He changed out of his tank from this morning. Now he wears a leather vest treated with something that looks like dye or paint. Orange, gold and red, diffused. His shoulders are bare, broad and striped with sinew just beneath the flesh. His chest is bare as well, gleaming. All the men present six-packs, but his are less defined. There, but not overt. Lean and smooth.
I think touching him would be like touching brushed silk over steel.
Drac seems to sense I am speechless in this moment. My eyes roving over him make no secret of my admiration. He twitches his shoulders once, and takes the lead I had meant to take in this scene.
“What is this meeting about?” Drac asks.
“You know what it is about,” I say. “I want updates. Mission reports on how you are fitting in. This is your first mission. I want to see you do well. And I want you to know I’m here if you have any questions.”
He does not smile in welcome to my words as any usual green recruit would do. Most would be hoping like hell for a seduction about now.
Drac remains stoic, almost accusatory as he says, “I don’t have questions. And I’m doing fine.”
“You stay to yourself. You’re not on duty as much as I’d like to see.”
“A lot of my job can be done from my computer in my quarters.”
“I see.”
He stares at me, brown gaze clear, almost challenging. He’s young and healthy. He’s smart. But smart enough to be a scientist? Even if the rumors are going around, I can’t believe it. And yet, his behavior…
“Well,” I continue. “I like to see my crew mingle. I need to see them at their stations or on breaks together, at least a few hours a day. It’s not healthy to stay cooped up for too long. Cabin fever is real out here in the pitch. We’re nowhere and have only each other. It’s imperative for mental health to interact.”
He smiles, and it is part acting, part knowing. Like he’s in on a secret, but not with me. I hate it. I love it. I want to bend him over and show him who’s boss.
He’s standing there like caged steel. Dark and foreboding. Yet at the same time young, innocent.
“Please sit. If you don’t have questions, I do,” I say.
He eyes the soft black chair attached to the deck in front of my desk. Then looks toward the pale blue couch against the left bulkhead.
“You aren’t in a hurry, are you?”
He knows the answer. I haven’t given him any other orders than this meeting. He has nothing else to do. But he hesitates.
“Go on,” I encourage. I am feeling stronger now. My voice less breathy.
I want him. Yes. But I also want to know him. That’s not always the case. For example, Armstrong and I talk, but not about anything personal. I don’t really know him except he’s a great actor and fantastic in bed.
But Drac is different. I want to know where he comes from. I want to know why he decided to sign on. Why he’s here when he stays away from people. This is a movie. An adult movie in many of its scenes. And he has not played up to that. It’s damned unusual. But I am not going to say that to him.
Drac sits in the black chair, leaning with his arms resting on the armrests and his legs stretched, ankles crossed. It is as if he has made that chair his throne. He owns it. Like he does this scene.
I can imagine the audience grinning. Upping Drac’s rank.
“I am quite up to date in all my duties,” Drac begins.
But not up to date on the mingling. Not the drama, and definitely not any sort of sex that I am aware of, soap opera or other. The rumors of him and Danielle are suggestive only. I’ve looked at the tapes.
“All of them?”
The edge of his mouth quirks up. “And what duty have I not yet accomplished, Captain?”
The statement should sound filthy. But in his voice and tone, again, it is almost accusatory.
The script calls for sex in my office during meetings. All the time. There can be exceptions which I can manipulate as the captain, but Drac doesn’t know that.
“I have to wonder.”
“What is that?” he asks.
“If you like anything you see aboard this ship.”
He shrugs but his eyes dart away. Only for a second, but the cameras will catch it. They miss nothing. And that gesture will be multiplied by big screens and fancy lighting back home.
“I like plenty that I see,” Drac says, gaze full on me now.
I nod. I don’t want to be cheesy or overt. I want this to look natural. But it’s damn hard because Drac is not forthcoming. He’s an ass. It makes me want him even more.
He’s a challenge and it seems real. I like it.
My pulse revs up. My cock twitches. He is just my type. Strong. Exuding power even though he’s a newbie and probably far younger than I.
John Luke gave off this sort of vibe. But he was the captain. Now I am the captain. It should be all turned around. It has been for years. I have my crew flock to me. Want me. Need me.
But I want Drac. It feels as if he’s in charge. I need him. I hadn’t realized, until meeting him, being on board ship with him this past week, how much I missed this dynamic. I’d closed myself off to it after John Luke. It has been forever. But now my skin tingles. My blood heats.
“Where are you from, Drac?”
“You already know. My file—“
“I like to hear it face to face,” I interrupt. In truth, I only scan the files. I like to get to know my crew and my lovers through live, hands on experience. A digital checklist speaks facts but not necessarily truth. By that I mean personality, heart, and mind. How a person laughs or smiles, kisses or comes in your arms cannot be reduced to an organized processing of words and symbols through a computer program.
Maybe Drac’s favorite color is yellow, but what shade of yellow? Light gold like the stars through a shaded visor? Or dark yellow like daffodils in spring? He may have muscles measured to the inch in his bio, but it says nothing of their tone, how hard they may feel, how soft the skin. Or how that skin might blush darker, pinker under the right touch, the cleverest of stimulation. The files never state how a person can smell of fresh rain, or cut grass, or if their semen tastes like the sea. It says nothing about how they kiss, if it’s sloppy and slobbery, or cool and clean and deep.
