CHAPTER 10

“M edici’s hiding something, that’s all I’m saying.” Mitchell spits the words with obvious contempt. “He’s losing control from within.”

After several attempts to delay the inevitable, Sam has finally succumbed to bedtime. Tori’s gone outside to get some fresh air, which probably means her empathy mods are acting up again. And I’m almost done scrubbing purple fruit stains from the cutting board and dishes.

Ballga and Mitchell are discussing politics, which is why I’ve retreated to the kitchenette on the far side of the room when I’d really rather be on the sofa, bumming a drink from Vince and his flask.

With my brain’s inclination to multitask, though, it’s not like I can actually ignore the conversation.

“You thinking of the PharmaServe incident?” Ballga’s tone is skeptical.

I’m not aware of the incident she’s referring to. News travels slowly to the Underground. But I know plenty about PharmaServe. It’s a subdivision of Cruz Pharmaceuticals that produces and delivers Delirium-derived medications to the war front. The hugely lucrative operation comprises a sizeable chunk of House Medici-Cruz’s net worth.

“Not only that, but yeah,” Mitchell confirms. “There’s something off about a supposed terrorist attack taking out such a massive, well-guarded shipment. It wasn’t terrorists, it was an inside job. House de la Cruz is sending a message to their own.”

My hands go still on the sudsy saucer I’ve been half- heartedly scouring.

Ballga lets out a low, slow whistle. “That’d be a bold move.”

“Bold but clear. They’re expecting Medici to step down from leadership of de la Cruz operations when the Medici-Cruz heir comes of age. And Medici’s been posturing to do the opposite. House de la Cruz is letting him know they’re not going to stand for it. Until the heir takes control, the feud isn’t really over.”

“You may be right.” There’s a pause and a slurp as Ballga takes a drag from her mug. “But whether the Highest House stays intact or falls back into feuding, I don’t see that it’ll affect any of us much. The joining of the Houses only made the rich richer. It didn’t do anything for the rest of us. Least of all Sam’s kind.”

“I don’t know…” Mitchell draws the words out slowly, like he’s piecing together his thoughts as he speaks. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I get the feeling the maneuvering within Medici-Cruz had something to do with the increased security we got up close and personal with today. Did you see the way that of ficer moved? How he was armed? The taller one? That guy was no ordinary Customs officer.”

My saucer and sponge fall back into the sink. The china dunks below the soapy water with a plop. Mitchell’s suggesting that Medici-Cruz personnel were impersonating Customs officers. I’m itching to turn around and catch his facial expression, but I don’t want to make my interest obvious. I watch the sponge float on the surface of the red-purple dishwater and listen intently.

“There was something off about him,” Ballga agrees. “It’s a good thing he wasn’t the one who searched the lockers. I don’t think he would’ve taken the bribe the other guy did.”

“He was direct from House Medici, I’m telling you. I know their style.”

I can’t help it. I turn and stare, mouth agape. Mitchell said Medici specifically, not Medici-Cruz. There’s no reason a refugee runner should be that familiar with the Houses’ distinctive martial styles, even if he is ex-military like I suspect.

I’m not sure what that says about the captain, but it sure as hell doesn’t make me feel relaxed.

Mitchell leans back against the banquette, one long arm resting on the table, mug raised halfway to his lips in his other hand. “The question is, what were they doing searching small-time freighters out of the Wastes? ”

“Don’t know.” Ballga sighs and downs the last of whatever’s in her tin cup. The pleather squeaks as she slides along the banquette and rises from the table. “You’re a good kid, Mitchell. Take my advice and let the past stay in the past.”

The feline mechanic flicks a look my way, then slinks to the door, taking her empty cup with her.

Guess she’d rather sleep with a dirty dish than come near me .

As I watch the door hiss shut behind her, part of my mind registers a tail peeking out from the back of Ballga’s robe, twitching like the tail of an annoyed housecat. Another part of my brain struggles to process the news about the Houses.

The rest of me must be glitching again because suddenly Mitchell’s standing directly in front of me. My eyes are level with his muscular torso. I didn’t see him rise from the table, let alone cross the room.

I blink and raise my eyes to his face. He’s looking at me expectantly, like he asked a question and he’s waiting for a response.

