Hotter on the Edge

by Erin Kellison

  She put the bone down. Tapped the textlet to save her place and hibernate. Looked him in the eyes, which meant danger.

  Simon backed away; this was a bad idea.

  "Tell me what happened." Her mouth pressed into a line, as if something tasted bad. "My father says you led a crew into the mines and had them work without safeties so that you could make a fortune at the cost of their lives."

  Father says…without safeties…their lives…

  He'd known this was coming, but his gut still burned as if someone had just ripped off a bandage from an unhealed, festering wound. Every nerve screamed. He couldn't breathe.

  Small hands came to rest on both sides of his head. A soft body pressed against his. A mouth moved against his jaw. Mica. Peace. Comfort. He didn't deserve it.

  So he took her by the arms and pushed her away. "That's the gist, all right."

  Why was he in her room again? He couldn't seem to separate the before-time from the present. And in the present, he couldn't have her. He couldn't have had her back then, either, but he hadn't known it.

  "In your own words, please." She'd left an arm up, as if to reach out to him. Maybe she was having the same kind of time trouble, too. She didn't seem to understand the murder part.

  "Our stake system." He'd applied and earned the right to mine on his own time, and then sell his product independently. Made sense to sell to Sol, so as not to incur the taxes and export charges. Fine. Except Sol support and mine safeties—drones to test for cave-ins and gases, as well as quickmeds to preserve life—ate a percentage of his profits. A flat fee he could have stomached. But a percentage of the crude from pegmatites versus books of the red was wildly different.

  "I found red. A cache of what had to be a thousand books." For a second, the wonder of the moment smacked him again and made his wound ache all the more.

  "You found red. You mean solyite?"

  He nodded, sick. It was native to Sol, only Sol, and had thermal properties far beyond that mined on Earth, long tapped out, the Reedy moons, and the Schist asteroid belt. Red was needed in the worm ships that traveled to distant galaxies. Red was wealth.

  "Not long before you left."

  It meant a fortune. It meant that he could make real pax for once. It meant that he could do as her father had charged him to do: Earn her. Work to match her. Make his fortune. If he wanted her so badly, Drum Sol had said it was possible.

  So Simon had told her go to Encantada. Go! Fly away! When she got back, he would ask her to marry him. He'd put a Triskian jewel on her finger, and never let her go. He'd be a hero, like one of her terraforming god scientists. He'd have some power of the universe too. A red god. He'd be happy.

  "And you mined without safeties because ..." She wasn't asking him, she was figuring it out for herself, nodding all the while. "…you didn't want my father involved. You knew he would find a way to take your stake from you. That he wouldn't leave such a precious resource in your hands."

  He paced her office, which, with her clutter, allowed him only three good steps. "No, much worse. I just didn't want to give him a percentage." He squeezed his eyes shut at the madness of it. "I had two partners. Equal shares. We decided to do it the old way, in the dark." How gods were born.

  Her expression went circumspect, a little remote. "But because you're a foreman—"

  "—was a foreman," he corrected.

  "The lives were your responsibility," she said.

  "Yes."

  "And there was an accident."

  "A cave-in." He could still smell the dust, hear its clamor, slide, and soft rain. It was a bitter reminder that he and his friends were mortal and subject to the whims of fate. That he was made of the dirt that he mined, making it impossible to reach higher.

  "And they died."

  "Yes." Short words were much easier than full explanations.

  "Your cache?"

  "Confiscated," he said. An injustice, that. The men's families should've been able to have the worth of it, at the very least. Or had a representative appointed to sell the red mica on their behalf. But the two men had been listed as his "crew"—and so weren't entitled to anything in their own right. It was that word, "crew" that had damned him. Because no matter how much he professed that they were partners, they had been granted no stake of their own.

  "And for your hubris, my father exiled you from Sol City."

  Hubris, yes. Love-struck stupidity, more like.

