“I don’t have to do anything you say,” I say, because I don’t. Although I haven’t considered the alternative, which he immediately reminds me of.
“From now on, you have to do everything I say. If you want any chance for survival,” he says. “Finish dressing!” he says in his most commanding voice, which voice I hate with almost as much emotion as I desired him not two or three minutes ago.
I do finish dressing, however, since it’s a good way to distract myself from the ever-louder, ever-more-horrible noises the sirens are making.
Which noises are now being augmented by a loud banging on the room’s portal.
Arca puts his hand to his mouth—the very hand I was just sucking on—and glares at me to be quiet. So I quietly put my pants and his shirt on and sit on the bed, waiting.
“First Officer Arca!” says a voice from the other side of the portal. “By order of the third sequence of intergalactic law, you’re hereby under arrest for conspiring to sabotage, harm, or otherwise interfere with the operations of a registered intergalactic vessel.”
I look up at the big man and see that he’s no longer struggling to get his cock to obey him. His pants front is flat now and his face is pale.
“Aymee Desryx, citizen of Choryn,” say the same voice while Arca gestures to me to—quietly—follow him. I get up out of the bed and step carefully toward Niklas.
“By order of the third sequence of intergalactic law,” says the voice outside the portal, “you’re hereby under arrest for conspiring to sabotage, harm, or otherwise interfere with the operations of a registered intergalactic vessel.”
Damn. Why didn’t I think of that? I could’ve actually sabotaged the ship and perhaps that would’ve been a better plan than the one I’ve got. Because then I would’ve been in control. Instead, I’m now a wanted—yet totally innocent—criminal in not just one, but in two places, and just in case I’d forgotten about my original crime, I’m now reminded of it.
“Aymee Desryx, citizen of Choryn,” says the ever-louder voice. “You are also hereby informed that you will be returned to Choryn immediately to answer for your high crimes.”
Niklas gestures to me over his shoulder—he’s no longer looking at me but at some nondescript spot on the far wall of his quarters—while the voice outside, shouting over the unending, blood-vessel-bursting sirens, says, “And you are hereby informed that because your presence has caused an unscheduled change in our route, you are held personally responsible for all costs incurred.”
Great. Now I’m a wanted criminal on Choryn. A wanted criminal on the Centreale. And I have to pay the cost of turning the ship back to Choryn. What must that cost? A hundred billion credits? I don’t even have a hundred credits.
Niklas
I thought life was bad seventeen months and three days ago. If I’d only known then what I know now, I would’ve held a party for myself and thrown garlands at my feet for being such a grand, glorious, and very lucky fellow.
Back then I was merely being fucked over.
When your own brother betrays you, it tends to make you feel a bit pissed off, and when he betrays you with your girlfriend, you feel more than a bit pissed off, since now you’ve been fucked over by two of your favorites, two of your most trusted favorites.
I thought that was really the low point of my life. That and taking my savings and buying part-ownership in Star Line Express—in other words, the Centreale—and signing on as its first officer. Of a cargo transport. Me. Niklas Arca. A cargo transport.
But this? I couldn’t’ve dreamed this up if I’d had months to work on it. Years to work on it. Unbelievable. Incredible.
Draybirge, the ship’s security chief, is banging on my quarters’ entryway, telling me that I’m being arrested for sabotaging my own ship while I feel along the wall for the release catch I installed right after I took this blasted post. Yet I can’t find it.
Behind me, waiting—well, at least she’s not making any noise—is the Chorynean master criminal Aymee Desryx. Wanted for crimes, not just one crime, but crimes, high crimes, on Choryn, the most corrupt place in the Seven Galaxies. So if they want her for high crimes, she must be a saboteur there too. At the very least. And probably a murderer. If not worse, although because I can’t find the damned release point on the wall, I can’t imagine what’s worse than murder. Several murders, I guess. Several murders and a plot to overthrow the Chorynean Guard.
