My heart clenched a little in my chest. Jax didn’t use that name for me much anymore. Partner. That was what we’d been back in the mines, when there’d been a different type of overseer with a whip at our backs.
I nodded to him, but as I walked toward the elevator tube, hiking the strap of my bag up over my shoulder, I couldn’t help remembering that first day on Hourglass Mile, when rough hands had thrown me at Jax. He’d been a man already, thirty years old and no mistaking it. I’d been nineteen and scared to death.
They’d brought us in on the same day, Jax half insane with grief and me still stunned that I’d been caught, neither of us having any idea that the warden’s bright idea was to pair male and female inmates off together for daily work in the mines. The warden had figured the fraternization would help keep the peace, which it did, I supposed. Once pairs were formed, that was it. No changes were made unless someone’s sentence was up or someone died. Some people, like Fiona, ended up with a lover. Other women got an abuser. And some, like me, found a friend for life.
Lady Luck had been with me that day, too. Maybe she wasn’t such a fickle bitch.
Chapter 5
Two people on the avenue at the bottom of the Squirrel Tree both directed me to the same place: Ganavan’s Products and Parts. It wasn’t too far—still in the docking district and within easy walking distance—so I figured it was a good place to start.
I found the shop at the base of a towering, warehouse-type structure. It was recessed into the ground a few feet, requiring me to take a short flight of stairs down to access it from street level. A bell tinkled over the door when I swung it open, surprising me with the light, merry chiming. I couldn’t help appreciating the quaint touch in the otherwise industrial setting of the city’s sprawling, somewhat dingy docks.
Inside, the shop was bigger than I’d expected and crowded with metallic shelving packed with more stuff than any space rat could ever possibly want. It was almost overwhelming—and half of it was covered in dust. Motes twirled in the air, floating in the sunbeams streaming in through the high-up windows that let in most of the shop’s light.
I didn’t see anyone behind the register to query about repairs, so I walked the aisles, looking for anything that might be of use. I picked up forty rounds of LW-9 bullets in a sleek metal case for our Grayhawk handguns, but I didn’t really need things like the rest of this—gadgets and doodads and crap. I needed reinforced metal panels and someone who could weld them onto my ship.
I scanned the shelves for fuses and wiring, too, but didn’t see anything. The Endeavor’s electrical components weren’t in great shape, even with Big Guy’s brief help, and my console was currently dead. I’d have to see, but I hoped Jaxon would end up being enough of an electrician to fix it. When it came to a ship’s central power grid, I had some skills myself.
“Can I help you?” a man asked.
I turned and watched the speaker walk toward me from what looked like a back office, his steps silent and almost prowling. Despite his height and imposing physique, I might not have heard him coming if he hadn’t made his presence known.
Was this Ganavan? He was tall, with at least a few inches on me. He was wide, too, but mainly in the shoulders. His body looked healthy and trim. Like me, I thought his origins could probably be traced back to pre-exodus Caucasian. Unlike me, he had a healthy tan.
The fact that he was tall, dark, and hot didn’t stop my usual default mode from kicking in—to assess any stranger I met and determine how I would try to bring that person down in a fight.
I came up with a defensive scenario before he got too close. A ducking spin as he came at me, his own weight hopefully throwing him off-balance as I slid out of the way. A quick, hard kick to the back of a knee to get him lower than me. A sleeper hold from behind with my arm in a tight V around his neck, cutting off the blood flow through his arteries. With any luck, I could knock him out without ever touching his windpipe.
Unfortunately, looking at him, I estimated my chances of success with any of that at about eight percent, which made me glad there was no reason to think he was unfriendly.
He watched me, too, his brown eyes like lasers. I’d rarely been subjected to such a steady stare, especially from a gaze that held definite hints of interest and appreciation. My body started to heat from more than just the sunlight filtering down from the high windows. The light hit him at an angle, turning his eyes a tawny amber, like those of a jungle predator.
