Starflight (24 page)

Instead, he turned Solara’s knuckles to face him and skimmed a thumb over the codes tattooed on her skin. Strange how the markings didn’t bother him anymore. If his assets weren’t frozen, he’d hire a flesh forger to give her a new start. After everything she’d done for him, she deserved it.

“So you can stand to look at them now?” she asked.

“What?”

“That day in the washroom, right before the propellant cell broke. You told me that if you could stand to look at my tattoos, then so could I.” She pulled her hands away and tucked them beneath her thighs.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “You never gave me a chance to explain.”

“Okay, then.” One eyebrow lifted in challenge. “Explain.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

Doran noticed that chills had broken out along her thighs—not that he was staring or anything. Just a casual observation. And since the problem in his shorts had abated, he lifted the covers and invited her to join him. She hesitated for a beat, then crawled in beside him, and soon they lay six inches apart in mirrored positions, facing the ceiling with their hands folded on top of their stomachs.

“All right,” she said, cozying in. “Make it good.”

“This story doesn’t have a happy ending,” he warned, and though he hadn’t intended it, his voice sounded dark. She turned her neck to face him, but he stared straight ahead. It was easier that way. “A lot of this is public knowledge. I’m surprised you never heard about it.”

“No gossip tabloids in the group home,” she told him.

“It was a big deal when it happened, but that was a long time ago. Even if you saw it on the news, I guess you would’ve forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

“I was abducted when I was nine,” he said, the rote words rolling easily off his tongue. “Me and my brother, we were held for ransom. The nanny was in on it. She disabled the alarm and let the guys in the back door while everyone was asleep.”

Solara pushed onto her elbows, forcing him to make eye contact with her. “You have a brother? I didn’t know that.”

“I don’t,” he said, and paused to let that sink in. “Not anymore.”

A tattooed hand flew to her breast, and when Doran blinked, he saw the inky knuckles of the man who’d clapped a palm over his mouth and dragged him from his bed that night. There had been so many markings—rows and rows of them, right on top of each other—and he hadn’t understood what they’d meant. Until the next day, when he was locked inside a closet with a concussion and a bloody lip. Then he’d learned.

Solara brought him back to the present with a gentle touch. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “How old was he?”

“Same age as me. We were twins.”

“Twins,” she echoed. “That must have made losing him even harder. I’ve heard that twins have a special bond.”

Doran couldn’t say whether or not that was true, because he had no other siblings, and nothing to compare it to. He recalled that he and Gage were like two sides of a coin—made from the same mold but distinctive enough to anyone who paid attention. Doran took after their father, crushing the other kids’ lemonade stands by undercutting prices, while Gage shadowed their mom in her laboratory, peering over the counter in awe of her experiments. But despite their differences, he and his brother were unstoppable partners in crime. They’d learned at an early age that the nanny couldn’t tell them apart, and because she could never be sure which boy she’d seen jumping on the sofa or dropping marbles inside the piano, neither of them were ever punished.

Of course, she’d paid them back—in spades.

Doran realized he’d fallen silent, and he turned to Solara with an apology in his eyes. But Solara didn’t seem to mind. She quietly lay back down and hooked an arm through his, then waited until he was ready to go on.

“Anyway,” he finally said. “My father didn’t trust the Enforcers to rescue us, so he hired a group of mercenaries to do the job.” And to their credit, they had. No one could’ve foreseen what happened next. “They found us two days later in an ancient row house outside the city. The plan was to storm the place and take us by force, but when the team threw a stun grenade through the window, it sparked a gas leak, and the whole house went up in flames.”

Even now, Doran could taste the bitter stun gas that had made his limbs heavy and his sight dim. The grenade had done its job, ensuring that no one in the house could move. From inside the closet, he’d lain on moldy carpet and listened to the screams of men too drugged to haul themselves out of the fire’s path. Above the noise of chaos, he’d heard Gage wailing in agony. It was a horrible sound that no amount of therapy could make him forget, though not for lack of trying.

“One of the mercenaries found me in a closet,” Doran said. “But by the time he carried me outside, the top floor had collapsed, and it wasn’t safe to go back in.”

A dozen men lost their lives that day: three inked felons, eight hired guns, and the other half of Doran’s coin. The fire had burned so long and hot that investigators didn’t expect to find any bodies. But Doran’s mother had refused to give up until Gage was recovered, swearing that her son’s last resting place wouldn’t be in that house. She’d held firm, and the following week they found his remains, still bound at the wrists and ankles.

Doran wished he didn’t know that detail.

“That’s why you hate closets,” Solara said.

“And felony tattoos,” he added, lifting her hand to study her knuckles. “The men who took me had them.”

In a blur, she jerked her hand away and detangled their arms. “Oh no,” she said, bolting upright so quickly she shook the mattress. “It’s a trigger for you. That’s why you flipped out the first time you saw me without gloves. And why you kept quiet when I said this crew might ransom you.”

Doran was about to say yes, but she didn’t give him the chance.

She scrambled out of bed, apologizing over and over and ignoring him when he asked her to come back. Then, after rooting through her clothes, she pulled on those damned fingerless gloves again.

“No,” he insisted as he propped himself on both elbows. “Take them off.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “I don’t mind wearing them.”

“I mind, damn it!” He hadn’t meant to shout, but if she started covering her knuckles again, it wouldn’t be to protect his delicate sensibilities. “I want to see your ink. It’s part of who you are.”

“But—”

“But nothing. I don’t care what we said before. The day you took off those gloves and told me your story was the day we became friends. If you hide from me now, it’s like taking a step backward.” He knew he shouldn’t care. Soon he’d be gone and none of this would matter. But it
did
matter, to him. “Just take them off.”

