Salvo: A Sci-Fi Romance (The Jekh Saga Book 3)

by H. E. Trent

  “I had accepted that I didn’t have any living family,” Amy said. “I thought I was all alone. That’s a painful place to be.”

  “I imagine so. If there weren’t so many McGarrys, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

  Amy snorted. “Oh, you’d probably be fine, Mr. Recluse.”

  “Is that what my sisters call me?”

  “They call you all sorts of things, but I’m sure you know that. So, Ais, I—” Whatever Amy was going to say fell off at the interruption of her wrist COM’s chiming. She sighed and gave the band a double tap. “Yes?”

  “Esteben came home this morning in time to see Doc,” came Erin’s voice. “He’ll be here for a couple of days. We’re going into Little Gitano. Come with us.”

  Amy groaned and threw her head back. “Gods, why?”

  “Because people expect to see you.”

  “But you’re doing so well without me.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I didn’t want this municipal gig. Esteben’s doing all the work for me because he’s a controlling d—”

  There came a deep clearing of a throat in the background.

  Erin laughed drily. “A controlling darling. Love you, baby.”

  “Do you?” Esteben asked. “Because I always get the impression that you wish to drive me mad.”

  “Only sometimes.”

  Esteben sighed. “I’ll be in the flyer, Erin.”

  “Well, you heard him, Amy,” Erin said. “We’ll be there in a couple of minutes to scoop you up. You’re a Mauren. You can’t hide. Not now.”

  Amy tapped the transmission off and gave Ais an eloquent look. “You’re very lucky.”

  “Why lucky?”

  “Because no one expects anything of a maid’s daughter, but they expect too much if that daughter also had a Jekhan politician for a father. I hate the fucking class system here. It’s so restrictive, boxing people in like that.”

  “Change doesn’t happen overnight,” Owen said. “You can’t change expectations overnight.”

  She groaned. “And I can’t let other people do the work while I do nothing. I know. Your grandfather has already done so much in just a few months in Buinet, and here I am hiding out and hoping no one farther than Little Gitano finds out I’m alive.”

  “I know what it feels like to want to be obscure but for the condition to be impossible, Amy.”

  She walked to the door with her hands in her pockets. “I know. You’re a McGarry. People here expect things of you, too, because of your grandfather. I guess we’re all boxed in by what our forebears are or were.”

  “For now.”

  “You think that’ll change?”

  He shrugged. “Eventually. I can’t be much more optimistic than that.”

  “So you think I should move so slowly away from politics that no one will be able to pinpoint when I washed my hands of them?”

  “That would be my strategy.”

  “Yours is as good as any.” She stepped over the box at the door, and then poked her head back into the cabin. “I brought the dog food. It’s in this big bucket just outside.”

  “Thank you,” Ais said.

  Amy pointed at her. “Forgot the conditioner though. Damn. Sorry. I’ll bring some next time. Your hair looks cute anyway, though.”

  Amy went away.

  Owen finally moved from behind Ais.

  She turned, watching him—at least the best she could.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, standing near the bedside table. “Some things are out of my control.”

  “You…like Ais?”

  Oh hell.

  Owen dragged a hand through his hair and walked to the kitchen. He didn’t think there was coffee anywhere to be found in it, but he was going to look anyway. He needed a stimulant of some sort, and he didn’t think tea was going to suffice.

  “You like?” she repeated.

  No coffee in the canister. Grinding his teeth, he grabbed a tea bag. It’d have to do. “You’re a beautiful woman. That’s not really up for debate.”

  She didn’t say anything, and he didn’t turn to look at her to see why.

  He filled the kettle and put it on the stove. Glancing at the clock, he did some mental math about how much of the day had already passed. He needed to hook up with Luke and Salehi and get to work crunching code.

  He turned to find his tablet, only to find Ais standing silently behind him, fiddling with the sagging collar of her dress.

  “Jesus Christ, make some noise.”

  “But you don’t touch.”

  “Touch you?”

  She nodded.

  “Why would I?”

  “You say beautiful.”

  “Yeah, and I’m a rational human being who, for the most part, knows how to keep his hands to himself. I don’t have to touch every pretty thing I see, especially when I know that some touches hurt too much.”

  “Why hurt?”

  “Not me. You.”

  Her pretty brow furrowed, but she didn’t immediately say anything else.

  The kettle came to a rapid boil, giving Owen the perfect excuse to turn away again.

  He poured hot water over the teabag in his mug and stared down into the cup, watching the clear liquid turn yellow, then amber, then rich brown. Not dark enough, in his opinion, but he liked bitter tea almost as much as he liked weak coffee. He tossed the teabag into the compost bin Trigrian insisted he keep and took a scalding sip before setting down the mug.

  When he turned, Ais was still standing there silently, but no longer was her brow furrowed with confusion. Instead, it held a crease of determination. She’d let her dress slouch to her waist, and she stood exposed in front of him, defiance in her gaze.

  He froze, panic unfurling like a whip inside him.