No. A jungle animal would scare me, and this man didn’t, despite his obvious physical advantage. His eyes were more the color of dark honey, appealing, all warm and tempting in the sun.
My taste buds seemed to burst to life with the memory of sweetness on my tongue. Starway 8 was one of the few places left in the galaxy with an actual apiary, and the liquid gold the director sold to the wealthy elite in Sector 12 was the main source of revenue for the orphanage. This man’s eyes looked just like honey number seven—my favorite. Almost the darkest. The darker honeys had more flavor.
He stopped a few feet from me, and those honey-brown eyes dipped, taking me in from my head to my toes. My clothing was skintight, and I felt a blush flare under his slow inspection.
Finally, he looked up. “Just checking for weapons.”
I snorted. “Really? Weapons? I haven’t heard that one before.”
He winked at me like the scoundrel I highly suspected he was. “We’re inventive out here in 2. Where’re you from?”
“What makes you think I’m not from here?”
“You’re a 12-er. I can hear it in your posh voice.”
Time seemed to slow down as my mind processed his words one by one, even though it only took a second. I hardly spoke to anyone besides my crew, and they didn’t care what I sounded like. Blurring my trail outside of the Endeavor meant it was time to work on a new accent, though. It was too bad. The precise, cut-glass diction was one of the only things I liked about Sector 12.
I crossed my arms, one hip jutting out as I shifted my balance. “If you already knew, then why did you ask?”
He shook his head as though dismayed, his close-cropped brown hair glinting in the slanting, mote-filled rays. His hair spiked a little haphazardly in front where some cowlicks seemed to have minds of their own. My fingers twitched with the sudden urge to reach out and smooth them down.
Strange. I usually resisted all forms of uniformity in conscious protest of the oppressive galactic order. And wanting to touch a total stranger was weird in itself.
“Why. Did. You. Ask.” He enunciated each word pointedly, although even that didn’t mask the slight drawl in his voice or the humor underlying it. “Hear that? You’ve got to slide it all together, fancy pants. Like this: why’d’ya’ask?”
Fancy pants? I arched one brow—high—and then dutifully parroted, “Why’d’ya’ask?”
“Good.” He gave a quick nod of approval. “Now lose the imperious look, and you might fit in around the docks.”
I gaped—inwardly, at least. On the outside, I just stood there. What the hell? How had he pegged me so fast, and so freaking well?
“I haven’t been to Sector 12 in a long time. I’m from 8, if you really want to know.”
“Really wanna know,” he corrected.
I didn’t parrot this time. He was exaggerating. Except for a few prolonged vowels and slightly sloppy articulation, his speech sounded perfectly neutral to me.
He pursed his lips, looking deep in thought. “You can’t be full 8. I know what the rats out there sound like.”
So he’d been around the galaxy. So had I.
I took a deep breath and uncrossed my arms. “You Ganavan?” I asked.
“Might be. Who’s asking?”
I had the strongest impulse to say Quintessa Novalight and blow his fucking world to bits because he was ticking me off, but I wasn’t stupid enough for that. “Te
ss Bailey,” I answered, resurrecting her from the dead.
“And what are you looking for in my shop, Tess Bailey?”
His gaze dipped as he said my name, as though he were stamping the letters onto my body, or somehow imprinting them right into both of us. I got the feeling this guy never forgot a thing, and I suddenly wished I’d made up something else. Why didn’t I ever just blurt out Jane Smith?
“Do you have more of a name than just Ganavan?” I asked, ignoring the heat tingling up my spine. Part of it was habitual nervousness, but there was also something else. Something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Shade Ganavan,” he answered, looking dead serious for the first time since we’d met. The rascal was gone for just a moment, and in his place, there was a man whose deep voice and assessing eyes caused a slight tremor to go through me.
I couldn’t tell if I wanted to step closer to him, or get the hell out of his shop. Usually, I wasn’t conflicted about that type of thing.