  "He never would've let me have you." Simon shook his head. The heir to Sol wed to a dirty miner. How could he have even hoped? What was he doing in her bedroom now?

  She shook her head back in agreement. "No, he wouldn't." Plus, the shareholders wouldn't have allowed it either. Corp families might have the freedom of wealth, but personal matters, like marriages and alliances with other corps, were negotiated by the Sol shareholders. Her father had bought her dream to get her out of her romance with Simon. To kill the incipient love affair with time and distance. Six years ought to have done it. She'd come home a year too early.

  Mica wondered what Simon was up to now. "Why did you need my dragon flyer?"

  The Sols wanted everything, even Mica. Well, here was the last of his story: "I planned to take my share back. See that my partners' families got their cut."

  A dark deal for a boom cannon. A flyer. He'd already had Mica's override codes for the palace.

  Her mouth curled down, a telltale sign that she didn't understand.

  Fine. He'd be explicit.

  "Your sister's dowry, in all its gaudy glory, should call me and your family quits."

  She reared back slightly, blinking, as if struck. Her hand went to her chest. A small cough cleared her throat. All delicate movements of understanding.

  But then she smiled brightly, too brightly—it hurt him. He was sure she meant it to. This wasn't the smile he'd wanted tonight. He wanted the old Mica, who would have raged at him. Instead, he got the new and impenetrable one.

  "Then by all means " —she gestured toward the plaza where the pile awaited—"with my blessing, take it."

  That smile, her "blessing," scorched him as if he'd been enveloped in a monstrous flick of a solar flare. Damn her. Mica didn't just glitter; she burned, and he was on fire.

  He had her permission—how galling—to take what he'd earned. But that wasn't what he really wanted. Not remotely. His life had been ruled by the glittery stuff. He'd broken his back and his heart in those mines; and yet it was where he still belonged. The industrial grit was ground into his skin so that he was as rough as sandpaper, inside and out. Did she actually think he wanted a pile of his own?

  No. He wanted to bridge the vast gulf between them—like the dirt of this world to the sun that fed it. That distance required more than just a valuable mineral, like the red. No amount of pax from that source would give him peace. He needed options to span the near-galactic distance. He'd made the most of the single chance he'd been given, and it had cost far more than mica—even red mica—was worth.

  If he was going to steal something back, he'd take the sun itself, which he'd seen precious little of over the course of his life. And the fastest way to bridge the distance between earth and Sol was to take two steps and claim her for his own.

  ***

  Mica drew half a breath before he was on her, an arm to circle her shoulders and arch her back, a broad hand at her hip to pin her to him. His hard mouth crushed down on hers and possessed her so completely that her awareness suddenly narrowed to him, just him alone—the heat of his body, the pounding of his heart, the scratch of his two-day beard, and something else that was Simon, an indescribable force, that swept through her like a hot monsoon wind, and left her nerve endings crackling. A sharp, dark beat of want and wetness struck the bell at her core.

  Yes. This. She gripped him back. Opened her mouth wide to take as much of him as she could in a wordless cry of please and yes and yours. Because it had been so from the first time they'd met. They just hadn't been ready and so they'
d deliberately ruined what they'd had—she leaving Sol to satisfy her mind and become independent and he for some wild ambition to match her wealth.

  With his miner's strength, he hauled her up against the shelves. The specimens of bone rattled on impact; a case fell at their feet, but she couldn't recollect what it held—not with his angry lust blacking her mind. His mouth broke with hers to scrape her neck. She gulped air and arched against him. Through her silk bodice he found the peak of her breast and worked his tongue against the fabric, while his other hand crept up to the neck, and tore the upper material entirely away. Uncovered, she felt warmer—hot, hotter—in the rasping grip of his mouth and hands. And all she could do was scratch yes at his shoulders, a shock of his hair grasped tight in one palm, and shudder with pleasure.

