Moonstruck (7 page)

She swallowed more wine, holding it in her mouth, savoring the taste.
You can trust me,
Rorkken told her. He’d observed her with those eyes so much like Seff’s, and she knew he spoke the truth.

He’s a good officer,
Zaafran had said. Brit didn’t want Rorkken to be a good officer; she wanted an excuse to see him and his fellow Horde off the ship. He’d revealed the hardships of his youth, but she didn’t want to know him; she didn’t want to see him as a human being. Didn’t he know doing so turned her neatly ordered priorities upside-down? She despised “upside-down.” She wanted life to go on as it always had. Shake her up and the past might come back. Shake her up and she might
feel
.

Damn you, Finnar Rorkken.

That was quickly becoming her mantra. She emptied her glass, grabbed the bottle and realized it was dry. Blast. She’d finished it already? Where was the needed blur of drunkenness?

She’d take the blur of pleasure.

She loosened her hair and shook it out. Then she slipped between the cool sheets. They adjusted instantly to her preferred temperature. She slid her hand over her belly, and lower, closing her eyes. She tried to picture Seff’s face as she touched herself, as she always did. But as her body tightened, coming quickly to climax, it was Rorkken’s face that she saw.

Brit cried out softly as she shook her head in denial.
No.
She rolled onto her belly, grasping the pillow with both hands as her body throbbed for the completion. It was her attraction to Rorkken, damn it. That’s what had her so unsettled.

What was she going to do? It was clear she couldn’t go on like this. To get rid of a craving, sometimes you had to have your fill of it. Maybe she should indulge in Finnar Rorkken. He’d fuck her good and hard, like the man-toys she bought on shore leave always did, and then she’d be immune to his charms from that point on. It wasn’t the most pleasant of prospects, nauseating in fact, but what choice did she have? She needed her focus back, her drive. She needed the Drakken pirate out of her head. To do that, she needed him in her bed. Yes, it was no longer a matter of if she’d put her theory into practice—but when.

H
ADLEY SCURRIED
after Admiral Bandar as the woman headed swiftly down the corridor toward the gym. She hoped the admiral planned an exhausting workout. Hadley had been run ragged by her commanding officer before, but not like this. The past two days had been a blur of orders. She’d not made any errors, but she was terrified she soon would. Not that the admiral had ever berated her, not once during their three-year tenure together, but it would pain Hadley immensely to disappoint her greatest hero.

A group of Drakken walked past them in the corridor. One was tall and lean, the one with the tortured dark eyes that some were whispering had been an Imperial Wraith. Bolivarr, his name was. He nodded at Hadley. His gaze was deep and searching. It didn’t make her blush like Tango’s did. It made her flush with heat and shiver at the same time. She swallowed and turned her eyes away as she gave a polite nod to the group.

“Good day, Admiral,” the Drakken greeted the admiral.

She growled something in reply. At first the admiral had been cordial to the new crew members eager to gain her favor after her impromptu promotions—but she’d been in an ugly mood for two solid days. It seemed to intensify whenever Warleader Rorkken was around.

“Hadley,” Admiral Bandar said as she walked swiftly toward the gym. “Do not wait for me. I’ll return to my quarters on my own.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Have my room scented and the bedding turned down.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They passed by the bar. It was crowded. Music vibrated. The scent wafting out was an acrid blend of alcohol and sweat. She craned her neck to see inside.

Tango was leaning against the bar as she hurried past.
Yes, ma’am,
he mimicked silently.

Hadley scowled. Whipping her head around, she ran to catch up with the admiral.

She followed her boss into the locker room. This was the time of day set aside for senior officers to exercise, but none were here. Everyone had already gotten wind that the admiral liked to use the gym at this time each day, and avoided the place.

Admiral Bandar stripped out of her uniform, handing it to Hadley, who replaced it with a towel. She couldn’t help sneaking a peek at the admiral’s toned, flat stomach as the woman pulled on her workout pants. She thought of the tiny shoes, and tried to visualize Bandar pregnant. If she narrowed her eyes and tried really hard, she could definitely imagine a rounded belly on the admiral.

“Is there something wrong, Lieutenant?”

Hadley almost jumped out of her skin. “No. No, ma’am.” Guilt swamped her for snooping into the admiral’s private things. She prayed it didn’t show on her face.

“It’s been a busy few days for us, Hadley. Have you partaken in some of the recreation activities on board?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You should. Officers need to be able to unwind from the day in order to best do their duty.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that, ma’am.” At least Admiral Bandar wasn’t angry. She had an amazing amount of patience with her. She merely shrugged in that stoic way of hers and snapped the waistband of her athletic pants around her trim hips. “No need to wait until I begin, Hadley. Have you been to the bar?”

That caught Hadley off-guard. She’d rarely gone to the bar on the
Vengeance.
It was boring, and few felt comfortable socializing with her due to her closeness to Bandar. “Why, no. I have not.”

