by Blaze Ward
She leaned back enough to make eye contact.
“Ready?”
Not the least bit, young lady.
But he couldn’t say that out loud. Tough guy, don’t you know.
“Sure.”
“This way,” she said, mostly letting go but grabbing his hand, and leading him back through the door.
The weather was still mild at this latitude, so she took him quickly through the building and out a side door to a long, skinny, dedicated outdoor archery range. Hunting wasn’t big on this planet, apparently, so they had the entire place to themselves.
Lovely.
Vo settled for examining the equipment she had brought.
He hadn’t been sure what to expect. Archery could mean so many things to people, from traditional English Yew all the way to up exotic, tiny compound bows that looked like slingshots turned on their sides.
Today, she had what his instructors had called a Japanese Greatbow, a daikyXXX. It was an asymmetric style, almost a double recurve, shaped vaguely like the letter W, intended to stick up several feet over your head when you fired it, unlike a shorter, more classical version that was just bowed in the middle. And it was expensive, a multi–layer bamboo laminate done in the ancient style. At least it was already strung, so he didn’t have to find a tool to bow it properly.
Vo picked up a bracer sized for a woman with small–around arms. It looked like a toy in his hands, but it would protect her entire forearm when she fired.
He felt like an ogre next to her. More like one than before.
She was suddenly close enough to smell again, though not quite rubbing up against his side, as long as he didn’t move suddenly.
Arlo, you are certified to teach small arms, long arms, explosives, and close combat. You’ve taught female marines all of these things. Pull yourself together.
He couldn’t ever remember a shave–tail marine broadcasting an almost–palpable desire like this. Not for him. One of the pretty boys, sure. Never the thug.
He took a step sideways and turned, holding the bracer out like a tower shield to protect himself from the barbarian hordes.
“Put this on first,” he said firmly.
Drill instructor he could do.
She nearly defeated him by merely holding out her left arm.
“How?”
Shut up and soldier, marine.
Vo turned her arm over carefully and strapped the pseudo–leather in place. Real leather would be stiffer. This was still new–in–box smelling. The finger–straps for her shooting hand were too, but they were obvious in function when he handed them to her.
At least the blouse she was wearing worked to press her chest flat enough to keep her breasts out of the way when she shot. And her hair was back. He wouldn’t have to touch her much.
Have to.
Vo took a breath and pulled several arrows from a bucket at his feet. Brand new black shafts, with red and orange fletching. Laser straight, and not a single scratch on them. He rarely got new ones on the ship, except when he shot the old ones to pieces and then bribed the machine shop to melt them down and cast him new ones.
Might as well start on the ten meter target.
It looked like an elk. At least what the books said an elk looked like. City–boy had never seen one in the wild. The only things he had ever hunted had been on two legs.
Vo pulled the Greatbow from the vertical holder and reached out a hand to pull Phoebe to the firing line.
She had back muscles under that blouse. The kind that weren’t obvious unless you touched them, or saw them. For a moment, he imagined what she looked like without the blouse on, using only his fingers in the dark to see her.
He cleared his throat and concentrated on her feet.
“Turn your hips to the right seventy degrees,” he ordered, falling into his role of marine instructor. “Shift your feet with them, shoulder width apart.”
She came close. He used his own feet to tap hers into the placement he wanted.
It was almost like slow–dancing, her back pressed up against his stomach. Vo took a deep breath and handed her the bow as he stepped back.
“Grab an arrow and rest it on that little shelf,” he continued, pointing from his safe observation post.
Watching her bend over to retrieve an arrow didn’t help his concentration. At least, not to the task at hand.
“The arrow is notched at the rear,” he said. “Place that on the string, just above the little metal ring and hook it on.”
Hopefully, someone had done at least a preliminary job of sighting the bow in. If not, he could probably find the tools to do it himself.
At last, she was ready.
Vo pantomimed the draw and the shot.
“Hold your right arm back, pointed at the target,” he explained. “Keep your left hand loose. You’ll push forward with it, so don’t grip the bow, except to hold it in place.”
She came close. He had to step in and align her stance, a finger here, a palm there.
It was a good thing it was cool out. He was starting to sweat.
“Hold the string with your first two fingers like this,” he showed her. “Take a breath, pull back to your cheek, hold for a single count, and let go. Keep your eyes on the red spot.”
She flexed her shoulders. It went all the way down to her thighs.
Muscles. Nice muscles. Gymnast, perhaps. Maybe swimmer. Certainly not a couch potato.
At ten meters, she didn’t miss the red dot by much. Close enough to kill a squirrel that was stupid enough to sit still for it. Most of them were.
“Now what?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder.
“Again,” he said.
Parade rest felt safe. Navin the Black did that when he was observing technique. Results came from practice.
She bent down for another arrow. Nocked it. Breathed. Fired.
“Again,” he commanded.
Watching her move might be an interesting new hobby, all by itself.
“All of them?” she asked nervously.