  Something hit her shoulder and ricocheted of his temple—another bone from her collection dislodged from its stand. His mouth stopped working and his heavy gaze lifted to hers. There was very little man left within his eyes—she knew a beast when she saw it, knew short simple words worked best, most often to tame or quiet an impending attack. But in this case—

  "More," she breathed.

  He grasped her around her waist and lifted her to the top of the desk. The textlet fell to the floor, but a book—a precious artifact from the old world—he carefully moved out of reach. He'd always protected the things she loved.

  She spread her legs, her swish skirts rising. His hands delved inside to drag her undersilk from her hips. She thrummed with want. It'd been too long, so long. She was breaking inside. She needed all her hard-earned endurance to wait the split second it took for him to shed his pants, his cock springing upward. Every bit of her that he'd touched—mouth, neck, breasts, and thighs—was caught in an extended throb. When he nudged just there—gods!—she tightened to come. His chest and neck were flushed with restraint, his gaze black with intent. And when he sheathed himself within, she seized around him, swollen, hot, her core rocking with an edgy, almost painful release that wouldn't stop, because he hadn't. So the shudders went on, wringing five years of disappointment from her body as he filled her up with himself again and again, until she was weak and clinging to his neck. And then he shuddered and crushed her to him. Finally, she felt like her old and new selves were finally united.

  ***

  When the bright spots dimmed from his vision, Simon pulled out, blinked hard, and then lifted her to him, shredding the rest of her dress. He wasn't letting her go. Couldn't. After all this time. He wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

  He knew her apartment—it hadn't changed in her absence—and stalked to the bedroom. He set her on the bed and in one motion dragged the curtain around so that they were in a null space of sensation, neither hers nor his, just darkness and breath—delicate tools to hold this fragile new thing between them.

  His hands were too clumsy, too rough, though they remembered the landscape of her body, lingering on the new scars at her side and promising himself that he'd keep her from further harm. He was an expert at mining in dark, deep, closed places for jewels. But this Mica answered him back stroke for stroke, rise for rise. It was an exploration of reaching, twining, colliding—both careful and violent at the same time. He knew he was an interloper in her world, and that world would seek to eject him.

  But he also discovered that he couldn't steal what was freely given. The sun he'd sought to snatch from the sky was already and always his.

  Consort. He could be that. And the rest could go to hell.

  ***

  Mica reclined in Simon's arms, her back to his chest, his legs stretched out on either side of her—perfect to rest her arms. He held her fast to him, an arm around her waist. He said nothing, but she could feel how his heart still pounded.

  They fit; this was right. Always was. There was trouble behind and before them, yet their coming together felt easy—her courage high. Was the small universe of her darkened bed enough for them? She wouldn't fool herself. Not for a man like Simon, who thrived on work. And not for her, either—she wanted a full partner.

  But for the time being, they'd just have to do what they could with what they had at hand. Seize opportunities as they presented themselves. She had to make her will known to her father and those who sat behind him. She wouldn't compromise her heart ever again. She'd acquired the endurance she'd need for the fight during those years on Encantada.

  She laced her fingers through his. "I meant what I said."

  His arm tightened, and she was drawn even closer to him.

  "About the mica in the plaza," she clarified.

  A growl rolled around his chest; she loved the feel of the vibration in hers.

  "I'm not going to take Pilar's dowry," he said. His dark tone suggested that he'd never even think of doing such a thing. Now that was her Simon. Hello, old friend and busy lover.

  Nevertheless, she was serious. "The mica is for show. Hakan is getting a comm transfer of funds after all the contracts are signed between the shareholders."

  "Still," he said. "Taking the mica doesn't solve anything. The other men's families would probably be charged when the funds were deposited." A pause. She felt a subtle hitch for breath. "I don't know how I could've ever thought it would work. I was angry. And wanted to impact your family in some way."