She hesitated.

“Please,” he said. “For me.”

She peeled the gloves from her hands but avoided his eyes afterward as she brushed and braided her hair. The conversation died, and when he offered to eat breakfast with her in the galley, she insisted that he stay in bed. He objected, making it only as far as the chamber door before a dizzy spell sent him back beneath the sheets.

Stupid traitor body.

More than the silent treatment, Doran hated lying around like an invalid while other people pulled his weight. Everyone on board the
Banshee
had a purpose: Renny navigated, Solara repaired, Cassia and Kane tackled the day-to-day chores, and the captain generally saved their asses. All Doran had accomplished was one lousy pirate divorce.

You’ll never change, and you’ll never make a difference. When you die, no one will miss you, because your life won’t matter. You don’t matter.

He knew Solara didn’t believe those words now, but they still stung because, deep down, there was a kernel of truth to them. He was the reason the
Banshee
was hiding like an insect inside this asteroid. Half the quadrant was hunting him, and if the Daeva ever picked up his location, they’d use it to capture the crew. The kindest thing he could do for these people was leave. At least he’d make a difference in that small way.

“Are you sure you’re strong enough for this?” Solara asked, her gaze averted as she nudged his duffel bag with the toe of her boot. “There’s no hurry.”

No hurry
. That was what the crew kept telling him, but another week had passed, and Doran couldn’t stay here forever. The dizzy spells had subsided, and honestly, he’d felt fit for travel a while ago. But he couldn’t admit to that, so he deflected with a question of his own. “Are you sure you won’t come with me? It makes sense. We’re both going to the fringe.”

Yesterday he’d broken down and told her that his coordinates were located in the outer realm. His father wouldn’t approve, but Doran didn’t care. He trusted Solara, and he didn’t want to make the journey alone.

“Thanks, but they need me here.” She mumbled something about leaking coolant coils in the main engine. “Your ship probably runs like a gazelle.”

“What about the Daeva?”

She shrugged. “No matter what I do, I’m not safe. If I stay here, it’s the Daeva. If I go with you, it’s Demarkus and the Enforcers. Six one way, half a dozen the other.”

He couldn’t really argue with that.

“But,” she added, “I’ll shuttle you to your ship.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Doran told her. “Kane said he would.”

“I want to.” She finally peeked up at him, a hesitant grin sparkling in her eyes. “It’s only fitting. I’m the one who started you on this wild ride.”

“True. Did I ever thank you for that?”

She cocked her head in mock offense. “No, I don’t believe you did.”

“Not surprising,” he said. “I’m an asshole like that.” She rewarded him with a peal of laughter, and in that moment, he would’ve paid anything to bottle the sound. “Take this instead,” he added, handing over the fuel chip necklace. “Money’s more useful than words.”

“Won’t you need it?”

He shook his head. It was company policy to keep a sack of fuel chips inside all Spaulding-owned vessels. He would have more than enough to sustain him through this job and perhaps beyond. Solara fastened the leather cord behind her neck, then tucked the metal coins beneath her shirt. It made Doran think of something, and he smiled.

“I challenged Demarkus for you,” he said. “And now you’re wearing my token. You know what this means, right?”

She laughed again. “Look at me, jumping from one pirate husband to another.”

“What would the nuns say?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“It’s a deal.” He extended a hand to shake. “Our little secret.”

But when Solara slid her palm against his, it wasn’t enough.

Doran pulled her into an embrace and wrapped both arms around her shoulders, fully expecting her to pull back. She surprised him by locking both wrists at the base of his spine and resting a cheek on his chest, a reaction that pleased and shattered him in equal measure. Because now it would be twice as hard to walk away.

Long seconds ticked by, but her body felt so warm and soft that he resisted breaking the hug. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed human contact. So he buried his nose in the braids encircling her head and breathed in the lingering scent of oil vapors from the engine room, intoxicating when blended with her natural sweetness. He never imagined the combination could smell so good, and he wished he could bottle that, too.

In the end, she was the first to pull away.

“Ready?” she asked.

He hid his disappointment and slung his bag over one shoulder. Then he made his way through the
Banshee
, shaking hands and trading well wishes until there was no choice but to board the shuttle and head toward his destination.

They arrived at the ship’s hiding place far too quickly for Doran’s liking, a flat patch of onyx sand on the opposite side of Obsidian from the beaches, where an ancient salt ocean had long ago died and surrendered to the desert. No tourists ventured here. Nothing but jet-black dunes stretching for miles in every direction. He doubted that anything survived here at all.

He scanned the area and noticed a slight color variation in the sand, roughly the length of a small passenger craft. “There’s the ship,” he said, pointing. “It’s under a tarp.”

Solara nodded and landed nearby.

Once the thrusters died and they opened the shuttle doors, a scorching wall of heat slammed into them with the force of a tsunami. Wind danced over the arid landscape, offering no relief whatsoever. The air was so hot and devoid of moisture that it reminded Doran of aiming a blow-dryer at his face.

“So this is what hell looks like,” Solara observed, glancing this way and that. “Does your father always hide his ships in the desert?”

“Just this one. He insisted on it.” Doran found an edge of the tarp buried beneath the sand and began pulling it up. In seconds, the light task had him sweating like a linebacker. Solara helped, and before long, they had the ship uncovered. It was a sedan-class vessel, standard for the kind of traveling he’d done as an intern.

“Want me to stay awhile?” she asked. “I should at least make sure the engine starts.”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll radio you if I need help.”