Several murders and leaving a Big World Terran who hasn’t had sex in seventeen months and three days with the worst case of frustration any male has ever experienced.
Although it’s not strictly her fault, I’ve decided to blame her for it. Because she’s also responsible for my being wanted for a crime I had nothing at all to do with. Even if I was harboring her, which I guess you could say I was. Am.
But I hadn’t harbored her for long enough.
They’re bashing down the door now. Fuck, hell, damn. I cannot find the release point.
“Open up, First Officer Arca!” Draybirge is saying now, not having to shout since the sirens have, mercifully, stopped.
Then the scheming Chorynean puts her hand on the wall just a few centimeters away from mine and the release point opens up, just like she was the one who put it there, not me. Just like she lives in these quarters, not me. Just like she knows what the fuck she’s doing, which I guess she actually does know, but fuck her for knowing it.
She grabs my wrist and pulls me forward, or attempts to, but I go back into the room to get something we’ll need, then join her at the opening in the wall.
Aymee’s soaked with sweat and I realize that I am as well.
Just as I hear the battering bar connect with some atmosphere on our side of the portal, I pull Aymee along with me, close the release point, and jump us both into the interior corridor of the ship.
The black-as-night-on-Gadnon—a planet no one should ever be forced to visit, or forced to visit twice and especially not on a futile cargo run—corridor suddenly feels like the most welcoming, safe, comforting place I’ve ever been in.
Because despite not being able to see, despite it being so freezing cold here that my sweat is forming icicles along my spine, and despite my having to be here with the cause of my current troubles, Aymee Desryx, at least I’m not being arrested for something I never did.
A sort of relief floods over me and I realize I’m still holding on to the very same Aymee Desryx who is the root force behind all this fucked mess.
The Chorynean’s flesh is like the petals of the white roses I had in my hand and was about to give to Minda, before I stumbled upon her and my damned brother, Rej, doing a lot more than I’ve had a chance to do today.
I can hear Aymee’s breaths, and the silky feel of her skin under my hand reminds me of what we haven’t yet done. I lean down to kiss her only to find her standing on her toes to kiss me, which drives my desire nearly back to where it was before we were interrupted.
And when she wraps her legs around my thigh, I am back to where I was before we were interrupted.
Chapter 9
Aymee
It’s freezing in here, or out here, whichever it is.
The only way to keep warm is to generate some sexual heat. That’s what I tell myself, that’s the excuse I use, when I find myself kissing First Officer Niklas Arca, an apparent saboteur, if I understand the accusation rightly.
He couldn’t even find the release point in his own room. What a fool. And it was very poorly installed. Probably by the selfsame fool. The Ego of the Millennium. Probably thought he knew what he was doing.
Well, fortunately for us, fortunately for me, I mean, I do know what I’m doing.
I’m kissing Niklas Arca, whose lips are like some kind of addictive snack or drink or drug. A snack/drink/drug that kisses back with the fervor of the love-starved lead in a romantic vid.
I match him, kiss for kiss, tongue for tongue. I bite his lower lip and he nips at mine while he pulls up the hem of my shirt and
puts his big hands on me.
I lick the insides of his hot, wet mouth, and he puts his tongue down my throat. His shaft, caught back inside his pants, pushes against me, and I think I’m going to faint from need. I wrap my legs even tighter around his bulging, rock-solid thigh.
I put my hands under his ripped-apart shirt and feel the hard flesh and muscles of this Big World Terran.
“Aymee,” he says, gasping for breath.
“Niklas,” I say, since I think that’s what I’m supposed to say, although I can’t think at all.
“We have to stop,” he says.
“No, we don’t,” I say, playing with his left nipple, which makes him groan in the back of his throat.
“We have to get out of here,” he says.
“They’ll never find us,” I say, having no idea if this is true or not.
“Let’s make sure they don’t,” he says. “Because right now we’re giving them every opportunity to.”
But while he’s saying this he’s also running circles around my nipples with his sensuous hands and I realize that I’m rubbing my crotch against his thigh and that my hand has found his erection.