  "You've, ummm, impacted me." She stretched a little to let him know that the impact was a good thing. "But I don't like that your partners' families were cheated. And the unfortunate truth is that the legality of the stake isn't on their side. Or yours." She sighed. "I want to do something about it, make this right. There is no way my father will give up the funds himself. We have to take it back. So if you will kindly appropriate—in a stealthy manner—the mica in the palace plaza and see to it that the proceeds from its black market sale are distributed accordingly, I would be most appreciative. I'll take care of my father so that the other families aren't implicated."

  "I can't believe you're saying this." He shifted his position to get around her—her back suddenly felt cold and vulnerable without him. He touched her chin, and she turned her head. His gaze sought something in her eyes.

  She made sure they twinkled, and she added a grin for good measure. "Do you or don't you have a dastardly plan to make away with that fortune?"

  His mouth pulled into a wry line. "I did."

  "Can you still pull it off?" And, please, without getting killed.

  A shrug. "I'd have to find Otis and Jace."

  "Worthy fellows. Please don't tell me what crimes they committed to be exiled from Sol City." Especially trigger-happy Jace.

  "That would probably be best." A sardonic lift to an eyebrow, but his eyes were still haunted. "What about you?"

  He didn't care about himself. Well, she'd take care of both of them. "Not to worry. Drum Sol won't allow any family scandal to get out. Scandal implies weakness, which is bad for business." Her father would take action, but she had a plan for when that happened.

  Darkness still lurked in his eyes. "I don't want any for myself. Even before, when I shot you down, I just wanted enough pax to get off the planet."

  Her chest tightened with an echo of the sadness she would've felt if she'd come back to Sol, only to discover that he'd left. "Where would you have gone?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. I had a fantasy of crash-landing on Encantada."

  Her chest tightened a little more. She covered her flash of tears with a bit of trivia. "Did you know there's a feral Encantan beast named after me?"

  His gaze sharpened and he chuckled, a real sound, from his gut. "I'm not surprised."

  "Then you'll do it?"

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Yeah, I will. Tomorrow, during the wedding ceremony."

  She had to say it. "Please don't get hurt." Visions of Sol guards firing on him—his collapse in the plaza, body flung over her namesake—sprang out of her imagination.

  "Hmmm"—another low rumble from his chest. "Not to worry. I haven't felt this good in a long time."
<
br />   He took her by the waist, lifted, repositioned her carefully, but firmly, on his lap—two becoming one, unique to the universe, and humming with the synergy of creation. She had the fleeting thought that their mirrored legs resembled that of the Solian katy-crab; she thought to tell him so and make him laugh again, while her heart was still gripped with worry. But then he started to rock, stroking deep inside her. The edges of the world softened, the sensation of her skin transformed, his hands rough, her response velvet, and then she couldn't think at all.

  Chapter Six

  The Tank was a whorehouse that stood two stories over Schistown, where Simon grew up. But to get to it he had to walk the lanes where the miners lived—the people he'd failed. He kept his gaze level, though he burned with shame.

  The houses were prefab, identical low units once painted blue, now gone gray, with a window to the left of each door, some equipped with a long, narrow box that attached underneath. An old image on the comms showed flowers planted inside, but now most boxes were gone, broken, or missing. The units were snugged close together to pack the most in.

  He kept his stride long, but even, to get through the lanes quickly. Men ducked out into the oxy-filtered air at his passing. The rowdy kids playing games in the dirt quieted. But it was the women whom he feared—two in particular. Accidents happened, but they had been unnecessarily cheated and robbed of their loved ones because of him.

  He didn't belong here anymore.

  As a child, he hadn't belonged to any of the little houses either—or none had claimed him. But they'd fed him from their rations, and the women kept him louse free, and cleaned his clothes and hurts, and scolded him when he got in street fights. He'd gotten in lots of those, and he'd had a hundred mothers. And when he was thirteen, or thereabouts, old Harrod had taken him to the mines, and with flat eyes that brooked no argument told the foreman on shift that Simon was sixteen to the day and ready for work.