Free Hopper House (The Jenkins Cycle Book 3) by John L. Monk Page A

“A little too formal. I usually eat in the living room, unless the house is full of…”
    “Party animals?”
    It seemed odd that anyone would come to the middle of nowhere to watch porn and bake soufflés. With the camera in the foyer, the place felt more like a CIA safe house than anything else.
    “Guests,” Rose said.
    We took the stairs to the upper level. Wherever there was bare wood, the floor was dusty, as if nobody bothered to clean beyond doing the dishes or throwing out the trash.
    She smiled. “Sometimes when I arrive, the house is trashed. This time it’s not so bad.”
    We were in one of the spacious bedrooms.
    “Your landlord—he makes you clean and take care of the place?”
    “Nobody makes me do anything,” she said. “It’s a fair trade. And I enjoy it. This is my house, you know, even if you don’t believe me.”
    “I never said that. So who’s this landlord person?”
    Rose snorted.
    “What?”
    “Let’s just say the less we have to do with that man, the better.” She stepped close and ran a finger down my chest. “Feeling frisky?” Her finger traced down, down, down . “Nothing wrong with this pump…”
    I wanted to ask more about her landlord friend—where he was, how long she’d known him—but Rose took my hand in hers and kissed me. It seemed rude to ask questions just then, as well as silly and difficult with her tongue poking around everywhere. Then she pulled me down on the bed and I forgot my train of thought.

Chapter Ten
    R ose wasn’t kidding about free clothing. The drawers upstairs were packed with socks, shirts, and shorts in all sizes. There were even brand-new packs of underwear and panties, never opened. The closet had shoes and jackets and even more shirts and pants. I wondered what kind of rental house would do that. Maybe it was also a halfway house? But if that were the case, where was the person in charge?
    So naturally I asked Rose about it.
    Patiently, as if talking to a very slow child, she said, “The landlord also rents to a bunch of extreme fitness organizations. Surely you’ve heard of Cramp Camp? Grind Masters? The Mud & Blooders?”
    I shook my head, No , three times.
    “Great bunch of people,” she said. “They provide clothes as part of the package. Lots of slogging through mud and running around the woods.”
    At the time, it made perfect sense.
    I spent most of the day following Rose around and helping her clean. It gave me something to do while I tried to work out what I was experiencing. Not only had I met someone like me, but Rose seemed to be doing a lot better with her situation than I ever had. She had a house, for crying out loud. No sleeping on the streets for her, or dealing with the ragged ends of a failed marriage. Provided her various rides owned cars, she’d always have a place to come back to. For her entire three weeks, she could stay here and not worry about anyone or anything.
    Which was sort of a problem.
    What were we here for, in the bodies of awful people, if not to atone for our sins by making the world a better place? I almost asked her that … and then lost my nerve. I was afraid of what she’d say. The truth could set me free, but maybe I didn’t want to be free. Maybe I needed something more to live for, and any answer other than “I’m here to protect the world from evil just like you, Dan” was too much nihilism for me to handle just now.
    Also, I liked the way she made me feel and didn’t want to ruin it.
    Before my suicide, I’d never had a girlfriend except for Sandra, in college, and I’d made a mess of that. I wasn’t boyfriend material, and it wasn’t like Rose was offering anything long term. But we shared a collection of experiences that made what Sandra and I had look like a kindergarten crush. I was tired of being alone all the time, and I worried my desperation would push her away.
    Rose seemed oblivious to my surgical silence as she padded around polishing wood, dusting shelves, and