Drac is succinct. “I grew up in San Diego. But I was born in Greece.”
This explains his Greek god looks. Well, that and perhaps a bit of surgical intervention.
“Were you and your sister close?”
He tilts his head. A sign of secrets, or is he affronted? I can’t tell.
“Danielle is ten years older and helped raise me.”
“Ah, the big sister.”
“Yes.”
“Sounds nice. She probably protected you. If anyone was mean to you, she’d take them down.”
“Are not all older siblings protective of the younger ones?” he asks.
“I would like to hope so.”
“Did she help you get this job?”
“In a manner of speaking. But I got it on my own merits as well.”
More hints he is not who he appears. Or is that my overactive imagination combined with the rumor mill?
“What merits?”
“It’s all in your file.”
“I like to hear what you think.”
His beautiful chest heaves. He takes a deep breath. “I passed all the tests. Physical. Psych. Even I.Q. Not too smart, not too dumb.”
And just the right amount of pretty. But he doesn’t need to say it since the surgeons can fix anything in that area that fails to pass muster in a matter of days.
“Social?”
“Are you questioning my stats on that test?”
Honestly, I haven’t looked. I should have. But I scanned all the files before boarding, before I knew what a hermit he was.
Now I wonder. He makes even this conversation difficult. It’s not the way of our missions, or in any of the scripts I’ve ever seen. By now we should be kissing, grop
ing. Hungry-eyed for each other.
And I am hungry. But it feels more desperate than usual, like if I mess this up I’ll be crying. I’ll be out. John Luke did a number on me, but I thought I was over it. It’s been so many years.
“Hobbies?” I ask to keep the chat going.
“Like you with your poetry?”
I nod. My eyes flick to the gold coin on the floor. “And sometimes magic.”
At that, his eyebrows go up. “There’s no such thing as magic.”
I laugh. It feels good, loosens me up a little. “No such thing as magicians? Magic tricks?”
“Oh, I thought you meant…” He trails off, his lips pressing tight.
New. Young. Naïve.
I get up from my chair and bend over to pick up the coin. I go to the front of my desk and lean against it, closer to him. He has a noir scent, spice and vanilla. My blood surges. I want to taste him.
Instead, I take the coin and dribble it over the tops of my fingers. Faster and faster.
He says, “Do you juggle, too?”
I laugh again. “Apples. Oranges. Knives.” I pause. “Balls. People.”
He laughs now. I ease closer to him. I flip the coin toward him. He reaches up to catch it, misses. It clatters and jingles to the bare deck and lands silent and soft on the black rug that runs along the viewport.
His gaze follows the coin. He does not move.
I watch him carefully. “I can teach you.”
He glances at me, then back to the coin. His thick, dark lashes make shadows on his cheeks.
He swallows. “I might—uh—like that.” His voice has softened. It creates a tremble inside me.
I move to grab the coin up, then approach him. All business of course. I show him slowly how I balance the coin, how I flip it using the spaces of my fingers, how the muscles know how to grab and pull and push all at once with years of practice.
“You won’t get it right first try.” I place the coin in his hand.
“I know.” He is looking down. He moves the coin where I tell him. He follows my instructions. It falls several times. I touch his hand. He lets me manipulate his fingers. He is warm and vibrant and alive. He gives off an energy my body can’t help but crave.
After about a dozen tries, he manages to flip it once.
“Practice,” I say. “You can keep that.”
It’s my lucky coin. I am never without it. My impulse to give it to him is odd. But not. If it really is lucky, the object of my affections should have it.
Drac looks up at me. “This is old. An antique.”
I nod. “It’s okay. I just hope you don’t sell it.”
He shakes his head.
I want to touch his hair. So badly. Or his cheek.
For what seems like a long minute but is probably only seconds, we are close, our breaths synchronized. Poems of longing demand to be written. But later.
Damn me for not scrutinizing his file harder. But what would it tell me? I already know. This is his first mission.
And then I realize he’s never filmed before. Or maybe he has, but not the types of vids we’re doing. I don’t remember his file showing a list of his roles in other vids. Or holos. He’s not a seasoned actor.
A virgin?
Certainly not sexually, but as a performer. As a space dude on a ship of porn stars. And I remember again my first times with Tobi and that nervous trip to the Moon.
Softly, “Have dinner with me.”
Wait. We don’t normally date out here in the stars.
Well, I’m doing it now.
Drac says, “Why?”
I frown. “I like talking to you. Bring the coin. Practice. Show me if you can get two flips without dropping it.”
“Dinner is two hours from now.”
“Then you better practice hard. I want to see improvement.” But I’m joking. Grinning. I start to reach out to give him a little shoulder push. I hesitate and don’t touch.
Drac slides out of the chair, his leather slipping against the plush material, and avoids my gesture. He gives me a nod without meeting my eyes.
He heads for the door and I admire his backside, the dimples, the upper part of his crack revealed by the back “V” of the trousers.
