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Her expression grows canny. “She wasn’t a good fit for him. I simply made sure that she found a master more suited to her nature. I’m sure she’s very happy in her new home, and Nerit forgot all about her soon enough. I know how to keep him content, Bethy. I know him and I know what he likes. Is he nearby? You can take me over to his ship and —”
“He doesn’t want you, Rhonda.” I’ve been trying to soften the blow, but it’s obvious she’s not listening. “He didn’t ask to have you back. When he heard you hired us, he tried to hire us to get rid of you. He didn’t care if you were murdered or sold to someone else, just as long as you weren’t his problem anymore. Do you get it now?”
She blinks. “You must have heard him wrong.”
“I assure you, I know a murder bounty when I hear one. You’re on your own, I’m afraid.”
Rhonda licks her lips. “I see.”
“You all right?”
She blinks her eyes rapidly and then reaches through the food slot to touch my hand. “Thank you for being so kind —”
I pull away. “Nope. That’s not going to work. I don’t want you either.”
Rhonda makes an outraged sound. “Let me talk to Jamef —”
“Again, no.” I flick the food slot shut, getting a little too much pleasure out of the yelp she makes when it smacks against her hand and she withdraws it. “It looks like you’re in one piece, so I’m going to leave you in there for now.”
“What are you going to do with me? Are you going to sell me?” She raps on the door, her voice hollow and tinny again. “Bethy, we can talk about this —”
“We’re going to Risda,” I call out to her through the door. “I hope you like fresh vegetables, because you’re gonna be growing them.”
She makes another outraged sound, and I have to admit, it brings a smile to my face for the first time today.
One Hundred Twenty-One
BETHIAH
Two days later, we’re orbiting just outside Jerrok’s junk station. It looks the same as ever—desiccated corpses of ships floating around like the universe’s most cluttered asteroid field. Piles of broken machinery chained together and floating free. A comm satellite floats next to a delivery freighter that’s missing the front end. In the center of this vortex of space junk is the station itself, coated with garbage thanks to the artificial gravitational pull on the system that leaks out into the surrounding space.
Jerrok doesn’t mind the mess. He says it keeps away unwanted guests. At this point, I’m used to it, too. I turn the Pleasure Spot onto manual controls and ease my way through the mess with all the speed of a crawling infant. In a way, it’s a good thing to sink myself into the piloting of the ship. I need the distraction.
It’s been hard to have Jamef in stasis for the last few days. So hard. I miss his strong form. I miss the way he rolls his eyes at my wild ideas. I miss his smile. His cock. His tail twining with mine. Dora and I sleep together at night, wrapped around each other, but it’s not the same without him. We tried having sex and it just felt wrong knowing he was in med-bay, unconscious. Dora cries every night, and I hold her close and wish that I could cry, too. But I’m being strong for her, and for the other humans on board who need me to keep my shit together.
Once I’m close enough to the docking bay, I send a request for the bay doors to open so I can land.
No response.
I send another automated request from the ship to the station.
When that gets no response either, I make a face at the console. “So we’re gonna be like that, huh? Fine, you big baby.”
And I send a personal comm to the station itself.
It takes forever before the station finally acknowledges my request. I put a bright smile on my face and beam at the vid comm, only to see Jerrok’s big ugly face scowling back at me.
“Have you decided to apologize?” he asks.
“What the kef am I apologizing for?” I retort.
The comm abruptly ends.
I huff. Apparently my beloved cousin has his tail kinked over something. I initiate a comm again, smiling into the screen. This time, when Jerrok accepts the call, I give him a sweet apology. “I am so sorry. So, so sorry.”
He isn’t satisfied. He crosses his arms—new cybernetics, and fine ones at that—over his chest. “And just what are you sorry for?”
I’m supposed to know? I shrug. “I’m sorry that I made you mad about something?”
Jerrok growls, leaning in to the screen. “You stole a ship, Bethiah! Remember? The last time you were here? The briskwing racer?”