I blink again.

“Gemma? You okay?” He cocks his head.

“Uh, sorry, what?” I swipe a hand over my eyes.

“I just asked if I could cut in and wash my mug. You look pale, though. You sure you’re all right? ”

“Yeah, just tired. It’s been a long day.” I step aside so he can take my post at the sink, then lean back against the counter and run a hand through my hair.

“Thanks for what you did for Sam earlier,” Mitchell says as he rinses his mug and places it upside down in the built-in drying rack. He finishes the dish I was working on, too, and pulls the plug from the drain. Water gurgles down the pipe. “Ballga should let you help with the engines. You seem to know what you’re doing.”

I snort. “She doesn’t trust me to wash her mug, let alone touch her precious light drive cylinders.”

“I’ll talk to her.” Mitchell searches my face, and half-smile curves his lips. “Skyside, huh? Tori’s right. Admittance is no mean feat.”

He can’t possibly intend that as a compliment. I cross my arms over my not-so-generous chest. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I cheated? That I bribed my way in?”

“Hey, I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to. I know how you see me. You think because I cheated my way onto your ship, I cheated my way in everything. Didn’t earn my place just like I didn’t earn my mods. You think you’re so righteous, so much better than everyone, but you take one look at my eyes and judge me just like everyone else does. You think—”

“You know what I think, Gemma?” The quiet of his voice somehow slices through my stream of accusations. “I think a person has to have been cut pretty damn deep to mistake a compliment for a blade the way you do.” He holds my gaze for what feels like a long moment, brows furrowed like he’s trying to work out a puzzle.

I’m so taken aback that I don’t respond as he moves past me to the door. It sighs open. Mitchell takes a step, then hesitates. He glances over his shoulder to where Vince still lounges with his flask, and then back to me, like he’s not keen on the idea of leaving me alone with the guy. I can practically see the patronizing thoughts going through the captain’s head, itching to form into admonishments he has no right to voice.

But in the end he just shakes his head. “’Night, Rich Girl.”

-X-

I glare at the door as it closes on Mitchell’s retreat, then stomp to the sunken oval and drop into the seat opposite Vince. I’d rather sit next to him, but his long legs take up most of the curved sofa he’s lounging on.

I slump against the backrest, blowing air between pursed lips. “Goody-Goody has nerve calling me Rich Girl. It’s pretty damn obvious he didn’t exactly come from the lower rungs himself. ”

And the captain’s got even worse nerve if that really was his attempt at a compliment. If he had any real clue about my past, he’d know I’m not dumb enough to fall for false kindness or soft handling or whatever bullshit he’s trying to pull on me.

A compliment for a blade. Ugh.

Vince lifts his flask without comment. He knocks back a swig, then looks me over in silence. His eyes linger on my bare waist and hips, making me glad I used the healing lotion from Sam’s first aid kit. The friction burns from my tree climbing adventure are long gone.

I force my annoyance at the captain from my mind and focus in on the bounty hunter. Vince’s constant teasing has implied he’d be more than willing to provide a much-needed distraction.

He’s replaced the rustic tunic from this morning with a fitted T-shirt. His arms are all lean muscle, tatted with black ink. A serpent coils around one arm and disappears under the hem of his sleeve. He takes in my body with half-closed lids, lashes as long and as thick as the fringe of a dark feather.

I bet they’d tickle feather-light against my neck.

The tingle of Mitchell’s breath on my nape when he pulled me from the tree flitters through my memory unbidden, making me shiver.

Damn my idiot hormones.

Maybe it felt good to be all wrapped up in the captain’s strong arms in that tree, but he was only there because he thinks I can’t handle myself. I’m an unwanted burden forced on him. A liability. Someone to pity. To judge. Not someone he’d hold because he wanted to.

Forget the overprotective jackass.

I don’t need his judgement.

I just need to get laid. And unlike Goody-Goody, Vince isn’t judging.

I bite my lower lip, watching as he takes another languid swallow from his flask. I hope it’s whiskey. The taste of my favourite liquor on a man’s tongue makes me think of sucking and fucking and all the things that blur my senses into a smear of taste and sound and touch and the glory of not having to think.