Gods. My cock actually hardens.
The door opens and he exits into the corridor, his fist bunched tight around the gold coin.
It’s a start.
Chapter Five
After Drac leaves, I speak to my computer. “Bring up Drac’s files.”
“Done.” It speaks in a sweet female voice.
Still standing by the front of my desk, I turn to look out the viewport. Sapphire. Amethyst. Swirls of space. I do not go back to my desk. I do not look at Drac’s files. They won’t help me get to know him.
Of course I could dig deeper than those files. I could initiate Earth background checks. I could network with PTB computer systems.
But I don’t. I won’t. I want to know him as he is now. Maybe it’s a role he’s playing, but I still want it. Him.
I leave my office and go to the bridge.
I sit for a while with my tablet. Stray words come, but nothing solid. Nothing more than fragments of sentences.
My poetry is published, but I’m not great. People like it because I wrote it in space. Because I’m already a celebrity as Captain Stirling Kane of the Lacrosse.
I tap on the screen: Space, like an infinite dark wine… a glass of shadows… salted with stars…
Nothing to send home to my editor. Nothing about Drac because words fail me. Longing poems are cliché. Love poems worse, although my agent says they would sell even better than my space poems. But somehow they’re too personal. I fill notebooks with them just for me. About the very thing I’m missing. Tension. Cravings. Obsession. Wanting to know someone so well it is like a merging where you finish each other’s sentences, where you can’t always tell where one leaves off and the other begins. Shiny dark hair. Messy blond. Interweaving.
Yes, sometimes I do write poems like that and keep them to myself.
I toss my tablet aside, tempted to delete everything I’ve just put down.
The usual shallow thoughts return. Not a captain’s thoughts. Just the old me. Weldon Philbert from long ago so thrilled to be included with the cool crowd, an actor shooting through the void.
I wonder what I should wear to dinner. This is my first date in years.
*
The mess hall is busy. There is no privacy. I do my best to ignore the comings and goings of my crew, their loud, half-drunken conversations, and set up plates and wine glasses. I find a nice white wine in the galley stores. I’m heating up pre-made fettuccini with Alfredo sauce.
Armstrong and Hunter come into the galley section and comment on my set up. Smirk and laugh a little.
“Jealousy does not become you,” I say.
They link arms and leave together for more comfortable settings to do dirty deeds.
I sit and wait. And wait.
Drac does not show.
I wait half an hour before heading for his quarters and buzzing to be let in.
No answer.
I hit the bypass. I am the captain. I can do that. What if it’s an emergency?
The door opens. I see Drac at his desk hunched forward, fingers flying over his keyboard. Voice low and rumbling some command.
He jerks as the door opens, glancing up. “Captain—“
“I’ve been waiting.” I make a pose at the threshold of the door. It should frame me nicely for the holo-vids.
I had decided to wear my black coat lined in purple satin. It even has tails. I wear no shirt underneath, and tight black pants. It’s becoming. But while I do things like pose in fancy garments without effort, on auto-pilot so to speak, I’m not exactly playing around here. I’ll admit to some emotion in play.
Drac frowns. “The time is only—“ He looks at his screen, then up again. “I didn’t notice. I didn’t forget.”
“I am never st
ood up.”
He gets to his feet. “No. I’m sure you never are.” He has not changed for our date, but that’s okay. I’m becoming obsessed with those leather trousers. And that multi-sunset-hued vest.
Drac pushes his hand through his perfect hair, tangling it, making part of it stick out at the side. It’s endearing. And frustrating.
“I am hungry,” he says.
Well, I never expected him to be a romantic.
“Good. I’ve got food heating. And wine.” I turn and start to walk down the corridor. I hear him following me, his footfalls rapid and light since he is barefoot.
We enter the mess. It’s empty, thank the gods. I had lit a cheap candle and it’s guttering, having burnt itself to a white, waxy nubbin.
“Smells good,” he says.
I can’t really smell the dinner, but I can smell the burning candle which overpowers the room. I want to turn to him and give him a light slug. It’s not violence he’s driven me to. I just want to get him to wake up a little.
“Yeah, burnt candle for dinner,” I reply.
“Oh.” He sits. Of course he takes the chair I had intended for myself.
I lean over him and pour our wine. The goblets reflect the bulkhead lighting, low-energy blue and white mixing with the gold of the wine itself splashing up the sides of the glass.
I go to the galley which is an open room right off the mess hall, and serve up two plates of fettuccini. It does look and smell good.
I bring the food to the table with a small basket of warm garlic bread.
Garlic is not supposed to be a date thing, but I like it. I don’t care. And I know Drac has no clue about the etiquette of wining and dining someone.
Drac is at the head of the long table. I sit to his left.
“Parmesan?” I ask.
“No, thank you.”
I don’t take it, either. The sauce is rich enough. I mean, I work out. I don’t have to watch my weight anymore since I changed from Weldon to Stirling. But my stomach is older now. I don’t like the heaviness of too much rich food in large portions.
Drac takes a bite. “Very good,” he comments.
Not Another Hero Page 3