“Go. Have a drink. Or two.”

Was it her imagination, or had the admiral just winked? The admiral turned on her heel and headed into the lightball court, leaving Hadley holding her uniform, heavy with a career’s worth of decorations.

Hanging the uniform, Hadley thought of the bar. And of Tango. She wanted to see him. She didn’t want to see him.

Her legs seemed to have a mind all their own as they pulled her toward the door and into the corridor. A drink, or two. Why not?

She wondered if Tango would still be there.

F
INN WAS ON HIS
usual midshift patrol. After his shift was over, Star-Major Yarew came on duty, who was then followed by Admiral Bandar. Finn didn’t like to go right to bed; he enjoyed walking the corridors of the ship, getting to know her, getting a feel for her, like one would with a new lover.

He snorted at his comparison. What would he know of getting to know a lover? When had he last stayed around long enough to learn a woman? Or even to care to get to know her? He had no experience in the matter. He had the feeling in his gut that forming permanent relationships was in his blood, his makeup, but his career had never allowed it. He did not cross the line and sleep with subordinates, which ruled out all the females on his crew. When it came time to order someone into combat, he didn’t want feelings mucking it up. Beyond that one rule, he had none. His romantic entanglements had always been brief flirtations and casual affairs with no promise, or even hope, of any long-term commitments. It was a space-hand’s life.

Finn rounded the corner where the ship’s bar was located. He stepped inside the noisy room. Out of instinct his hand went to his pistol. No need of that, he reminded himself, his eyes adjusting to the dark. It was civilized here.

Despite the best attempts of the unification committee, the members of the Triad sat separated into its three components, although Finn saw some mingling amongst the Earthling and Coalition.

“Good eve, Captain.”

Finn tracked the quiet greeting to its source. “Good eve to you, Bolivarr.” Preferring solitude, as was the preference of wraiths, the former assassin sat alone at a table, his hands curved around a glass of plain water. Several others from the
Pride
sat at tables nearby, concentrating on twisting small cubes made of multicolored squares. Their drinks were hardly touched. Bolivarr was one thing, but the rest of the crew not drinking?

“Is there something wrong with the liquor?” Finn grabbed a glass and brought it to his nose. “It smells good. A cut above our usual swill.” A few cuts, he thought.

Markar slammed one of the colored cubes down on the table. “I give up. It’s impossible.”

“What is that?”

“The Earthling gave them out. He called it a Roob…I can’t recall.”

“A Rubik’s Cube.” Tango sauntered over to them. “Hello, Warleader.” He took the cube from the table, gave it several methodical twists and then held it up for all to see. Each side was now a different solid color. “Not so impossible.” He then twisted it back to multicolored and tossed it back to Markar.

The man tried to reform it. Bolivarr observed the man’s struggles with a pitying glance.

“Can I try?” another crewman asked.

“Take the freepin’ thing,” Markar snarled. As soon as his hand was empty of the puzzle, he was sucking down his untouched drink.

Finn noted a strange object in the hands of another crew member—this time a Coalition officer, and ensign. It was a brown glass container with writing he couldn’t decipher.

“Corona,” Tango said. “It’s beer. Earth beer from a country called Mexico, though in Texas, where I’m from, it’s practically the state drink. The cargo bay’s filled with cases of beer.” He beamed a smug smile around the bar. “I feel it’s my duty to spread the word—my planet’s culture.”

Gods help us all, Finn thought. “How are the flying lessons going?”

But the pilot was no longer listening. His attention had fixed on the bar’s entrance. Bandar’s pretty assistant walked inside the bar. Clearly shy, but pretending not to be, Lieutenant Keyren held her head high and walked to the bar, where several Coalition officers she evidently knew huddled over drinks. She joined them, avoiding looking at Tango, who had eyes only for her.

Hadley alone? Where was Bandar?

Finn made his way over to her. “Off this eve, Lieutenant?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Admiral Bandar’s in the gym.”

“In the gym…” Hmm. “Thank you very much.” He started to go and paused. “I think you have an admirer.” He pointed to Tango. The lieutenant turned red as she scowled.

Finn chuckled and left the girl with her companions. Tango stopped him on the way out. “Buy you a drink, sir?” he asked Finn.

He shook his head and patted the Earthling on the back. “Buy one for the lady.”

Leaving Tango behind, he continued on his walk. Bandar was in the gym, he thought. Doing what? Curiosity overtook him. He checked the time. It was the period reserved for senior-officer workouts. He flexed his arms, rubbing a bicep. He hadn’t done much in the way of exercise since he’d arrived, having not yet settled into a routine, but he didn’t want to go soft, did he? With a grin that felt almost feral, he turned in the direction of the gym.

T
ANGO CAUGHT
Hadley’s eye and winked. She turned away quickly. Didn’t she know she’d end the evening in his quarters, cuddled close for a showing of
The Devil Wears Prada?
It was a chick flick, and Hadley was a chick, even though technically she was an alien. She’d love it. She’d love him.