I sniff the air and I’m pretty sure I get a hint of the smoky scent I’m hoping for. “What’re you drinking?”

“Sevvian whiskey.”

Yes. Vince is definitely what I need right now.

He swivels so he’s fully facing me. His eyes flick to mine for a moment, but they end up resting on my navel piercing again.

I stretch and sling my arm over the backrest to give him a better view, then slide my other hand down my abdomen to fiddle with the jeweled bauble. “Some guys like to drink out of it.”

Vince drags his gaze back to my face, looking intrigued but cautious, like he’s not sure he heard me right. “What? ”

“Vodka… tequila… whiskey .” I flick a pointed glance at his flask. “From my belly button. They say they like the way the piercing feels on the tongue. And I like the way tongue feels on me.” I do my best innocent-not-innocent shrug. “So, win-win, right?”

One thick eyebrow rises. One side of Vince’s lip curls up. “Right.”

I smile to match my shrug.

I’ve given Vince a clear invitation. Now I want him to pursue me. I toy with the piercing for another beat, so he has time to use his imagination.

Then I turn the topic to something un-sexy.

“Do you think it’s true? What Mitchell and Ballga were saying about the Customs officers?” Just to mess with him, I slide my fingers idly lower toward the waistband of my leggings, like I’m going to have fun all on my own if he doesn’t offer himself up to help me soon.

Vince blinks and runs a hand through his hair, obviously trying to process the disparity between my sudden change of topic and my suggestive body language.

He drags his eyes from my hand and leans forward, resting his forearm on one knee, flask dangling from his fingertips. “I’m not sure about the Houses being involved, but the way they detained us wasn’t normal.”

“Hmm.” I slide a fingertip under my waistband .

His expression sharpens as he eyes me, and I get the sense he knows I’m fucking with him. “They were after someone specific. Someone they expected to come out of the Underground.”

Well, shit.

Vince can’t suspect me. All he knows is my history of low-level bounty gigs, nothing any bigshots would care about. Still, I’d better get this conversation back on track.

I stand and stretch, feigning lost interest. Then I step between his knees, intentionally putting my body in his space as I reach for his flask. “Can I bum a sip?”

He whips the drink out of my reach with a smirk. “If you can take it from me, it’s yours.”

I raise an eyebrow. He took down two of my father’s men in one night. There’s no way I’m getting the flask from him unless he allows it. I’m fully aware that he’s calling me out for messing with him. Turning the table so now he’s messing with me.

And yet, my competitive streak won’t let me ignore the challenge.

I lean forward, bracing my left palm against his chest and stretching my other arm to swipe at the upraised drink.

Vince lifts it farther.

I go on my tiptoes and swipe again. One finger grazes the metal base of the bottle .

“Close.” He waggles the flask like he’s toying with a housecat.

Cocky bastard.

I’m tempted to slip and accidentally knee him in the groin. But that might put a premature end to other plans I have for the evening. Instead, I shift my weight to the ball of one foot and lean farther.

I almost have it. If I just—

Vince wraps a hand around my hip and tugs me into his lap while I’m off balance.

I land hard on one muscular thigh, looking up at him. Our faces are close. His eyes are on my mouth. And his smirk is nowhere to be seen. Instead, his lips part with the decadent anticipation of someone about to indulge their vice.

He slides his hand from my hip to curve around my bare waist. The rough pad of his thumb grazes the soft flesh inside my hip bone, tingling my skin.

Fine.

I can ignore the dick move with the flask. I don’t need him to be a perfect sportsman, I just need to get laid.

I reposition so my knees dent the faux-leather upholstery on either side of Vince’s hips, tilt my chin so I’m looking up at him. “That wasn’t very nice.”

His smirk returns. “You wouldn’t be straddling me right now if I was a nice guy. ”

The smirk is somehow less annoying now that I have him between my legs. “Probably true.”

I look down at the place where our hips connect. A strip of bare skin is visible where Vince’s raised arm has tugged up the fabric of his shirt. A well-defined line of muscle dives from his lower abdomen to below his waistband, drawing my eye to a bulge that gives me a surge of victorious smugness even as it turns me on.

Maybe he was annoyed at me for fucking with him, but some part of him liked it.