  She picked up his right hand, set it on her breast, and looked up at him. “No hurt. See?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ais had always thought men were supposed to be quicker to pounce when enticed in such ways. She’d never had to entice Reg. He could be ready by will alone, and he’d take what he wanted, and she’d endured.

  She’d hurt.

  Owen hadn’t hurt her—beyond bruising her feelings, anyway—and she was stunned to learn that he thought she was pretty. He’d never given her any indication of that.

  Reg had never said that she was pretty. He’d never said anything nice at all.

  Owen dropped his hand and took a step back. “Ais, you shouldn’t—”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you don’t really want to. You just feel like you have to, and you don’t. I’m not asking that of you.”

  “But you like.”

  “Yes. If things had been different, maybe I would pursue you.”

  “I be…girlfriend.”

  “Girl—” He shook his head. “Uh…well, maybe. Sex isn’t always about relationships.”

  “Don’t understand.” She invaded the gap he’d made. She needed to see what his face was doing, or feel it.

  He allowed her to.

  Leaning against him, she stood on her toes and pressed her fingertips to his face. His lips were parted, breathing coming out in hard pants, and his brow creased.

  Not angry.

  She tracked her hands down to his shoulders and then his hard chest before flattening onto her heels.

  The part of him that was so male and prominent jutted, and there was no hiding it when she was pressed against his front. She was curious about that unseen part he kept zipped away, and likely because he kept it zipped away. Reg had always had his pants unfastened before he even got his cabin’s door locked. There was something surprisingly arousing about mystique.

  Owen swallowed audibly. “You’re…you’re not supposed to be like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Your women don’t do this.”

  “What do?”

  She wanted to feel more of him. He was always so buttoned-up and closed down. If she couldn’t see him, she wanted to fe
el him, and maybe her brain would fill in the gaps. Maybe when she could finally see, the picture of him she had in her mind would match exactly. She needed to research him first.

  “Jekhan women are very…conservative.”

  “Who lie?”

  “Who told that lie? That’s the common consensus. That you’re really just not into… Shit, woman, that you don’t do what you’re doing right now.”

  She didn’t know what that meant. She’d heard Amy and Fastida talk. Perhaps they weren’t overt in their assessments of others—perhaps they didn’t wear their interest so openly—but Ais knew. Their passion was all on the inside. They waited for other people to show theirs first. They felt they couldn’t initiate connections.

  Ais had no such conditioning, and she wanted to be touched by someone who thought she was pretty.

  She slid her hands down to the bottom of his shirt and fondled the lowest button.

  “Ais…”

  “Open.”

  “Why?”

  “Want touch.”

  “You shouldn’t. Not from me.”

  “Then who?”

  “I—”

  No one is who.

  There was no one for her, but Owen was standing right there and he was safe enough. “Open.” She tugged on the plackets.

  He looped his fingers around her wrists, and sighed. “Not a good idea. You know that. You’ll regret this.”

  “Regret touch?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Open.” She tugged again, because obviously he didn’t understand her. “Need feel.” She wanted to feel him everywhere at once, if she could manage the feat.

  He let out a long, ragged breath, and then loosened the lowest button.

  “Next one,” she said.

  He did that one, too, and then the next without prompting.

  She did the last two herself, and spread his plackets wide.

  The red in her undertones was so much more prominent when she put her hands against his tan flesh. She felt along the ridges of his chest, toyed curiously with the pink nipples, and then skimmed her palms over the hair on his belly. She didn’t have hair on hers, and the dusting seemed such a masculine thing, though Reg hadn’t had any, either.

  The thatch led down into his waistband. She looked up at him. Putting one hand on his cheek, she found it twitching.

  He didn’t stop her when she loosened the button of his pants. Didn’t stop her when she eagerly slid a hand within and found there was more hair down there, somehow both soft and coarse at the same time.

  “No hair there.”

  “What?” His voice was a croak, and the ensuing swallow loud to her ears. He braced his legs farther apart.

  “Tyneali,” she said. “Body. No hair.”

  “You’re saying that… You don’t have…”

  “No. Others? Maybe.” She moved her hand down farther until the curve between her thumb and forefinger notched at the thick base of him.

  He tilted his head back far. His hands that had been loosely gripping her forearms clutched the counter edge instead, and he swore under his breath.

  “Like? Hurt?” she asked.

  He did another of those loud swallows. “Like too much.”

  “Oh.” She closed her fingers around his shaft and followed it up to the tip. His flesh was hot, and smooth, and wet.

  She’d expected the first two things. The last surprised her. She pressed her thumb to the sticky fluid, and gasped when the liquid stretched.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s automatic. I can’t help it.”

  “What is?” She felt stupid for having to ask, but no one had taught her all the things bodies did, even when she’d been having things done to her. Being unable to see or touch back—had she wanted to—had made that education incomplete.

  “Uh…” There was a flash of teeth, perhaps a cringe. “Pre-ejaculate.”

  “What do?”

  “It’s a lubricant for making…things slippery.”

  “Make Ais slippery?”

  “Oh God,” came his strained plea to the ceiling.

  “Yes?”

  “I mean, fuck, in theory, that’s what it’s for.”

  “You use?”

