“He’s as good as Seth,” I agreed, “why wouldn’t we want him? Or her?”
“Unless he’s fugly or something,” Zane amended, “he’s hired.
“Whoever he is, he’s good,” Jesse said mildly. He’d been mild about this whole process, reserving his enthusiasm. Maybe because he was our lead guitarist, Jesse had been the hardest one to win over through all of this.
But this guy—or girl—was good.
Better than good.
Dylan still had his jaw on the floor, so I gave him a jab. “Pick it up, baby, you’re drawing flies.”
“Say something!” Zane produced a drumstick out of nowhere and threw it at him.
Dylan caught the drumstick without even looking. He shut his mouth, slowly. Then he said, “Think I’m having a ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia’ moment.”
Zane whooped with laughter, elated.
“You have any questions for our mystery guitarist?” Liv prompted us. She was holding a mic of her own. She hadn’t appeared on-camera, but she spoke to us sometimes, prompting our conversations. “You know he can hear you right now.”
“Yeah,” Zane growled into his mic, addressing the guitarist. “Dylan wants to know if you sold your soul to the devil, or what?”
“Not that I recall,” a male voice said.
And we all went still.
Because we all knew that voice.
I knew, when I looked around at my band, that we all recognized it. We all heard him.
Liv gave the cue for the screen to move, and as it slid aside, we all saw him, too.
Seth Brothers.
My heart skipped a beat.
Get Dirty Like Seth
Sneak Peek: DEEP
Feeling a book hangover coming on?
Try out the white-hot DEEP series!
DEEP (DEEP #1)
The more lines they cross, the deeper they get…
Top cadet Lana Marsden lives by the rules. The most important rule of all: no messing around with an officer.
She learned that one the hard way.
Now her only desire is to survive the grueling DEEP Training program and leave that scandalous past behind.
When she reports to Station Six amid wild rumors of erotic hazing rituals and sadomasochistic games, she’s not prepared for any of the rumors to be true—or for her insatiable attraction to Sergeant “Catch” Durant, her tattooed rebel of a trainer.
One touch from Catch, and Lana knows she’s in trouble. One night of white-hot ecstasy, and the rules melt away...
A cadet with a secret.
An officer with a secret kink.
A whole lot of rules to be broken.
DEEP
CHAPTER ONE
“Nice ass.”
Lana glances over her shoulder. The cadet walking behind her flashes a charming if not predatory smile, a mouthful of straight white teeth. Trust me, that smile says, I know what I’m talking about. Military poster boy, the kind accustomed to panties raining at his feet back home. Not exactly Lana’s type, but her cheeks heat as she turns away.
It’s the bodysuit. The stretchy, breathable fabric, fitted from the neck to wrists and ankles, clinging to every curve, the long zipper from throat to navel promising easy access. Lana knows it looks good on her, the sheen of the navy blue, a color that brings out her blue eyes. All trainees wear blue, even the officers going through the program, to differentiate them from the corpsmen and the officers on duty who wear black; the same black Lana will wear in only three months’ time if she doesn’t fuck this up.
This morning in her cube, the tiny dorm room she’s shared with three other women for the last eight weeks, she was elated to put the bodysuit on for the first time. Once she stepped out into the corridors of the ship, once she was among the men, she lost her equilibrium, just like the first time she took a simulated spacewalk and almost puked. She felt their eyes on her, on the suit, and had a hard time forcing down her breakfast. Now as she makes her way through Transport Bay, where one hundred and thirty-six identically dressed trainees await disembarkment, she can’t help wondering if the skin-tight bodysuit and the gazes roaming her figure from every direction are just the first tastes of the many tortures awaiting her at Station Six.
But no, rumors aren’t always true. If anyone knows this, it’s Lana.