“You won’t have any habits yet, marine,” he growled. “We’ll fix the bad ones as they come up.”
“Oh.”
She fired. He watched. Whatever else she was up to, at least she was willing to work.
Ξ
Most of the afternoon had fled. Vo found himself in the lounge, or restaurant, or whatever they called it in a joint like this. He had never been to an Athletic Club before. It felt close enough to country clubs he had read about.
They had eaten a fantastic early dinner, all good cuts of meat and fresh veggies.
Vo kept both hands wrapped tightly around a mug of hot tea as the waiter cleared the table. He wasn’t that cold, but Phoebe had a look like she might want to hold his hand if he put it down.
He was still pretty sure that would be a dumb idea on his part.
Still, the girl had worked her butt off, today. Twenty–four arrows in the bucket. Fire them all. Walk over, pull them out manually, however deep they were driven into the target. Walk back. Fire them again. Repeat ten times.
Even he would be feeling it in the shoulders and kidneys now. Of course, she was using a bow strung to around fifteen kilograms, when his normal draw weight was thirty–six.
But she hadn’t complained once.
What the hell did she want from him that she would suffer that level of work cheerfully and silently? Most of his marines would have been bitching halfway through.
“So now what?” she asked quietly as she put down her glass of iced lemonade.
Indeed, young lady. Now what?
Vo shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. The thin ice was back.
“My recommendation would be a massage,” he said. “Followed by a good hot soak to flush the muscles. Maybe a glass of wine after that. Sleep for twelve hours.”
“Do you do massage?” she asked with a less–than–innocent smile. And a mischievous glitter in those intelligent, green eyes.
Arlo,
when are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut around pretty girls?
“It’s only fair,” she continued slyly, with just that perfect tilt to the head. “You did this to me. You should have to fix it.”
Not the logic he would have traced, but she did have a point. And maybe, just maybe, a little wine would loosen her up to the point she’d give him some clues as to why the sudden interest in the big, brute marine.
And seriously, how often did a pretty girl come on to a guy like him?
Vo nodded, kinda. It would certainly be a better evening than going back to his efficiency apartment and reading biographies of famous Imperial admirals, which had been the original plan.
“I suppose,” he began.
“Great,” she said, immediately standing up with a smile. “Let’s go.”
“Now?”
“Yes, silly,” she glared down at him seriously. “If we wait too long, I won’t be able to move.”
And I might just change my mind on the overall stupidity of the topic.
Arlo understood how the woodchuck in the cartoon felt, right at that moment when the snow gave way and turned everything into an avalanche under her feet. The animators always stretched it out enough to give her a moment to break the fourth wall and say something to the kids watching.
He didn’t have any pithy observations.
Ξ
If the Athletic Club had been money, her flat was class. Vo could only imagine how much it would have cost just to decorate the place. A whole bunch of his paychecks.
He didn’t have a ground transport, so he had been relying on a good bus schedule and a lot of walking to get around. Phoebe had a bright red sportster that seemed to be two seats, four wheels, and a big engine.
At least she drove it like she knew what she was doing.
Her apartment was in a tower in the expensive part of town, with secured parking underneath and doors to code through in three places just to get her floor. She wasn’t in the penthouse, but Vo felt like he could see forever out the big picture window in the living room.
Around him, two big chairs and a side table to the right and a sofa on the left, framing a fireplace that looked real. At least the wood piled to one side was. Expensive pictures on the walls, bric–a–brac on every flat surface, and carpet that felt deep enough to hide large predators.
Other large predators.
He turned around as she came back from the bedroom.
She had changed out of her expensive shooting outfit, and was wearing a fuzzy, gray robe.
He really hoped she was wearing something under it.
“Ready?” she asked with a bright smile.
Vo’s boots were already by the door, and his jacket hung up in a closet. He was probably pretty much trapped at this point.
“Sure,” he agreed, talking himself into this.
It still felt like a bad idea. He kept waiting for her parents or someone to come home and catch them, like that time he and Janny had been necking on the couch.
Nobody did.
She turned and headed back into the bedroom. He followed, understanding how the bull felt on the way to the sacrificial altar.
She was standing beside a giant bed that was covered by a heavy comforter, with a small stuffed tiger tucked in among the throw pillows. At least everything was blues.
He had been unconsciously steeling himself for lots of pink.
“How did you want me?” she asked with an innocence in her voice that never made it to her eyes.
Shut up and soldier, marine.
Vo took a deep breath and considered the logistics of the room.
“Face down on the bed,” he replied. “Without the robe.”
“Okay,” she smiled.
It felt like slow motion, but it wasn’t. He just preferred to remember it at that speed.
Phoebe opened the robe and let it drop at her feet. At least she was wearing a pair of loose, green shorts.
Nothing else. Just the shorts.
And her chest was every bit as impressive as he had imagined.
She turned and stretched out on the bed, her arms up and her wrists crossed under her forehead.