I trace the line of ab muscle with two fingertips, enjoying the contrast between the silky softness of his skin and the hard muscle beneath.

When my fingers reach his waistband, I snake them under and slide them along the waist of his pants, toward the buttons below his navel. He makes a low, gravelly sound in his throat, and I look up to see his eyes have drifted closed. The arm with the flask is hooked around the back of the sofa, still held away from me, but relaxed.

My competitive streak flares. I could take it while he’s distracted.

But Vince’s body tugs my eyes back like a magnet, returning my attention to the strip of tanned skin. And the buttons. I allow my thumb to skim the plane of one metal disc. It’s warm from Vince’s body heat and pulled taut by his growing arousal .

My other hand hovers, ready to join in working the button free.

But no. Not yet.

I rip my gaze from Vince and dart for the flask. Before he has a chance to tighten his grip on the metal-and-wood body, I tear it from his fingers.

Vince’s eyes fly open as I dance backward. He swears.

I hold the flask behind me, a huge grin on my face.

Victory.

Not that I really wanted a drink that bad. I just wanted to prove I could win his stacked challenge. I cock my head. “Bet you didn’t—”

Before I’m aware Vince has moved, I’m twisted around. My back hits faux leather. Vince is on top of me, pinning me to the sofa, trapping my hand and the flask it holds behind my back.

I look up into his dark eyes, panting from shock. And maybe from lust, too. I like his sudden roughness. We’re nose to nose, lip to lip, maybe a centimetre of space between us and a kiss.

“You got me, DJ Girl.” Vince sounds a little surprised and a lot turned on. The smoky-sweet scent of whiskey laces his breath.

I’m imagining how it’ll taste on his tongue.

He moves closer, mouth grazing mine.

My lips part.

But he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he cants his head to the side and drags his mouth along the line of my jaw. A tingle races down my spine. I squirm and arch against him. I can feel his erection, fully hard now and pressing exactly where I need it as his lips trace my throat.

When he reaches the sensitive spot just below my ear, he stops there and whispers, “If you don’t want people to know you’re from a House, you shouldn’t go around putting your mods on display like you did tonight.”

Ice shoots through my veins. I scramble backward on the upholstered cushion, away from Vince.

He lets me go.

Our eyes remain locked as I push myself up on my elbows. “How did you know?”

Vince eyes me from head to toe. The heat’s still in his gaze, but I’m as frigid as the arctic pole of an ice planet.

“Who besides a member of a House would have mods to counteract poisoning?”

“Shit.”

Vince sits up and relaxes into the sofa with his usual carelessness, but his eyes stay fixed on mine.

I stand. “Look, Vince…”

“It’s not me you need to worry about on this ship, DJ Girl. I told you, you can trust me. ”

Yeah, right. Until you need something to hold over my head.

Which reminds me, I still have the flask. It’s heftier than I expected, the wood grainy against my fingertips. My arm twitches as I tighten my grip, and Vince’s eyes dart to the motion. Without warning, he’s up and in my space.

But I’m tense now, senses on high alert. He snakes an arm behind my back but I twist out of reach.

Vince swears. I dodge backward. I feel the floor rise behind my heel, and step up out of the sunken seating area.

Vince looks up at me like the battle is just getting started. He takes both steps in one stride. Stalks toward me like a man who expects to get what he came for. And I’m not sure whether that’s the flask or the sex I practically promised him. I back away.

He prowls forward.

He’s faster than me and I’m—

He strikes in a blur. I’m scooped up. My back hits the wall. One of Vince’s hands pins my wrist above my head. His other hand holds me up, curved under my ass, and my legs have automatically wrapped around him, hanging on for dear life.

He presses his thumb against my wrist, hard but not to the point of pain. It’s obvious he could push harder and force my hand to drop the flask .

He leans down so his face is in my face. “Fine,” he growls. “I’ll admit it. You’re messing with my head. What is it you want, DJ Girl? You wanna fight, or you wanna fuck?”

He grinds his hips into mine and I guess some part of me is still turned on despite the fear of his revelation, because the pressure of his cock against my soft places sends logic-numbing lightning through my brain.

“I…” I don’t know what I want but I can hear the moan in my voice. He’s going to know this is making me feel good.