She hefts the heavy rucksack containing everything she owns in the universe onto her shoulder, striving to make this look easier than it is—a fundamental skill in the International Space Corps—and works her way through the crowd toward a group of familiar faces. According to the ISC’s Fraternization Policy, friendship across ranks is a slippery slope into full-on “Prohibited Relations.” Rangers flank the many portal doors of the bay, surveying the assembled trainees; it’s wise to stick to your own kind, especially when you’ve got an audience bearing arms. A steady, silent breed, those Rangers, solid and impassive, their black uniforms lined with sculpted armor. There’s something undeniably hot, in a primal sort of way, about well-built men in uniform, armed and trained to protect. Lana wonders—not for the first time—how in the universe Rangers have sex, if no one’s supposed to touch them.
Focus, Marsden.
She sets her rucksack down next to the group of young women, among them, one of her roommates, Matthews. Next to Matthews, a pretty cadet with short black hair and catlike eyes sizes Lana up.
“How goes it?” Matthews sweeps a hand through her loose blonde hair. In transport, some of the rules about grooming have been disregarded, but you’d be stupid, or ballsy, to step foot on Station Six with your hair in your face—and ballsy Matthews is not.
“Hey.” Lana notes that most of the women have swept their hair back into a knot or a sleek ponytail, like hers, and all of the men have finally shaved. She considers pointing this out to Matthews, just as that deep clank-and-rumble resounds through the hull of the ship. Too late; the shuttle is docking.
“I hope you girls’ve got a lotta lube packed in those rucks,” says Cat Eyes, “because you are gonna get fucked.”
Matthews’ eyes widen, but Lana does her best to look unconcerned. She heard the rumors about Station Six during transport, just like everyone else did; the same rumors she heard at Station One when she received her reassignment—rumors about the debauchery on Six.
It all happened so fast, the last minute change, a redistribution of the trainees and her reassignment from the training program at Station Seven to the one at Six—the station where her brother, Adam, has been a trainer for the last year. Of course, Adam never mentioned kinky sex or erotic hazing rituals to her, but why would he? He never expected his little sister to show up at his station. And when she asked him about it on their last com, right before she boarded the shuttle, his answer was vague and superior. Don’t believe everything you hear, Lana.
“I hear they have some serious hazing going on,” Matthews concurs, hushing her voice for effect. “A friend of mine in Basic said her sister went through Six four years ago and she had to suck six guys’ cocks at once and they had a circle jerk around her. So disgusting.” The other cadets make little sounds of horror and revulsion, but Lana’s already heard this particular story about a thousand times in the last eight weeks. Matthews flips her hair at her captive audience and narrows her eyes at Lana. “You’d better be prepared, Marsden.”
How exactly one is to prepare for a six-man circle jerk, Lana’s not sure, but she’s not surprised Matthews doesn’t offer any tips. If Lana’s assigned to room with the mouthy blonde again on Six, she might just have to quit the Corps right there and let the shuttle haul her back to solid ground; twenty-one months of training out the window. In the meantime Lana doesn’t waste her breath. Who’s to say her friend’s sister didn’t enjoy blowing six guys at once? Hell, maybe it was her idea.
Or maybe there’s no sex on Six at all. Wouldn’t that be even crueler? Get all the trainees primed up during transport, plant salacious rumors that are bound to spread, and when they disembark subject the
m to three long months of celibacy on a remote space station loaded with officers in uniform. Turn off the viz and bind their hands at night so they can’t even masturbate. Bind their hands when they shower, assign a bunch of petty officers to wash them down…
“I’ve heard the same thing,” says Cat Eyes, a condescending smile on her lips. “I hear they rape you if you don’t perform well. I bet they just love to do it to pretty white girls with lovely long hair.” Her voice drips with mock flattery, her dark gaze raking over Lana.
“All I’m saying is no one better try to rape me,” Matthews says, as if the threat was directed at her. “Any prick who tries has it coming.”
Lana turns toward the portal doors, weary of the conversation; sometimes the women in the Corps are worse than the men with all the bravado. The redhead in front of her swivels around and raises a sharp eyebrow at Matthews. She has a pretty, heart-shaped face and wears a corpsman’s insignia above her ample chest. Lana’s seen her around; not really the kind of woman you forget. Sat next to her at breakfast this morning, but didn’t attempt conversation—Frat Policy and all. Her call sign, Scarlet, has been stitched into the ISC badge below her insignia.
