Degrees of Wrong (27 page)

“What? My face? Or my pride?” I pouted into the haven of the hand-shaped leather.

“Right now, I’m worried about your face. I’ll find some way to take your mind off your pride later. How many metatarsals am I holding up?”

I ripped the glove away and snorted. “You can’t hold up
metatarsals
. They’re the bones in your feet. If you’re trying to say fingers, then you’re looking for
phalanges
. Both your fingers and your toes are phalanges.”

He grinned. “Made you look.” The grin melted to concern when he got a good look at me. “Uh, love—I think you’re going to have a black eye too. That right eye is pretty swollen.”

“My
right
eye? Great.” I threw my hands up in exasperation, my left hand slightly slower to participate because of the weight of the glove. “Now we’ll have matching black eyes, and we board the ship tomorrow.”

A slow, mischievous grin settled on his face. I scowled. “What could be
funny
?”

“I’m going to tell everyone that we got into a disagreement and that you hit me.”

“
Why
would you do that?”

“Because Frank Horan will drop to his knees and propose on the spot.”

As I stormed off the field—Nicoli in pursuit—the tallest boy ran after us. I stopped with Nicoli, unable to be rude to the boy.

In the stunning clarity of English, the beaming adolescent told Nicoli, “She’s definitely a keeper.”

Nicoli grinned at him. “I’m working on it.”

The boy nodded and sprinted toward the field to finish the game. “Don’t forget, it’s your turn to bring lunch next time,” he called over his shoulder.

Although I wouldn’t look at him, my curiosity got the better of me when I said, “I thought
today
was your turn.”

“It’s always my turn.”

We boarded the transport pod empty-handed.

I stormed into the house and past Dr. Folsom who gasped when she saw my eye. The admiral caught a glimpse of it too when I passed him on the stairs. I knew when Nicoli entered the kitchen, because the admiral chuckled and said, “Who won?”

I heard Nicoli answer, “Her. Always her.” I knew just exactly what kind of grin was on his face when he said it.

I slammed my bedroom door for effect. An hour later, after I showered and smoothed out the wrinkles of my injured pride, I bounded down the stairs barefoot with a book in tow.

Nicoli sat at the dining-room table working on the admiral’s laptop. He looked up when he saw me, but I ignored him, stalking past him and out the door.

I steadied myself in the temperamental hammock and opened the book, aware that my natural light faded with the setting sun. The horizon splayed across the sky like fire, and the more I stared at it, I grew less and less impressed with the artificial sunset in my quarters on the
Bellator
.

“Mind if I join you?”

I looked over at him. Why didn’t he have a shirt on? Why did the sunset make him look like some sort of god, deserving of a statue in that exact pose? Why did
his
black eye look better on him than mine did on me? Exasperated with myself, with him and with the universe in general, I pointed a steady finger at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

He moved closer to me, standing over the hammock. “There’s plenty of room. And I did promise to soothe your pride.”

“My pride isn’t located anywhere on my body,” I snapped. “Leave me alone. And is it so difficult to wear a shirt?”

He laughed as he grabbed the hammock. Before I could protest, he lowered himself into the netting with me. And—as hammocks often do—it twisted, dumping us unceremoniously in the white sand. By some stroke of luck, I landed on top of him, my cheek plastered to his chest.

I lifted my head. “The man-child in you just couldn’t resist, huh?”

“That was a bad idea,” he admitted, grinning. “Despite the outcome.”

Mere inches separated our faces, and my hair splayed to the side, shielding us from the assault of sunset. “This is awkward.” I made an effort not to look at his mouth.

“This is a lot of things.” His husky tone felt like a caress. “But awkward isn’t one of them.” He ran his fingers through my hair with one hand and tightened his hold on me with the other.

I narrowed my eyes, swatting his hand from my hair. “Unless you’re no longer engaged to be
married
, the only thing this
could
be is awkward.”

I pushed away from him, draining the remains of my willpower with the act. I stood up, kicked sand on him and strode toward the house, sure my pulse could be heard from several feet away—that was, if the sound of his laughter hadn’t drowned it out.

Nicoli opened the glass shield after the water in the transport room drained. He jumped out to help me while the admiral assisted Dr. Folsom. She had complained of a stomach pain on the way back to the ship, and I admired the admiral’s attentive concern as he set her on the grated floor like a delicate vase. He planted a tender kiss on her forehead, and she smiled up at him. How could I have missed their affection?

The clamor and squeak of boots as they met with the shiny, slick hallway signaled that the fresh batch of cadets had arrived. Nicoli ushered us out into their midst.

The congested hall reminded me of my first day here. Cadets lined up, still as sculptures, awaiting instruction. That one familiar voice—the one that boomed over all the others—completed the nostalgia. It carried from the opposite end of the hallway as we made our way to the elevator he stood in front of. The insults became discernible as we approached.

He confronted a tall, pale man, whose salute faltered due to his shaking arms—whether they shook due to fear or from the lack of muscle on them I couldn’t say.

“You call that a salute, boy?” Lt. Horan shouted. “Or are you just waving at the shit flies? Boy, you better not have brought shit flies on
my
ship!” And then, “Ah! Here’s Captain Marek. Captain Marek, I regret to inform you that this swarm of insects is all we have to work with. I’ve never seen a more pathetic group!”

Nicoli kept his expression impassive. I avoided eye contact with Horan, unconfident in my ability to stifle a giggle, or a smirk at the very least.

Nicoli held me back when the first elevator arrived, to allow Dr. Folsom and the admiral to take it privately. This forced us to hear the barrage of scorn Lt. Horan dealt out, and even now, my temper bristled at the unnecessary gruffness.