  “Are you asking if I have?”

  She nodded. She wasn’t so sure that her question was proper to ask, but there was no one else she could ask. Perhaps Amy, but she didn’t know Amy that well yet, and Owen was standing in front of Ais with his penis in her hand.

  “Well, yes,” he said haltingly.

  “You have…woman?”

  He sighed. “Had women, yes.”

  “Oh.” She closed her eyes and glided a fingertip down the middle of his shaft, noting the varying textures and elevations. “Many?”

  “Perhaps. Depends on what your concept of many is.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t know, only that two wasn’t many. Jekhans lived in trios, so that had to be normal. Perhaps three was many, or four. “Four?” she asked, pulling her fist along his shaft to the head.

  He scoffed, then moaned softly. He moved her hand away, but she wasn’t done touching.

  He obviously didn’t care. He tucked himself back into his pants and fastened the button.

  “No four?” she asked incredulously. “More?”

  “If you want me to try to count, I can.”

  “Mean nothing?”

  “Did the women mean anything?” He shrugged. “I imagine I meant about as much to them as they did to me. For the most part, people don’t date McGarrys because they’re looking for happily-ever-after. Mike was an exception, and Ian. His wife is probably a little more oblivious of the reputation bullshit than most. She’d immigrated to the US from a place with a less developed media infrastructure and had been totally out of the loop for the most part.”

  “What want?”

  “What do you think women want from me? They want to fuck, so we do, and then we go our separate ways. That’s better for their reputations.”

  That didn’t suit Ais at all, him having had all those women and for them to not have meant anything.

  “I…nothing?” she asked him.

  “You’re not nothing, Ais.”

  “So, is better be nothing?”

  “Better to be nothing? No. Absolutely not, if you’re talking about relationships. If you’re talking about something you know will never be more than sex—more than scratching an itch—then my opinions of their worth don’t matter. Sometimes, I got my dick wet just for the sake of getting it wet. There were no feelings attached to the sex.”

  “Just a hole.”

  He grunted. “That’s a pretty harsh way of putting it, but maybe you’re right.”

  “Like Reg did.”

  “No,” Owen snapped. “No. Don’t compare me to him. The situations don’t compare unless you wanted what he was doing to you.”

  She shook her head hard.

  “That’s the difference. When I’m with a woman, I know what she expects, and she knows what I expect, and I make damn sure those things mesh before I take my dick out of my pants.”

  “What number?”

  “Why? Tell my why you need to know so badly.”

  She wrapped her arms across her breasts, shrugging. She didn’t know why she wanted to know, only that she did. Perhaps for context—so she’d know better what was normal or what was not. Or maybe she was just jealous that there were women he was so open with and that she wasn’t one of them because she was doing something wrong.

  “What number?” she repeated, somehow managing to put some actual conviction behind her words.

  “Dammit.” He shifted his weight against the counter and turned his face toward the ceiling.

  “Number.”

  “A lot. Okay? A fucking lot. I’m over thirty, and when you’re single and doubt you’ll ever get married, that’s what you do. You fuck indiscriminately and you don’t worry about numbers.”

  “Married?” She canted her head. She didn’t understand t
hat word, really. The institution of marriage didn’t exist on Jekh, likely because the Tyneali didn’t practice the custom, either. The custom wasn’t explained well in any of the Earth fiction she consumed.

  “Explain…married.”

  “Married.” He rubbed his beard, and paced. “Well…you pick someone you want to be with permanently, right? And you tell the government that you’re planning to be together and that you’re pooling assets.”

  Pooling assets?

  That sounded like a business transaction to her. “That all?” she asked.

  “That’s basically what marriage is for. People generally get married if they expect to have kids so they can give them some semblance of traditional structure, and also so they can keep their assets in the family.”

  “Is…contract?”

  “Not so much a contract as a proclamation.”

  “Is good?”

  “Depends on who you ask. I don’t ascribe any particular value judgment to the institution, but, for context, my parents are married as are both sets of my grandparents.”

  “And brother.”

  “Yes. Ian.” He shifted his weight. “Look, it suits them. Marriage was first devised as a system to transfer assets from a bride to her husband—a business agreement, you know? Now, I’d say the vast majority of people who bother at all, get married because they love each other.”

  “Love.”

  “Yeah. That.”

  Ais twined her fingers against her belly and tilted her head. She’d never been in love, and had never really loved anyone, either, but she thought she understood the concept well enough.

  She knew what hate felt like. Surely, love was the exact opposite.

  “When you love someone and they love you back,” he said softly, “the touch doesn’t hurt. You like they way they treat you, and they want to give you what you need.” He picked up her braid. His pale thumb glided slowly, hypnotically along the uneven segments.

  And then, abruptly, he dropped the plait and walked away. “I’ve got to go to the house.”

  Scrambling, Ais straightened her dress and dropped to her knees to find her shoes. The color of them blended in with the floor.

  “Ais, you could stay—”

  “No!” She shook her head and repeated the word. She couldn’t see him well, but she stared his way anyway and hoped she could see the conviction in her gaze. “Not prisoner. Won’t be left.”