“Don’t be ridiculous. No one’s getting raped.” Scarlet’s green-eyed gaze flicks to Lana. “Don’t listen to them, sweetheart. They have no idea what they’re talking about.” She turns to face the portal doors, shoulders back, and tosses her head, reddish curls bouncing. She hasn’t pinned her hair up. Though she’s about the same height as Lana, she seems taller.
“Aren’t you nervous?” Lana whispers.
“Of course.” Scarlet gives Lana a sly look over her shoulder. “That’s just part of the fun.” She winks effortlessly—Lana has never been able to pull off a wink like that—and stands at attention as a departure officer assumes her place in front of the nearest portal, computer tablet in hand. Other officers file into place, ready to call the roll.
The multi-layered portal doors slide open, revealing the small airlock chambers that will whisk the trainees up into the Transport Level of Station Six. Lana watches as trainees are sorted into the lighted chambers, five at a time, her heart drumming an anxious rhythm as she listens for her name.
Scarlet steps forward—Lana doesn’t even catch her real name when it’s called among the flurry of others—and takes her place in one of the chambers. She gives Lana another wink and a mischievous grin as the doors shut.
When Lana’s name is called by one of the officers, he tells her, “Echo Unit,” with a too-familiar sidelong glance. Before she can figure out if that look, prompted by her last name, was triggered by her brother’s infamy or worse—her own—she’s herded into a chamber. The bright white light pools over her and the four other trainees inside. The triple doors slide shut, one over the other, and as the floor begins to rise, Lana’s stomach sinks.
This is it.
Once she sets foot on Station Six, she’s officially in. Technically, training begins tomorrow, but everyone knows evaluation begins the second you breathe Six’s air. From that moment on, there will be no way out of the DEEP Training program but to drop out or to be dropped, take the long shuttle ride back to Corps Central and face the training board a failure. Have that excruciating talk with her parents over the com, the one in which her mother tells her with utmost sincerity, It’s perfectly fine, Lana. Honestly, we had no expectations.
She stands up straighter, recalling Scarlet’s flawless posture. The other trainees in the chamber stir, like restless animals about to be released from a cage. Life on the shuttle is cramped and bloody boring, but Lana knows the taste of freedom on the comparably enormous station will be fleeting. DEEP Training means long, intensive hours slaving away at the mercy of the rigorous program, and in particular, her Commanding Officer—her trainer. Deep Space Extra-Vehicular and Emergency Preparedness is a pass or fail program, and Lana knows her CO will have the ultimate say in whether or not her performance meets the bar, whether or not she achieves her dream of a long-term assignment in deep space. DEEP is the gateway to that dream, and her trainer will hold the key.
Lana has done her research; DEEP has an approximate sixty percent failure rate. Of course, she wouldn’t be here if the Corps didn’t believe she has a real chance, if she didn’t believe she has what it takes to make it. If she didn’t want it down to the marrow of her bones. But making an excellent first impression on her trainer is vital, and it all starts when the chamber doors open.
She takes a deep, steadying breath. The chamber locks into place, the layered doors open—one, two, three—and Lana gets her first glimpse of the organized chaos that is Station Six’s Hub as she and the other trainees stumble into the fray, dispersing in search of their respective units.
The Transport Level of the Hub is a transparent web; Lana drifts along the entry passage, glancing into the various rooms, each one surrounded by clear walls on three sides, the back end open to the passage that loops around the entire level. She glimpses an intake officer in several of the rooms, the black uniforms easy to spot in the sea of blue. Other officers stand above the web in the raised corridor that runs through the center of the Hub, observing the commotion below. Lana wonders if her trainer is up there… her neck is craned so far in that direction, she walks into a wall of muscle.
An unyielding officer with a black cap pulled low over pale green eyes and a firm set to his jaw glances down at her with annoyance.
“Sorry!” she gasps. Nice eyes, though. She takes a step back, managing to glimpse the call sign stitched into his badge. Hilt. And the rank indicated by his insignia. Staff Sergeant.