If Lasson would’ve been like this, I wouldn’t be a wanted criminal right now. I’d be his loving mate. I’d be sitting on the verandah of his huge house and enjoying the view. I wouldn’t be trying to undo the buttons on the Centreale’s first officer’s pants. Because I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
Arca is back kissing me again. He’s stopped arguing. Something about the magic of my touching his sex rod, I think, as inexpert in these matters as I am. But his cock is out of his pants and the sensational smooth skin covering the hot length of it is driving me wild with need.
“Aymee,” says Niklas when he brings his head up for air. I want it back on my mouth, so I pull down on his neck.
“Kiss me,” I say as I stroke his cock. I’m no longer cold. At all.
“Aymee,” he says, lifting his head and pushing my hand away from him. “Stop. If you could find the release point, so can Draybirge.”
“But you were looking for it, so I had an idea of where it would be,” I say in a logical manner that’s arisen despite my passionate doings.
“Aymee,” Niklas says, taking my hand off his cock, where it naturally returned, and shoving the huge shaft back into his pants. “We have to get out of here. Now.”
I really am not going to ever have sex. I see that now. We do have to escape our pursuers because if they find us, we’ll be done for. Although we’re on a ship, a finite space. They will find us.
“Come on,” he says, taking his hands off my now-disappointed breasts and grabbing my hand.
Here I have to admit that I quite like his holding my hand even if it is no substitute for the sex I’m never going to have. Yet it feels somehow just right.
We’re off down a dark, dark corridor now, but when we’ve proceeded for about three minutes, he turns on a torch, which must be what he went back into his quarters for. Unless he carries one around all the time. He might. How do I know what a cargo ship’s first officer usually carries around with him? Except for . . . you know . . .
“Arca,” I say, thinking that Niklas is too personal now that we’re not naked and in his bed anymore. Also, you know, he thinks I’m some kind of saboteur, just like he is. Even though I’m not.
“Shh,” he says. “Later. Later.”
Niklas
Right about the time that Rej and Minda were on the brink of eternal ecstasy—that was the opportune moment I’d chosen to surprise my beloved with a clutch of rare white roses. They’d cost a fortune, as had the bracelet, but I’d gladly spent it. After all, Minda and I had a lifetime to spend together, didn’t we? What were a few credits, well, a few hundred thousand credits, compared to a lifetime of love, devotion, working and striving together, a child or two of course, and, naturally, extraordinary sex.
I try to picture Rej and Minda in Minda’s bed—Minda’s bed was actually my bed since she was staying with me for the weekend. Now it’s Rej’s bed since ownership has inevitably passed to him during my prolonged absence. Although if I went back to claim it . . . although I’d never go back.
The reason I’m trying to picture Rej and Minda in the very scene I’d least like to think about is that this is the only way my cock is ever going to return to a calm state. Because the Criminal Saboteur of the Century here is killing me with some kind of Chorynean sex magic.
With Draybirge and his thugs inside my quarters by now and for sure at least one of them having figured out that I must have such a thing as a release point because I’ve disappeared from the chamber, it’s only a matter of time before they find that very release point.
So Aymee Desryx and I have to get the hell as far away from here as possible in the time we’ve got.
The hot sex did a lot to raise my body temperature, but the running is having a good effect as well. The icicles that had formed on my spine have melted. The images of Rej and Minda have done wonders to lower me to half-mast. And I’m finding running pleasantly enjoyable.
Maybe because I’m holding the hand of this Chorynean horror I’ve gotten myself hooked up with. What the hell was I doing near the hot box anyway? Could I not have taken a different route on my rounds this morning?
Yet I kind of like the way her hand feels in mine. Assuming I won’t end up with that rash, the one that was the undoing of Joston’s best friend or brother, whichever it was. Maybe he was both Joston’s best friend and his brother. Kind of like Rej, only with a rotted-off wrist and without Joston’s lover in his bed.
