“You could say that,” Lam said. “I’m careful, but part of that is not staying in any place too long.”
“I get that,” Conan shoved his hands in his coat pockets, but his shoulders were relaxed, he was trying to project a mildness that didn’t quite fit him. “I try not to stick around any place too long, habits and routines make you a familiar face.”
“Exactly,” Lam said. “Shame, because moving is so… annoying.”
“Oh yeah?” Conan asked with interest. “You got a lot of books or something? You look like a book guy.”
Lam didn’t mean to react to that, but something must’ve given him away because Conan laughed.
“You just need a big strong guy to move all the boxes for you,” Conan said, leadingly.
“You offering?” Lam asked.
Conan shrugged with his uninjured arm. “I’ve moved a lot of folks over the years. Anything for a shower and a warm bed, you know?”
Lam didn’t. He’d grown upcomfortableand then gotten a degree in software engineering. The only hard work he’d ever done was his exercise and extracurricular training, and that was hardly the same.
“Is this something you do regularly?” Lam asked, “Talk your way into someone's house.”
Conan chuckled. “Yeah. Beats blowing your money on a bug-infested motel room most of the time. I’ve got the face and the charm for it. Most folks see it like taking in a stray for the night.”
Lam wrinkled his nose at the word. “Like you’re a stray dog?”
“Yeah,” Conan said with a smile, then must have caught his expression. “What? Have I offended your delicate sensibilities?”
Lam rolled his eyes. “No, I just–I mean, you’re not adog.”
“Maybe I am,” Conan offered. “Stray dog looking for a good home, no shame in that.”
“Might bite,” Lam tacked on.
Conan laughed, deep from his belly. It was a nice laugh. “Only if you ask nicely,” he teased.
Lam felt a wash of heat in his cheeks and almost misstepped. He’d never interacted with any of the men he trapped beyond the sex. Usually by now Conan was a cooling body that Lam would have to dispose of.
He didn’t know what to make of this. His hand in his pocket tightened and loosened around the knife handle.
“So,” Conan said as they headed up the hill into Arlington Estates. Everything was quiet besides the whisper of wind through trees and their footsteps. “What’s with the three strikes thing? You a sports guy?”
Lam felt a brush of cold on the back of his neck. Usually questions about his method and moniker were immediate strikes, because to identify himself meant he couldn’t let his victims walk free.
But Conan already knew he killed people, and he seemed… unmoved by it. What would more honesty bring? Lam was curious.
“It’s a part of the game I play.” Lam explained. “Everyone gets three opportunities to behave, three strikes. It’s not about sports.”
“I see,” Conan said. “But no one’s gotten the metaphorical home run.”
Lam almost rolled his eyes again, “I wouldn’t put it like that.”
Conan chuckled. “Right, right. Of course not. But no one’s ever lived, right?”
“No,” Lam admitted.
Conan hummed thoughtfully. “Interesting. So three strikes, how am I doing?”
“You don’t have any yet,” Lam said. “But the night’s still young.” He’d meant to say it as a threat, but it came out… different.
He could feel Conan’s eyes on him. “Am I allowed to know what’s a strikeable offense? Or is not knowing part of the game?”