“Fuck it.”

Vince lets my wrist go, tugs my chin up, and kisses me, rough, like he’s angry about it. Which I don’t fully understand. I thought he wanted this. I thought I wanted this, but I’m not kissing him back. I’m scared. Scared that he’s going to use my secrets against me. Scared of the game we’re playing here, a game where I thought I was in control and now I’m suddenly not sure I know the rules.

But God, he feels good pressed up against me, his hardness proof that whatever’s going on between us, his body’s responding to me like mine is to him. His tongue licks the seam of my lips and I let him in. He tastes exactly like I wanted him to. His hips rock against mine, sending another surge of that mindless pleasure through my body. Pleasure that could so easily make me forget.

Like he said, fuck it.

I let the flask drop. It hits the floor with a thunk as I slide my hands around Vince’s neck and kiss him back, lapping the smoky sweet promise of oblivion from his tongue.

He’s carrying me back to the sofa and I’m somehow tugging off his shirt and then mine in a blur of flying fabric. My back hits the cushion and he’s on top of me. I’m reaching, finally, for those buttons while he props himself up on one forearm to slide my bra strap down my shoulder.

He pauses, a silver glow reflected in his eyes.

Shit. The Delirium.

He traces the skin of my breast along the edge of the vial with a fingertip. “We using this?”

Oh God. Oh fuck. I want to say yes so bad. That little vial could wipe away the traces of fear and misgiving so quick. Make sex between me and Vince exactly as empty as I need it to be.

“I—”

A hiss sounds from the lounge door, stopping my response. Halting my hands in the midst of working open the next button.

“Vince?” It’s Tori’s voice. “Gemma? What’re you—?”

Vince sits up.

“Oh.” Tori’s tone has gone from momentary confusion to fury. “Oh fuck no. This is not happening. You promised!”

“What?” I sit up enough to peek at Tori’s face. “I didn’t—”

“No need to get all dramatic, Pink.”

“Off of her. Out of here.” Tori glares daggers at Vince while she stabs a finger at the door. “Now.”

“Get a grip, Tor.” I brush mussed hair out of my face, feeling like I don’t have enough blood in my brain to process why Tori’s so mad. “We were just—”

“You were just about to screw our boss.” Tori glares from me to Vince. “And he wasn’t about to stop you.”

“Stop me?” I narrow my eyes at her.

“Don’t be a wet blanket, Pink. We were just messing around. We weren’t—”

“No.” Tori cuts Vince off, jabbing a finger toward him like she’s threatening him with a burn-blade. “I told you she was like this. You promised you wouldn’t—”

“I said I wouldn’t jeopardize the job and I meant it.”

“You said you’d stick to business. And I said the job would be over before it started if you didn’t.”

Vince makes a frustrated noise in his throat, searching Tori’s face like he’s trying to decide whether it’s worth arguing further. “Fine.” He finds his shirt slung over the sofa back and takes his time pulling it on. “Message received. Business should be boring.” He stands and saunters for the door, hair mussed and that tantalizing sliver of skin still showing above his waistband. He looks over his shoulder at me and the hunger in his eyes says this isn’t over yet .

I want to get lost in him more than ever right now, and I’m so mad at Tori I’d like to do it just to spite her. Only shame keeps me from following him to his bunk. I can’t believe Tori told him I was like this.

When the door slides closed, I turn to glare at her, hurt burning a hole in my chest. “You talked to Vince about me? Behind my back?”

“No.” She looks away. “Not really. I just… warned him, that’s all.”

“Warned him? About what?”

She sighs. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“Warned him I was a slut?” I stand. “Like I’m some kind of rabid attack animal that needs to be kept at arm’s length?”

She sighs, crosses the room, and drops onto the sofa. “Warned him that you’re vulnerable, Gemma. That if he took advantage of you I’d quit the job and make sure you did, too.” Her tone is defeated. She looks around, clearly miserable. “But now here we are, stuck together in the middle of nowhere and I can’t do shit about it.”

I smother the pang of guilt I feel for getting the light drive fried. It doesn’t excuse Tori for running her mouth behind my back.

