Startled, Adria spun around, encountering a second shadowy shape in only a matter of minutes. Taller than the last, his upper torso far broader, he loomed over her. She couldn’t make out his features and would have been frightened, if not for that voice. The deep rumble and unusual cadence in his tone was unlike that of the other humans she’d met and was one she could never mistake.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Beck moved beyond the shadow of the building and into the open, the blue of his eyes becoming visible—the hue something else she’d never mistake, or forget.
“Mr. Kincaid, I didn’t hear you over the—” A flood of music and boisterous laughter erupted from the bar across the street, and more staggering men spilled out.
“Drunks?” he supplied.
“I was going to say revelry.”
“Drunken revelry, then,” he concluded. “You were going to call me Beck, remember?”
She didn’t actually recall agreeing, but nodded anyway.
He lifted his chin toward the men who were arguing over something. A little pushing and shoving ensued, even as the laughter continued. “It’s Friday, and it’s been a frustrating, unproductive week since the mine explosion. Until a new site is selected, the miners have little to do. They’re just letting off steam while waiting to be assigned new duties.”
She stared at him, baffled. “I know I’m stating the obvious, but humans don’t produce steam.”
He smiled. “That’s an Earth expression. It means cutting loose.”
“Cutting what loose?”
He chuckled, his lips curving into a broad grin. “Are you always so literal?”
“Are you always so frustrating to talk to?” she returned.
“That’s what it means!”
“What what means?” she shot back, her head spinning from where they were talking in circles.
He barked a laugh. “Letting off steam and cutting loose both mean getting rid of frustration.”
“Ah...” Her tension eased with that settled. “I can relate. I came out for a walk to do the same thing.”
He glanced around. “Alone? Where is your guard?”
She wrinkled her nose, unwilling to get into it with him after having it out with Tarus already today.
“He took you to task for walking to work in broad daylight. I doubt if he’ll be pleased if he learns”—he glanced at his watch, frowning–“you were out past ten o’clock on your own.” He offered his arm. “I’ll stand in for him again and make sure you get home safely.”
“That really isn’t necessary.”
“Humor me,” he urged, although she could tell he wasn’t really giving her a choice.
She wouldn’t mind spending more time with him. Their lively banter, though often maddening, was also exhilarating, and his insight into the colony and Earth culture were fascinating. That she was drawn to him like a moth to a flame shouldn’t factor, but it did. Earlier, after he’d walked her home, they’d chatted at length. When he’d left her to the quiet of her apartment, it was the first time she’d felt lonely there.
She didn’t offer further protest when he took her hand and curled it inside the crook of his arm. “Mostly, the town is quiet, but in the evenings, when the men are—
“Letting off steam?” she offered.
His grin flashed white in the darkness. “Yeah, but more importantly, when the Watering Hole is offering two-for-one beer until midnight, then it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“They wouldn’t hurt me, would they?”
“I can only speak for my men, who I hand selected and know personally. The miners and service workers, I can’t vouch for. I would hope they’d act like gentlemen, but alcohol can make people do stupid things. So, let’s not chance it.”
“That’s why spirits are heavily restricted on Primaria.”
“They are?”
“Yes, we have a fermented fruit drink, but anything stronger was banned a hundred years ago.”
“We tried that once in our history. It didn’t go over well.”
“You had insurrection over spirits?”
“Not quite, but it came pretty close. Banning the production and sale of spirits actually made things worse, and crime rates and violence went up. It lasted about ten years before the people and the government finally ditched their noble experiment.”
“Such a thing wouldn’t happen on Primaria. The princep and the warriors wouldn’t let it.”
“We are two very different worlds, indeed. Now, then... Which way? Were you just starting or ending your walk? Or perhaps”—he tipped his head toward the bar across the street—“since you’re not at home, and spirits are completely legal here, you’d like to get something cold and wet. It’s godawful hot out here.”
Her gaze shifted to the flashing neon sign in the window. She’d often wondered what Budweiser meant, and now was her chance to find out.
“Could we?” she dared to suggest. “I’ve been curious.”
He didn’t hesitate before starting them across the street. At the door, they had to wait for more patrons to exit, even longer since the trio worked for Beck and paused for a brief exchange. They eyed her curiously, but introductions weren’t made, most likely because she was busy trying to see into the bar through the gap in the door left ajar.
Her escort, who thankfully ignored her rudeness, didn’t linger. He bid them a pleasant evening and, with his big hand riding low on her back, guided her inside.
Later would be soon enough to marvel over the warmth of his palm and how it seemed to sear through the thin material of her blouse. Others had been as solicitous when escorting her, but no man’s touch had seemed to imprint on her skin like Beck’s did.
Figuring out why was also for later. Right now, she was too busy trying to absorb the sights, sounds, and smells of the Watering Hole. The large room was crowded predominantly with men. Naturally. They made up 90 percent of the population. But, in a cleared area of the floor, two couples were dancing, swaying to the music coming out of a brightly lit, flashing machine.
“That’s a vintage jukebox,” he explained, speaking loudly to be heard over the music and hum of conversation.