It took Vo a couple of seconds for the static to clear from his brain.
Seriously, what the hell was wrong with him?
He moved to the side of the bed and studied her. Her breasts were squished flat against the comforter in ways that were probably more distracting than they should have been. And there were no tan lines visible.
The only girls he had ever seen without tan lines were professionals. Dancers, or entertainers, or whatever the hell they wanted to call themselves.
He made a note not to mention that on this planet.
“Lotion is on the night table,” she murmured in his general direction.
Vo walked around to that side and picked it up.
It smelled safe enough. Coconut and vanilla. It probably would come off his hands in a day or so. If not, he could go to a mechanic or a body shop for something that would strip the skin raw.
That depended on how the next hour went.
Vo looked around, but couldn’t find a blindfold and a cigarette. Just a towel for wiping his hands.
He steeled himself and climbed up onto the bed.
If you’re gonna do it, do it right.
He straddled the backs of her legs and let his weight settle on his knees. He would cut off all the circulation to her feet if she had to hold him up.
The room was warm, but her back was all goose–pimply. Hopefully, she was as nervous about this as he was.
It took a second to figure out how to open the bottle, and then pour a good dollop on the exact spot between her shoulder blades.
This would probably fall under first aid training refresher, if anyone asked. He was certified as a medic. He could make that stretch.
The rest of the evening fell under PsyOps.
Identify your enemy, probe their weaknesses, exploit them.
At that level of psychology, pretty girls and Imperial ground commanders probably weren’t that far apart, all things considered.
Vo let his brain go into a steady state, almost meditation. He worked the lotion into her soft skin with his own rough palms, using just enough force to grind her muscles loose, but not her bones. Less than he would have used with one of his marines. He didn’t figure she was nearly as tough.
“You can work harder,” she murmured. Or maybe purred. It was hard to differentiate the two. “I’m not made of porcelain.”
Vo grunted something noncommittal and squeezed harder on the long muscles of her back. Crab claws pinching and pulling, back and forth. Up to her neck under that braid, down her back to her…
Crap.
…to her bottom.
Shut up and soldier, marine.
He slid backwards half a meter and began to work on possibly the finest bottom he had ever seen. Certainly ever touched. All muscle.
Down the left thigh first. Work the calf, the heel, the arch.
Crossover and work your way up the right in reverse order.
Come back down. Cross again. Back up the left.
Oh, what the hell.
Vo slid forward again and worked his way up her sides. Brushing against her breasts was simply unavoidable. Keep it firm. Keep it professional. Move on.
Up to the shoulders.
He had been afraid she was falling asleep on him. When he hit her right shoulder, she hissed in pain.
She started to rise, but he put more of his weight on her back and held her in place as he worked the muscles.
“It hurts,” she whimpered.
“You worked twice as hard as most marines today, Phoebe,” he replied softly. “Of course it hurts.”
“Oh.”
She subsided under his grip.
More lotion. More muscles. Down the right arm one muscle group at a time. Work the wrist, the palm. Back up the front. Across the neck. Down the left side. And up. Over the top of the shou
lders, but keep her on her front.
Again.
Again.
Time passed. Vo meditated on all the sins he was committing in his head. He was almost finished.
“Do you want your scalp done?” he asked.
“Hmmm?”
He repeated himself.
“Yes, please,” came the dreamy response.
Vo wiped as much lotion off as he could and attacked the string holding her braid, and then remembered all his survival skills untying it.
Getting her hair pulled softly but firmly seemed to be acceptable, to hear her purr.
Vo found himself done. And sweating. The exercise didn’t explain it all.
He slid off the side of the bed, grabbed her robe, and draped it across her body.
That might have woken her, from the look on her face.
“So now what?” she inquired vaguely.
“I go home,” Vo said. “You take a shower to wash the lotion out of your hair, and then soak for as long as you want, and then go to bed.”
“You have to stay,” she said firmly. “You promised me a glass of wine.”
The PsyOps training, all that interrogation work, kept him from saying anything irrevocably stupid. At that point. He bit his tongue instead.
Her eyes got a teasing glint.
“You don’t have to watch me take a bath, Vo,” she smiled up at him. “You can find a game to watch. I promise to let you go home after a glass of wine, if you want.”
Want. Really? What did want have to do with it?
“I’ll find a book on your shelf,” he countered. “There were a couple that looked interesting.”
He turned and took three strides into the living room without looking back.
And breathed.
He found a half–stack of shelves, maybe a hundred titles in all. Actual ink on paper books. Expensive. He had left his computer at the apartment, and wasn’t about to borrow one of hers. Not right now.
“Vo,” Phoebe’s voice got his attention.
He looked over from his squat. She had wrapped herself fully up in the robe and belted it. That was good.
The look on her face was vulnerable. Almost pained.
“Don’t go?” she whispered.
“I’ll be right here, Phoebe,” he replied firmly, pulling a history of the early Republic with him as he stood.