I opted for staying where I was. “Well, Shade Ganavan, I need someone to repair my ship. Do you know of anyone who has at least eight standard tiles of reinforced, space-worthy metal, welding equipment, and a way to get it all up to the three-hundred-and-fourteenth level of the Squirrel Tree?”
His head reared back. “You’re in the fucking Squirrel Tree? Shit, princess, I guarantee they’re ripping you off.”
I bristled. “It was the only place to land.”
“Says the guy who controls the tower, who’s paid off by the guy who owns the Squirrel Tree.”
He looked genuinely annoyed on my behalf. It was nice. I couldn’t remember the last time a stranger had stuck up for me simply on principle. This guy was such a contradiction. Shade Ganavan had oodles of arrogance, oodles of charm, and oodles of something that made me want to kick him in the nuts.
“So?” I prompted.
“I can take care of your ship for you.”
“You? Yourself?” I asked.
He spread his hands. “I’m a man of many talents.”
“There’s no shortage of cockiness, in any case.”
“Oh, there’s nothing short about my—”
I held up my hand. “Women from Sector 12 don’t like hearing that kind of talk.”
He grinned, a slow, sex-on-a-stick smile that made heat spark low in my abdomen. “Then what kind of talk do they like?” he asked.
“Squeaky clean,” I answered, amazed that I kept a straight face while telling an enormous falsehood—in my case, anyway.
He smirked. “You mean boring as hell?”
My lips twitched. The scoundrel was back, and my pulse accelerated in response. I didn’t mind dirty talk, and I would have bet good money that Shade Ganavan did it really well.
“And I thought you were from 8,” he added abruptly.
My smile died. Shit. He had me there.
“How do you know so much about accents?” I asked, suddenly curious to know more about him. And also anxious to change the subject. It never hurt to shift the focus to the other guy, especially when he probably loved talking about himself.
“I travel, working, picking up stuff.” His eyes cruised over the crowded shelves on either side of us.
Mine did, too. But while he looked satisfied with his jumbled collection, the brief glance around us just raised questions in my mind. There was too much stuff here, and a lot of it looked like it hadn’t been touched—and by that, I meant cleaned—in months. It didn’t appear his business was doing very well.
“Picking up things for your shop?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Goods. Odds and ends. Some jobs. You know how it goes.”
My eyes narrowed. That was vague. And the quality of his clothing didn’t match the neglected feel of his shop. He wore rather technical-looking dark cargo pants and a snug-fitting black T-shirt, neither of which looked cheap or worn. His boots were solid and in good condition as well, with soles that looked thick enough to help him kick down the Endeavor’s current starboard door.
Thinking about the thin safety hatch that was left, I was shocked all over again that we’d made it out of today’s terrifying events alive. All things considered, maybe Jaxon was on to something with his Sky Mother beliefs.
In any case, Shade Ganavan was making money somewhere—even if it wasn’t here.
Uh-oh. “Don’t tell me you’re a pirate. Is all this stuff stolen?” I asked, thinking about Flyhole and all its corrupt bandits only a short jump away.
His mouth turned down. “Not a pirate, sugar. More like a space rogue.”
“A space rogue?”
He nodded. “A phenomenal one, at that.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Space Rogue Phenom? Really? Maybe I should call you SRP.”
His dark eyes glittered as though I’d just thrown down a gauntlet, and he was more than ready to pick it up. “Only if you want me to call you RLCA.”
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. “And what’s that?”
“Rosy Lips, Cute Ass.”
I stared at him, my heart going berserk in my chest. He stared back.
His brow suddenly furrowed. “Holy shit, you’re turning bright red.” He looked pissed off again. “Doesn’t anyone ever flirt with you? You married or something?”
He sounded aggravated on all counts, as though he thought it was horrifying that no one ever flirted with me, and even more horrifying that I might be married.
