I could get my hands on the right equipment.”
“You’re kidding, right? I hope you’re kidding. You have enough felonies on your plate. Let’s not jump straight to Bond villain.” With the gun tucked under his pillow, he lay on his own bed and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day, especially for someone as breakable as a human. Peter had certainly done his best to break my brother and anyone else with me.
“Black holes are misunderstood. Besides, just creating the conditions a black hole could potentially thrive in. . . .” Those tired eyes were now aimed at me thoughtfully, the consideration of revoking my partner status swimming behind them. “I’m joking,” I grumbled. From now on I’d keep my fantasies to myself.
“I’m going to make a microwave beam gun in case we pick up another enthusiastic cop.” They existed now, but at around one hundred pounds. I could get that down to thirty, maybe twenty-five easily. “Aim, pull the trigger, and it’ll fry the electrical system in his car. You won’t have to shoot him. I won’t have to blow up his car. And best of all I won’t have to roll around in the dirt beside my own vomit again. Trust me, that’s worth sacrificing a hunk of metal to the microwave gods. Plus maybe Saul will stop calling me ‘double O puke,’ because it’s getting harder and harder not to maim him. He’s the only person in the world who makes me regret I’m not a killer.”
Saul had been afraid of me when he’d seen the clip of the Institute video, and he’d stayed cautious all the way up to when we were pulled over by the deputy. In the aftermath was when his love of vomit humor overcame his sense of survival.
I was definitely back to hating him.
“The guy does like to give people a hard time, but he thinks it’s harmless. He doesn’t know he’s hitting all the wrong buttons with you. I could tell him.” He toed off his shoes and yawned, the skin under his eyes gray with exhaustion. “But that would let him know where you’re vulnerable. Psychologically. And theoretically.” His lips curled as I snorted at my favorite catchall. “I know how much you love having your weak spots exposed or admitting you have any at all.” My snort was much darker this time.
“And this is part of being an adult,” he continued. “Figuring out who you like and who you don’t. Who’s worth putting up with despite some questionable qualities. Learning more about them and finding out those qualities aren’t so bad when you compare them to all the good ones they have. Or just tuning it out and forcing yourself to get along. That’s life.”
“When it rained last week and you couldn’t paint, you sat on the couch and watched Dr. Phil, didn’t you? Admit it. I renounce you. You are no longer my brother.” I went to work on the bean burrito and fed Zilla a bite out of pure spite. The ferret flatulence in the car in the morning might be enough to take out Saul. It would be my own form of chlorine gas. I’d be guilt free—hands clean of anything but innocence and cheap motel soap.
“Am I wrong?”
“Go to sleep already.” I pelted him with a fry. “You’re twenty-seven. Almost as old as Saul. I’m pulling the weight in this geezer parade. You need your rest.”
“Nineteen and already you don’t want my advice. They grow up so fast. Like a stake through the heart. Sharper than a serpent’s tooth. Soon you won’t let me hug you in public anymore.”