I start running faster. Now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark, it’s much easier.
Aymee, keeping up with me damn nicely for someone nearly a third of a meter shorter than me, isn’t even breathing hard. Maybe your average Chorynean crook runs fifteen or twenty kilometers every day, just to keep in prime escape condition. The entire damned planet must be practically professional athletes, ready to go on the lam on a moment’s notice.
There’s a lot of running in The Treachery of Joston Parst, and Joston himself does a lot of it, the bastard. A very rewatchable bastard he is, though.
Finally I feel we’re far enough away from our starting point that we can take a short rest.
I stop and Aymee runs past me, then jogs back to where I’m leaning against the wall in this narrow, dark, cold hallway. The interior corridors of the Centreale, the ones behind the chambers and walls of the ship, have no need for the kind of insulation that an actual chamber or corridor would need. The crew is back here only for repairs or, like I am sometimes, for expedient shortcuts.
Or, like right now, for running the hell away from my pursuers. My crew mates. Who think I’m the saboteur.
As though to remind me about the whole sabotage thing, the ship lurches again, and Aymee’s head slams against the opposite wall.
How many concussions can a Chorynean stand to take? I wonder as she shakes her head.
“Arca,” she says, even though I much preferred it when she called me Niklas, “where exactly are we going?” She rubs at the back of her head and I rub at mine. That lump hasn’t gotten any smaller.
“We’re going somewhere where we have half a chance to survive.”
Chapter 10
Aymee
“There’s no place where I have half a chance to survive,” I say.
Obviously, the Big World Terran first officer has forgotten that I’m a wanted criminal in two places now. Not just one.
Because even if I could possibly prove that I’m not the saboteur of this rickety crate—the co-saboteur of this falling-down trash heap, along with the great Niklas Arca himself, who I suspect is the saboteur they’re looking for, since, for one thing, who else but someone up to no good would install a hidden release latch in their quarters?—I can’t possibly escape my fate on Choryn. Now that the crew knows that I’m here and why I’m here. And that I’m wanted for high crimes.
This
is what you get when you’re leaving your planet and you just jump headlong onto the first ship you come across. Without knowing where it’s going. Without any supplies. Without even a very small, poorly devised, weak, ineffectual plan. Without anything.
But . . . crimes. Plural.
I mull that over for a second. Even though I’m completely innocent, I’d thought I was wanted for only one crime, which crime is hardly a crime. It’s just a failure to fulfill my contract. I wouldn’t really call that a crime. Even if everyone else on Choryn would. And does.
But it’s not. And, really, Lasson Birtak didn’t want me any more than I wanted him. He’s just more uptight and obedient than I could possibly be. More willing to do what he’s told. Which I am not.
“I should’ve left you in that cell,” the buff first officer says.
He’s turned off his torch, but I can still see, and see him, perfectly well. I have excellent night vision, a topic they probably covered in that awful Joston vid, so it’s not a secret. And, yes, I have seen The Treachery of Joston Parst, but I don’t remember all the cultural references in it since, you know, I live them. They’re like a wall that’s painted white, unnoticeable to me, like the atmosphere.
“I should’ve stayed in that cell,” I say, and even though it seems like a good comeback, I don’t know why I say it. Because I certainly didn’t want to stay in that, or any, cell.
“I’ll be happy to return you to it,” he says, grinning his all-too-appealing grin. I’m starting to suspect the male Big World Terrans have special training in this expression, because the Centreale’s self-assured first officer is expert at it.
So expert that I almost find myself grinning in response. Then I stop.
“Fine,” I say, thinking that I’ll be able to get away from him somewhere between here, wherever here is, and there. And then . . . and then . . . what? Fuck, I’ll figure it out then. I’ve lasted this long, haven’t I? Not knowing even half what I know now.
These thoughts give me hope.
“But I’m not going to,” Arca says, still grinning, as though he’s enjoying telling me this.
Stowaway (Star Line Express Romance Book 1) Page 5