He also seemed concerned that I was so obviously flustered, while at the same time, he was the one who had been completely provoking in the first place. The whole thing just flushed me hotter—and I’m sure turned me redder.
Despite having declined a few offers here and there, I hadn’t felt this aware of male appreciation in more than seven years. Well, there had been Dagger Bently, but scrubbing off his lewd looks and comments with industrial-strength prison soap sure didn’t count.
“No. And no,” I finally answered, my voice sounding as though it grated across sandpaper in my throat.
He watched me for a moment from under lowered brows, and then, thankfully, Shade Ganavan, Space Rogue, let the subject drop.
“So what happened to your ship?” he asked, nodding vaguely toward where I thought the Squirrel Tree must have been from here. “The Dark Watch blow it full of holes?”
Nerves exploded inside me. It was a joke. He was joking. I forcibly calmed my racing heart. “Unexpected asteroid belt.”
“You fire your navigator for that?”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t her fault.”
He nodded, his hands moving to his hips. I noticed scars on his knuckles and wondered how many times he’d split his skin open punching someone in the face. I had a few of those myself. Prison brawls. They happened.
For his part, Shade Ganavan watched me like a hawk, and I wasn’t quite sure why. I could tell he was interested, but this seemed to go beyond normal awareness. I could have sworn he took in my every blink and breath.
Finally, he said, “I might not have the metal you need for a few days, sugar.”
“You might not have your tongue if you call me ‘sugar’ again.”
His expression flared with a heat I felt branch out into every part of me. The man definitely liked to be provoked, and for some reason, I liked provoking him. I think I even liked it when he provoked me.
His countenance changed suddenly, sharpening. “You know how to carry through on a threat?” he asked quietly.
I frowned. “You want me to slice out your tongue?”
“I want to know if your sharp edges can actually cut.”
“Why?” He’d lost me. Was this kinky talk, and I wasn’t getting it? I wasn’t a virgin or totally inexperienced. There had been Gabe. But then he’d run one way that day and I’d run the other, and we’d never seen each other again.
Shade’s voic
e came to me on a low whisper over the tinkling of the bell I’d just noticed, but there was nothing seductive about it. “Because the Dark Watch just followed you into my shop.”
Chapter 6
Panic iced me over, and I froze. It couldn’t be. How did they know?
“Who?” I mouthed more than said aloud.
Shade’s eyes flicked over my shoulder. He gave a slight shrug, speaking so quietly I essentially had to read his lips as well. “I don’t know every goon they’ve got.”
“Uniform?” I breathed.
“Black,” he mouthed back.
I exhaled. A trooper, then. If it had been my uncle coming for me, he would have been wearing red.
I lifted the shiny metallic cartridge box I still had in my hand. “You’re sure all forty rounds are in here?” I asked in a normal voice again, angling the box to reflect what was behind me. I saw a soldier I didn’t recognize. Probably just some Sector 2 guy in here looking for a knickknack or spare part.
I tried to act casual, even though adrenaline was making me jittery underneath. My relief was cerebral. My body hadn’t caught up yet.
“How much for this?” I asked.
“Fifteen,” Shade said, taking the box of bullets from me. “I’ll ring it up.”
I followed him to the register and then paid, only once darting a glance at the soldier who was perusing the shelves a good twenty feet from me. When Shade handed me back the cartridge box and my change, our fingers brushed, but I was too nervous to appreciate the brief contact.
Chuckling, he said, “I thought you were going to walk off without paying for that.”
What in the galaxy made him think that?
“I’m not a petty thief,” I said, coolness creeping into my voice. When I stole something, it wasn’t measly cartridges for guns we hardly used. It was cure-all vaccines and food for the starving and prisoners of war.
“I was teasing.” Shade cocked his head to one side, looking almost sorry.
I blinked. Oh. All right, then. Clearly, I needed a manual on flirting. I felt myself turn crimson again.
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