The elevator opened again as Horan dismissed his hostages. He caught the door just before it closed and pushed himself between us. To his lieutenant, Nicoli appeared withdrawn, perhaps occupied by the week’s worth of work waiting for him in his office. To me, Nicoli looked like a sneaky little boy, planning his next prank.

It was then that I noticed the black eyepatch Horan wore. I averted my eyes and cleared my throat. Why did people clear their throats in awkward situations? Didn’t help anything. Might even make it worse.

When the doors shut, Horan turned to me and grinned. Then scowled. Looked to his captain. Scowled some more. “What’s with the shiners?” he asked me, alternating his thumb between me and Nicoli.

Oh my sweet goodness, I’d forgotten to think up a story, something to refute what Nicoli planned to tell everybody. I looked at the captain, raised my brow, willing him to go first. He wouldn’t look at me. The effort it took
not
to stomp my foot detracted from my creativity.

“I…I was reaching for something on the top shelf in the cabinet, and my hand knocked down a can of peas and it hit me right in the eye,” I said finally. How could Nicoli weave a fight scene into that? It would take a pretty talented—

“And then she threw the can at me, because she thought I put it there on purpose,” Nicoli blurted. “Pretty good aim, if you ask me.”

I whirled on him. He fought to keep the impassive expression, refusing to look down at me, refusing to look anywhere except the door ahead of him. I decided to try sleepwalking tonight.

I glanced at Horan and could see he didn’t believe either of us. He muttered something that sounded like, “Wouldn’t have happened on
my
shift.” He crossed his arms, clearly sulking.

I decided to change the subject. Stifling a reflex to lunge at Nicoli, I said, “What’s with the eyepatch? Did you hurt yourself too?”

He shrugged. “If you’re asking if I was attacked by some runaway vegetables, then no.”

I smacked his arm. “Well?”

He shrugged again. “I just wear it sometimes for intimidation. It looks scarier.” With that, he lifted the patch and winked at me with the perfectly functional orb.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re scary enough.”

“Really? ’Cause if I recall correctly, I remember a certain cadet didn’t think so. I remember said cadet getting in my face and calling me names the very first day she arrived.”

I snorted. “You started it.”

“Well, that’s just it. I
get
to start it. It’s my
job
.”

Nicoli allowed us to bicker in this way until the elevator opened in my hallway.

“Oh, zip it,” I said, pulling a fake zipper across my mouth. Horan snickered, satisfied that he’d sandpapered my nerves.

I glared at Nicoli a final time before the doors shut in front of him. If Pretty Princess hadn’t been there, the good captain would also need to explain how a can of peas had cracked his rib and busted his lip.

When I got to my room, I dropped my bags and set my alarm for two in the morning. Nicoli wouldn’t be quite as amused when he had to pursue a moving target in the middle of the night. Satisfied with my plan for vengeance, I headed for the lab.

“It’s a mutated gene,” I said as I entered his office unannounced. Too late, I realized he wasn’t alone.

The black-haired lieutenant—Lt. Giglio was his name, I thought—turned in surprise at the interruption. He nodded to me, and I returned the gesture.

Nicoli sighed heavily and rolled his eyes as if a child had spoken out of turn. He would pay for that later.

“Dr. Morgan, I have asked you repeatedly to respect the privacy of my office. Please schedule your requests ahead of time.” He would pay for that too. He turned to the lieutenant. “I apologize, Lt. Giglio, for Dr. Morgan’s rude behavior. You were saying?”

I decided I should carry around a notebook to keep a tally of all the things he would need to pay for before I spoke to him again.

“It can wait, sir.” The lieutenant waved in dismissal. “I can see that Dr. Morgan apparently has something more urgent for you.” He saluted to the arrogant captain and turned to leave.

As the door slid shut, Nicoli sat on his desk and grinned. “Yes, love? What were you saying?”

I strode over to him and pointed in his face. “You can take ‘love’ and shove—”

“Dr. Morgan, there you are,” the admiral called from the door. “Have you checked on Lois yet this morning?”

I narrowed my eyes at Nicoli to indicate to him that this discussion was not over. I turned to the admiral and switched gears. Worry made his face look older. “Yes, I have.”

Dr. Folsom had insisted the admiral not visit her in her personal quarters, to keep suspicions about their relationship at bay. She hadn’t been able to keep down any fluids whatsoever in the two days since we had returned to the ship, and the only way he could learn of her condition was through me, her attending physician.

“I started her on IV fluids this morning,” I told him, taking his hand and sitting him on the couch with me. “She’s dehydrated a bit because of the vomiting. I feel it’s a virus that needs to run its course.”

“How long will she need the IV?”

“Until she can keep her fluids down herself. Really, Admiral, she’ll be fine.” I patted his hand the way she would. He gave a half-hearted smile.

“She’s in good hands,” Nicoli chimed in. I raised a flattery-will-get-you-nowhere brow at him.

The admiral stood. “If her condition changes…”

I stood too. “You’ll be the first to know,” I assured him. He left without another word.

This time Nicoli secured the door. He turned to me and smiled. “Now, where were we?”

“You were about to die.”

He chuckled and closed the distance between us. He pulled me down on the couch beside him. “What’s a mutated gene?” he asked. “Is that what causes one to pretend to sleepwalk to the mess hall at three o’clock in the morning?”

“No,” I retorted. “Although studies have found that a mutated gene could be behind what makes people lie. To make up stories out of thin air. You’ve obviously inherited that particular gene deformity. One or both of your parents must be a blatant liar. Oh, that’s
right
. Your father is a politician. Must come from the Y chromosome then.”

He laughed and tried to pull me onto his lap. I wriggled away, stood up and walked to the conference table, seating myself in one of the chairs. My pulse misbehaved, my skin burned where he touched. Would I ever get used to him?

“In both Marie Belmonte and Marcel Eaton, there is a mutation of the gene CCR8,” I began again.