“Reporting?” he barks. Not a man of unnecessary words.
“Um, Echo Unit? Sir.”
He points over her shoulder into one of the rooms, where a young and very blond male intake officer checks trainees in.
“Thank you, Sir—”
But Hilt has already moved away into the crowd.
Lana makes her way over to the blond’s room, not daring to glance at the raised corridor again. She stands off to the side, watching the intake officer check her unitmates in on a computer tablet, taking the opportunity to get her first look at her peers—her competition. Aside from herself, Echo Unit appears to be all men. Lana waits until every man in the room has either been checked in or dismissed before she approaches the officer herself. She notes his call sign, Score, and his rank, Petty Officer.
He looks her over; a quick inventory, head to feet. “Name?”
“Cadet Lana Marsden, Sir.”
There it is. The narrowing of the eyes, a twitch so slight Lana might have missed it if she wasn’t so used to it. Sometimes it’s an infinitesimal lift of the chin, a slant of the shoulders or a clearing of the throat, but she has rarely encountered an officer in the Corps who doesn’t react at the mention of her family name. Fortunately, her brother has made it something of a legend, his own very public disaster eclipsing the whispers of her own. When a young pilot, first in his class, receives the Silver Cross for heroism only two years out of flight training and later that same year loses his wings, it makes big news on the viz.
She waits for the rest, prepared to murmur the usual Thank you, or Yes, he’s my brother, or We’re proud of him too, or even the very worst, Yes, it really is a shame, as if Adam’s demotion somehow negates everything he accomplished before. But Score just taps something into his tablet and turns the device toward her. A glowing blue dot radiates light from the center of the screen. “Finger,” is all he says.
Lana touches her right index finger to the blue light, allowing the device to scan her in and configure the security data in the tiny chip implanted in her fingertip. When it’s done, Score gives her a glance with just a hint of appreciation in it. Or maybe it’s her imagination… It never fails to take her aback when any officer looks at her with anything beyond the standard aloof courtesy—which, in the Corps, is about as warm and fuzzy as it gets between ranks—even though her best friend, Layla, says that’s naive.
>
But Layla’s not in the Corps, so she doesn’t really understand the chain of command.
“Welcome to Station Six, Cadet Marsden. You can report for clearance.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Score directs her to the center of the Hub, where she gets into a lineup near the steps to the elevator bank. Up front, officers check the contents of each rucksack before granting the trainees access to one of the elevators. Each time an elevator fills, Lana watches it whoosh through the ceiling, lifting the trainees into the higher levels of the station, her stomach surging along with it.
Why this time? She should have been more nervous to leave Earth after Basic Training almost a year ago, to report to Station One. By now she should be used to the rigors of the Corps, the security checks, the men in uniform everywhere she looks, the intimidating air the officers don as effortlessly as their shit-kicking boots. Maybe it’s the rumors worming their way under her skin, but there seems to be a nearly palpable electricity in the air. She watches as the other trainees in line fidget and worry away at the lumps in their throats as they wait for their rucksacks to be searched.
When it’s her turn, she drops her ruck on the table and unzips it for the clearance officer. Thorough, says his badge. Master Sergeant. The highest-ranking officer she’s encountered on Six yet.
“Swipe,” he says without looking at her, delving straight into her ruck.
Lana swipes her finger over the blue light emitting from the tablet on the table. She watches Thorough dig around, counting her clothing items, toiletries and personal effects. Next to the table, a bin holds prohibited items that have already been confiscated—snack bars from the shuttle commissary, a computer tablet, a gold necklace, even a pair of high heels—but she isn’t worried. She’s memorized the trainee manual and packed exactly as allowed. Even so, it’s a little unnerving having a male officer she’s never met before counting her panties—black cotton briefs, precisely to code, and the same as everyone else’s, but still. The longer he digs in her ruck, the more on-edge Lana feels. Is there a problem? She resists the urge to ask. There are officers who bend a little and those who do not, and maybe it’s just his big hands pawing through her ruck, but this one looks like the kind you don’t press.
A Dirty Wedding Night: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 2.5) Page 27
