Killer doesn’t skip a beat when I reject his handshake. He just sticks his hands in his pockets and settles next to me on the couch, sitting way, way too close. I frown at him and scooch away. It’s not his fault that I don’t like being close to people, but still, this is definitely uncomfortably close, even for normal people.
Again, Killer hardly seems to notice my reaction and just keeps smiling. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with the silhouette of a white bow tie at the top. In bold letters, the shirt reads, BOW TIES ARE COOL. My frown disappears as I recognize the saying from my favorite TV show. Yeah, Killer is definitely a geek-in-disguise.
“So,” Killer says, “what’s your name, little stowaway?”
I’m guessing he already knows my name, and is just trying to be polite by asking, but that just makes me like him even more.
“I’m Ali Collins.”
A smirk tugs at his lips, but it’s merely amused and not at all scathing. “Ali Collins? Come on, can you get more generic than that?”
I roll my eyes. If anyone else had asked that, I would have bitten their head off—Collins is my mom’s name, and one of the last things I have left of her. And she chose the name “Alison” for me, which somehow makes it special, even if it is generic. But I can’t get mad, not with Killer’s goofy shirt and smile so close. “It’s not like I got to choose my name,” I say.
He laughs a little. “Well, I guess that makes it more acceptable.”
“Acceptable?” I repeat. “You’re one to be talking. Who names their kid ‘Killer’?”
“I was really bad at keeping my pet goldfish alive when I was little.”
On the other couch, Arrow cracks a small smile. But it’s strained, and as he stares at me, I avoid his harsh gaze. He nods to Killer. “Don’t listen to him. His real name is Kilimanjaro.”
I raise my eyebrows at Killer. “Wow. That’s almost worse.”
He sighs and holds his hands up, like he’s surrendering to the terrible naming skills of his parents. “Totally not my fault I was adopted by hippies.” He points to his boyfriend. “Arrow started calling me Kilim when we were like sixteen.”
“Which Jace quickly turned into Kill ’Em, and then to Killer,” Arrow explains.
“And it stuck,” Killer says.
It’s kind of cute how they keep finishing each other’s sentences. They sound like an old married couple, which I guess they pretty much are. Well, not technically married, and definitely not old. But according to Avery, Killer and Arrow have been boyfriends since the very start of their band.
Damn, I wish I could talk to Avery. It hasn’t even been a day, and I already miss her excited babbling about Tone Deaf, something I never thought I’d want to hear. I think she was already asleep when I sent that message last night, otherwise she would have come over and demanded to speak to me. But I’m sure she got the message this morning, and I cringe as I think of how worried she must be.
“Your band seems to have a thing for unique names,” I say, continuing the conversation to distract myself from thinking about Avery. “Why do you guys call yourself Tone Deaf?”
Killer smirks. “We used to practice in Jace’s garage, and his neighbor was this grouchy lady who hated our music. So one day she comes over and tells Jace that having a deaf father is no excuse for having zero musical talent. He tried arguing back, but she just kept cutting him off and saying, ‘Well you might not be deaf, but your band is tone deaf!’ We were looking for a name at the time, and yeah, that’s how we became Tone Deaf. ”
Interesting—Jace has a parent who’s deaf, which explains why he knows ASL. I try to cover my surprise by nodding to Arrow. “What about your name? Is Arrow short for something?”
The curve of Arrow’s smile grows sharper. “Yeah. It’s short for Poor Fool With White Trash Parents.”
“Oh,” I mumble.
I must look as uncomfortable as I feel, because Killer gently places a reassuring hand on my arm. I deftly remove myself from his touch, doing my best not to grimace.
“You were sleeping for a long time,” Killer says, his smile fading just a little. “Do you want some food or something? Maybe something to drink?”
“I’ll, um, get something myself. If that’s okay?”
“Of course.” He nods toward the kitchen and hops up from the couch. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
I follow him into the small kitchen, where he proceeds to point out the refrigerator and cupboards full of health food. Whole-grain cereal, sunflower seeds, protein drinks, and fruit seem to be Jace’s staples. Whatever happened to young guys living off junk food?
Killer is chatting excitedly, and I quickly lose track of his words. He doesn’t seem to understand the concept of lip-reading. Namely, that it involves me looking at his lips, and not watching him twirl around the kitchen as he fetches me a cup of some natural energy drink that looks like pee. Apparently, he’s not going to let me get a drink for myself, which is kind of annoying and kind of sweet.