She raised her voice, too. “Excuse me, but that doesn’t translate.”
He bent until his lips almost touched her ear, his warm breath stirring her hair. “Vintage means something from a bygone era. The jukebox came into being nearly four centuries ago at juke joints, establishments much like the Watering Hole where people gathered to eat, drink, and dance. If they didn’t have a live band, they could play their favorite songs on the jukebox for a quarter each.”
“A quarter of what?”
“How do I explain so we don’t get stuck in a cycle of confusion like last time?”
“Maybe from the beginning,” she suggested.
“We’re a much older world than yours, and we don’t have all night. Suffice to say we used currency then, instead of credits. A quarter was a denomination of coin. Now that I think about it, it might have been a dime, which was a smaller amount.” He shrugged. “Either way, this one looks the part, but isn’t authentic.”
“How do you know?”
“By the quality. The music came on vinyl discs then and was crackly and scratchy. This is digital. The sound is far superior.”
“Oh...” she stated in wonder, not having anything comparable at home. “It does sound wonderful, although I’ve never heard anything like it before.”
“I’m not surprised. I’d hazard a guess rock ’n roll is unique to Earth.”
As her eyes darted around the room, trying to take it all in, she noticed an older man, not quite elder-old but having seen more years than Beck or Trask, raise his chin in greeting.
“Bar stools are all that’s open, folks.”
They approached the raised counter running the length of the side wall. After they slid onto the waist-high backless seats, the man came over.
“Draft for you, Beck?”
When
he nodded in answer, the man turned her and stated, “Name your poison, miss.”
Adria gasped. “Poison!”
The man broke into a cackle as a grinning Beck leaned close again. “This is Mitch Anderson, the owner of the Watering Hole and our barkeep tonight. He doesn’t mean poison in a literal sense. He wants to know what you’d like to drink.”
“Oh.” Wishing perhaps humans were a little more literal, she looked at the bottles on the glass shelves behind the bar. There were at least fifty of them, making choosing more difficult than at the bakery.
The man behind the bar grabbed a large mug and moved over to a series of levers. He held it beneath the spout and pulled one lever toward him, sending a golden effervescent liquid swirling into the glass. Once he’d filled it to the rim, the top inch or so nothing but white foam, he set it down in front of Beck
He looked at her again, graying brows arched in question. “And for the lady?”
“I, uh...”
“Ever had beer?” Beck asked.
She blinked at him and intoned drily, “I very much doubt it.”
His easy grin reappeared, and, without taking his eyes from her, he told the bartender, “Make it two, Mitch.”
“Coming right up,” he called, still chuckling as he filled a second mug.
This time, instead of walking it over, he sent it gliding down the bar toward them. As though sloshing glasses of beer coming at him was a common occurrence, Beck’s hand came out and stopped it in front of her.
“Where’s Earl, tonight?” he inquired of the owner.
“Gimpy,” Mitch retorted, his humor evaporated. “He caught one of those damn ruts in the road with the heel of his boot while going home last night and rolled his ankle.”
“I saw two patients in the clinic today with the same complaint,” Adria commented. “The roads need repair, urgently.”
“That’s what I keep telling Beck. Maybe you can convince your man to make it a priority, honey, before someone breaks a leg.”
“Oh, I’m not—” She began to correct his assumption, but he’d moved down the bar to take someone else’s drink request.
“Don’t worry about it. He always thought me and Lana were an item, too. Ole Mitch is a matchmaker at heart. And around these parts, opportunities to make one are few and far between.”
The notion of the two of them together prompted that whooshing feeling in her chest, as did watching him take a sip of his beer. Particularly fascinating was how the muscles in his throat worked when he swallowed, and the way his tongue came out to lick the froth from his upper lip. Realizing she was gawking, she let her gaze sweep the room as she introduced a safer subject.
“Lana speaks highly of you. She claims you were the best friend she ever had.”
“She’s a good kid.”
Adria didn’t mention she was younger than Lana by several years.
“I’m just glad she’s finally getting what she wanted.”
“You mean my brother?”
“Mmhmm,” he answered before he took another swig. “That little gal had it bad for the general. Anyone with eyes could see she was in love with him. She denied it but mooned over him like a sick calf from the day she set foot on Terra Nova.”
“He had it bad, too. They were mates, after all, but whether he mooned like a sick calf or not will have to wait until you explain what that means.”
Beck didn’t get the chance. A cheer went up behind them, and they both swiveled around on their stools. Two men by a large table were slapping palms while two more on the other side scowled at them. “What’s that about?”
“My guess? Someone just got skunked at 9-ball.”
She waited several seconds, hoping the words would unscramble. When they didn’t, she tapped her fingers against her temple. “Why do I think my translator is malfunctioning whenever I talk to you?”
This had him grinning, something she noticed he did easily and often.
“I’m not surprised. There are over six thousand spoken languages on Earth. It will be a challenge even for your supercomputers to nail all of them down, not to mention the multitude of dialects, slang words, and colloquialisms.”
“Over six thousand,” she echoed in awe. “It’s inconceivable to have so many. We have two, including the ancient form of our current one.”
