My broker responds with a single thumbs-up emoji,because apparently my life has been reduced to cartoon hieroglyphics.
I shove the phone away and keep searching. The gods finally take pity on me. In an open luggage cubby outside a family’s room, I find a rolled-up sleeping bag. I whisper a thank-you to whatever deity oversees petty theft and corpse management.
By the time I get back, Saint’s kneeling beside the stolen suitcase she “liberated” earlier, rifling through it like a raccoon.
She eyes the sleeping bag. “What’s that for?”
“Finally,” I say, dropping it on the floor, “a body bag for our pulse-less friend.”
I unroll it, unzip it, and gesture at her. “Arms or legs?”
She takes the arms without complaint. I lift his ankles.
His body makes a “U” shape, and we make it halfway to the bag before the corpse lets out an enormous, wet burp.
A straight-up belch of the fumes collecting inside our puffy friend.
The smell hits first—sulfur, rot, and something that suggests eternal punishment.
I drop his legs so fast his heels thud against the carpet. “No. No. Saint, absolutely not. That came from hell. I am not?—”
“Lock the fuck in, Alejandro.” She swears at me, snapping her fingers once. I wave my hands like I’m clearing a smoke bomb.
“You try holding this end next time,” I choke out, “and we’ll see how much you like getting a dead man’s burp to the face.”
“I’ll pass, thank you,” she mutters, pinching her nose.
We finally maneuver him onto the sleeping bag. She stands, grabs a handful of supplies from the suitcase, and heads toward the little en-suite bathroom.
“Open a window,” She nods her head toward them. “I’m going to shower.”
“Shower?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe, slightly winded and definitely smelling like a mortician. “Need company?”
She doesn’t even look back. “You gave me permission to slit your throat. Remember?”
I grin. “That was on the other train.”
She shuts the bathroom door in my face.
The shower is trash. Water pressure like a dying faucet. A drain that gurgles like it’s protesting my existence. But right now? It feels perfect. Heat, steam, and the rare moment where I’m not hauling a leaking corpse or dodging someone trying to kill us.
My stolen suitcase came with a few blessings: a pair of jeans that actually fit, a clean T-shirt, even socks. Miracle-level stuff.
The bathroom, however, is roughly the size of a coffin. I can’t turn without elbowing the wall or knocking my head into the mirror. So, I towel off just enough to avoid soaking the carpet, wrap the towel around my waist, and step back into the cabin.
Saint looks up.
Her eyes drag down my still-wet chest, lingering on the drops sliding down my stomach, and land squarely on my crotch. She tries to mask it. Fails. The flash of surprise, the flicker of admiration, the reluctant appreciation… I catch itall.
I know exactly what kind of body I’m working with. And I know she remembers what it felt like against hers. The way we moved together. How well we fit.
And now she’s staring directly at my dick.
Danger. For both of us.
I turn away, keeping the towel tight around my hips as I slide into a pair of boxer briefs. Her gaze stays glued to me, and I can practically feel it like a hand.
“Shall I leave them off for you, Saint?” I ask, still facing away.