He made his way through the crowded bar, her cute blond head centered in his sights, as he absorbed the sights and sounds, just a boy from Dallas far from home. Not so far in some ways. Advanced tech, light-years from Earth, it didn’t matter: a bar was a bar. It didn’t make a difference if you were in Texas or on a spaceship.

He sauntered over to Hadley and leaned an elbow on the bar. She sat perfectly erect in front of a tall, thin glass filled to the top with electric-blue liquid. “What the hell is that?”

“Poru punch.”

“Punch,” he scoffed. “Is it alcoholic?”

“Yes.”

He lifted the glass and sniffed. “Barely. It’s a girlie drink.”

She grabbed the glass away from him. “I’m a girl.”

“Hell yeah, you are that.”

He loved that he could make her blush. How many women her age still blushed? “A Bud,” he told the bartender. Then he dug in his pocket for the trinket he’d been carrying around. “Your hand, please.”

“My hand?”

“Do you always answer all statements with questions?”

Her pretty little mouth twisted with displeasure. “When the statements make no sense, yes.”

He snatched her right hand and pulled it toward him. She resisted, pulling back. He found her huge blue eyes and said, “Trust me,” in his deepest, softest voice, the one he knew worked every time. She relaxed. He smiled. Ah, his sweet Hadley, his ripe little apple: fresh and juicy, and just a little bit tart. She was going to taste so good going down. “I have something to give you. A ring.”

“A ring?”

“There you go again. More questions.” He calculated the slender width of her fingers and slid the ring up her index finger. “There.” He held up her hand so she could see. “Like it? It’s called a mood ring.” She didn’t need to know they were Chinese imports that cost two bucks apiece and that he had a bag full of them as part of his “trinkets for the natives” collection like the Rubik’s Cubes. He aimed to be the self-proclaimed Johnny Appleseed of Earth, planting Earth culture across the galaxy, from Coca-Cola to mood rings, to grow and flourish. So what if the mission was unsanctioned? Ol’ Johnny didn’t have official backing, either, when he went west a couple of centuries ago and started planting apple trees in the Ohio Valley.

Hadley pulled her hand away, turning it from side to side to admire the ring. Her cheeks flooded with pink. “You brought this all the way from Earth?”

“Indeed, little lady. Just for you.”

“Thank you. It’s beautiful.” She sighed. “As gray as a winter sky on my home world.”

“Gray? Let me see.” He’d been banking on deep purple—purple for passion.

She wriggled her fingers. Sure enough, the ring had changed to gray. It didn’t bode well for his effect on her.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“The colors reveal your mood.” He pulled out the tiny guides he had made up in her language and handed it to her.

“Gray,” she read, scanning the page as if committing it to memory. “Anxious, very nervous, strained…”

“Beer, Earthling.” The bartender slid a frosty longneck toward him. He popped the top with a louder-than-usual fizz. The pressure was slightly lower here on the ship than it was at home.

“Here, try this, Hadley.” He offered her the bottle. She sniffed delicately, took a sip and grimaced. “It’s bitter. And bubbly.” She handed the bottle back. “I don’t like it.”

“Ah, man. I’ll have to find a way to wean you off those fruity girlie drinks.” He took a long, deep swig, suppressing a belch. “Ice-cold heaven. I just hope what we Earth folks loaded lasts a while, or I’m in trouble.”

“You can always drink sweef,” a deep voice said.

The tall, lean Drakken officer he’d seen observing him had appeared on the other side of Hadley. Bolivarr. Everyone seemed to know who he was, yet the guy said next to nothing. Rumors were flying. If they were to be believed, Bolivarr had done everything from eating small children to serving as a martial arts trainer to the dead warlord. Somewhere in between, Tango figured. “That hydraulic fluid that passes for alcohol?” he scoffed.

“Too strong for you, Earthling?”

“Dude, I don’t see you drinking none.”

Bolivarr pushed away from the bar. Tango started to follow, but Hadley grabbed his arm. “Major Barrientes, don’t.”

“It’s Tango. You gonna come have some sweef with me and my Drakken friend?”

“Tango, sweef’s really strong.”

Her blue eyes were huge and worried. She didn’t think he had what it took to keep up with the Drakken. Shit. All the more reason to take Bolivarr’s challenge. So far, Tango had done nothing but un-impress Hadley. It was time to reverse the trend. He’d just gotten off duty, and didn’t go on for another sixteen ship-hours. Plenty of time for sweef to metabolize through his body.

“Come on, girl. Keep me company.” He took her warm, soft fingers in his. Again there were those few seconds of resistance before she gave in. Hand in hand, they made their way over to the Drakken table. The men were hunched over some kind of dice game. The way they looked up, in unison, their expressions hard and suspicious, reminded him of a scene out of an old Western, the city-bred sheriff meeting the local gunslingers for the first time.