“I find only having two hard to imagine.” He tipped his head toward the men approaching the bar. “The two guys high-fiving each other—that’s the palm-to-palm kind of handshake—apparently won. A skunking means they won handily, which is written all over the sour faces of the two losers. I’d say they had money on the game.” As the four men reached the bar and Mitch passed out mugs of beer, he added, “Or, it could be as simple as losers buy the next round.”
“Ah, so there was a wager.”
“You don’t have liquor on Primaria but have gambling?”
“Yes, but not usually for an exchange of credits, and never for beer, since we don’t have it.”
“What, then?”
“Favors, mostly.”
He choked on a mouthful of beer. “What kind of favors?”
She shrugged. “Doing a task of some sort.”
“Mmm,” he hummed, while a smile played about his lips.
Instantly suspicious, she narrowed her eyes at the entirely too attractive human. “What kind of favors did you think I meant?”
“Never you mind.” He dipped his chin toward the full glass sitting untouched in front of her on the bar. “You haven’t tried your beer. I’m anxious to know what you think?”
Recognizing a deft change in topic when she heard one, she spun to face the bar and lifted her mug to her lips. Too tentative when she tipped it, she got only foam. On her second attempt, she got more foam but also a small splash of beer. Its pungent flavor burned when it hit her throat.
At her grimace, Beck chuckled. He also reached out, surprising her by swiping his thumb across her upper lip.
“You had a foam mustache,” he offered in explanation as he held up his froth-coated digit.
Embarrassed, she set the mug down, and, drew the back of her hand across her lips. “Did I get it?”
He nodded, the lights from behind the bar making his blue eyes sparkle more than usual. “There’s a table free. Want to learn how to shoot pool?”
“You know how?”
“I mentioned I’m a Texan, didn’t I?”
Obviously, she’d missed yet another inference. “And that means what?”
He grabbed his mug and slid off the stool. “Watch and learn, darlin’. Watch and learn.”
Adria followed him to the table in the corner, though she deliberately left her mug of beer where it was. “I’ve never done anything like this before. You’ll have to be patient and explain how it works from the beginning.”
The smoldering look he gave her seemed to scorch her skin, but his neutral answer of, “Don’t fret over that. I’m an excellent teacher,” came out in his same lazy drawl.
What was she missing?
Beck set his glass down and retrieved a long stick from a rack on the wall. He handed it to her. “Hold this while I set up the table.”
He took a four-sided, skewed frame from a hook and arranged eight solid colored balls and a single striped one inside it. Next, he centered the frame over a dot on one side of the table before he whisked it away. Then, he came to her and slipped the stick from her fingers.
“This game is called 9-ball.” Bending over the table, he used the stick to take aim at the white ball as he explained, “The object of the game is to get all your balls in the pockets, starting with the lowest one on the table until you sink the 9-ball. To win, you need to do so before your opponent.”
With a loud crack, the white ball slammed into the yellow number one and sent the others rebounding across the green surface. Three fell into pockets in that single shot. Beck proceeded to round the table announcing where he intended his next ball to go.
“Two ball, side pocke
t,” he called, followed by “four, in the corner.”
After the first two fell, he really showed his skill. “Six, far corner, seven here next to me, same shot.”
Sure enough, both dropped where they were supposed to, and somehow, the white ball ended with the next shot lined up perfectly. He continued, sinking the black eight and the yellow striped nine, until only the white ball remained.
“If you make a shot, you get another. If you miss, it’s your opponent’s turn. You alternate turns until there’s a winner. Got it?”
“The rules? Yes. But how you did what you did with that stick and some chalk, um, not quite.”
His slow grin set her heart aflutter. When he crooked his finger and murmured, “Come here, and I’ll show you how it’s done,” a rush of warmth settled low in her belly.
Even though she wasn’t sure she should, she went to him.
HE’D MEANT TO GIVE her verbal instructions only but changed his mind quickly after watching Adria move, her body swaying slightly to the classic rock booming from the jukebox. And, it was more than that. Her features were more animated than usual as she reacted to this new adventure, a flush graced her golden cheeks, and her waist-length black hair glinted blue beneath the overhead lights. In her innocence, by both word and action, she stirred him as intensely as the first time he saw her.
Although stunningly exotic, she wasn’t his usual type. He preferred curves. Case in point, his ex-wife who had tits and ass in abundance. Adria’s willowy frame was the opposite. Her breasts were more likely to fit his palms than overflow them. But as she leaned forward and squinted down the cue to ineptly line up a shot, her gauzy floor-length dress—in the flowing style all Primarian women wore—pulled tight across her hips, revealing a nicely rounded behind. Beck found himself moving in for a more hands-on approach to the lesson.
“Loosen your grip,” he murmured as he leaned over her. With his arms around her, he covered her hands and demonstrated the motion. “The stick has to glide through your fingers.”
“I think I understand. I just line up the white cue with the lowest numbered ball and hit it hard enough to make it go in. If I make it, I keep going, right?”
Bound by Fate Page 6