“I’m sorry, Gemma.” She rests her head in her hands. “I was only trying to protect you. ”

I shake my head. Why does everyone around here think I need protecting? “I survived life at Skyside, and I know you don’t have a clue, but that place is cutthroat, Tori. I survived that hellspa they call rehab. Survived the Underground. I’ve killed people, for God’s sake. I don’t need you to save me from the Big Bad Bounty Hunter.”

“Maybe not.” She lifts her head from her hands to give me a look of such genuine concern it sears. “But sometimes I think you might need saving from yourself.”

I can’t keep eye contact. I glance around the room and the gleam of Vince’s dropped flask catches my eye. I’m probably not convincing Tori she’s wrong about me by stalking over to pick it up. But that’s what I do. I pop off the top with my thumb, then throw my head back and swig. If I drink a lot, and fast, I can sometimes get a little buzz going before my mods start to counteract the toxins.

I need something to numb away all these messed up, swirling feelings.

Sweet, spicy liquid burns the back of my throat. I lower the flask, coughing and blinking rapidly. “You know what,” I walk back to Tori and stand by the edge of the sofa, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I just want to get buzzed and get over it.” I pass her the flask, half olive branch, half bribe to change the subject. “It’s good shit. Try it. ”

Tori takes the flask, but she doesn’t drink, just looks up at me with a pained expression. “This is a big job, Gemma. Galaxies bigger than anything we’ve tackled before. We just… need to keep our heads straight, okay?” She winces and rubs her temple with her free hand like she does when she’s getting an overload headache. “We have to stay focused on the goal. Not let anything get more complicated than it has to be. Not let emotions get in the way of business.”

She sounds like she’s talking to herself as much as she is to me, and I realize I have no idea how hard it must be for her, with her empathy mods on the fritz and everyone around her on edge. She’s got to be feeling the same pressure I am, only six times over, because she’ll be absorbing the emotions of all six people on this claustrophobic, broken-down funhouse of a ship.

Shit. I do feel guilty now. I drop onto the sofa next to her. “Don’t worry, Tor. Business before boys. I promise. And I’ll get us off this rock, too. A few more days, this last job, then we’ll finally be free.”

She just furrows her brow. She sniffs at the flask, then drinks.

Tori coughs, wrinkles her nose, then passes the whiskey back to me with an expression of distaste. “Go for it, Gee.”

I’m about to lift the weighty container to my lips for a good long chug when it hits me.

Vince’s flask is full .

I shake it, just to be sure.

Full almost to the top.

He’s been slouched carelessly on the sofa, nursing his whiskey, seeming indifferent to what’s going on around him for hours.

Hours.

And in all that time, he barely wet his tongue. Vince wasn’t oblivious. He was watching every move, listening to every word with disguised calculation.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I should have known Vince’s layabout facade was an act. Keeping alert and observant must be a huge part of what he does in his line of work. He figured out from one careless statement on my part that I’m from a House. Who knows what else he gleaned.

“I’m on your team, DJ Girl. It’s not me you need to worry about on this ship.” Vince’s comment replays in my mind. What did he mean? Could he have sensed something dangerous about the captain or his Tileah mechanic that I missed?

I drum my fingertips on the body of the flask. I’m going to do some digging. And if I can help it, I’m going to do it without spending any more one-on-one time with the captain. Even if it means I’ve got to suck it up and play friendly with Ballga.

At least with Granny Cat, I know where I stand.

I glance at Tori, hunched forward with her head in her hands, massaging her temples. Guilt and anger war within me. I get that she’s worried about the job, but she has no right to tell me what I can and can’t do with my body—or with whom. And the fact that she talked to Vince behind my back still stings, no matter her intentions.

For once, I don’t allow the guilt to act as a salve against the anger. Don’t ball it up into that hard coal in my chest reserved for the hurt I can’t face. I let it burn. It’s good. A much-needed reminder that caring only ever leads to heartache.

I lift the flask to my lips and drain it dry. Pain flares as the liquid hits the fresh wound in my heart like acid.

It’s too late to save myself from the pain of loving Tori, but the hurt of this little betrayal will remind me never to slip again. No more letting people in.

Especially not people who try to get my guard down with compliments and whose insights are entirely too insightful. It hurts so much more when the things that seem genuine turn out to be lies.