Chapter 6 The Rust Bucket
The Rust Bucket
Polly
The Pink Slip is dying.
Okay, that’s dramatic. She’s not dying—she’s just bleeding out in about seven different critical systems while making sounds that no ship should ever make.
The kind of groaning, metallic wheeze that says I tried my best, Captain, but you really shouldn’t have asked me to outrun three Meridian kill-ships while also doing a barrel roll through an asteroid field.
In my defense, we didn’t have a lot of options.
“STATUS REPORT,” Zip announces in what I’ve learned to recognize as his ‘deeply concerned but maintaining professional dignity’ voice.
“COOLANT MANIFOLD IS HOLDING AT JURY-RIG STABILITY. STEALTH DRIVE FLICKERING BETWEEN TWELVE AND EIGHTEEN PERCENT EFFICIENCY. NAVIGATION ARRAY SUGGESTS WE ARE CURRENTLY LOCATED IN WHAT IT DESCRIBES AS ‘DEFINITELY SPACE, PROBABLY.’”
“That’s helpful, Zip. Really narrows it down.” I’m hunched over the cockpit console, running calculations that keep coming up with the same unhelpful answer. The Zater Reach is too far. Way too far for a ship that’s basically being held together by spite and my exceptional repair skills.
“ADDITIONALLY,” Zip continues, “OUR DIGITAL SIGNATURE IS COMPROMISED. MERIDIAN TAGGED US DURING THE CHASE. IF WE ATTEMPT TRANSIT THROUGH ANY STI-MONITORED JUMP POINT, WE WILL LIGHT UP THEIR SENSORS LIKE A SUPERNOVA.”
“So we’ll either explode mid-jump or announce our location to every Meridian ship in three sectors. Great. Love that for us.”
Behind me, I hear Rynn shift in the co-pilot’s chair like he’s posing for a royal portrait.
Despite the fact that we’ve been shot at, chased through an asteroid field, and nearly frozen to death in my bunk—where he pinned me down and threatened to fuck me until I forgot my own name—he still looks.
.. immaculate. Annoyingly, perfectly immaculate.
I am not thinking about how those thighs felt bracketing mine. Or how his hand felt between my legs. Or how he tasted like—
Focus, Polly.
His posture is rigid, his jacket is unwrinkled, and his golden eyes are fixed on the viewport with a calm that makes me want to scream. Or climb him. Possibly both.
“We cannot make the jump to the Zater Reach in this condition,” he states, his voice smooth and maddeningly logical. “The distance is too great. The Pink Slip will disintegrate in the slipstream.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Lord Sunshine.” I bank the ship hard to the left, sliding us into the dense, swirling orange gas of the nebula. The maneuver presses me back in my seat, and I’m suddenly, viscerally aware of the seam of my flight suit dragging across—
Nope. Not going there.
“And you’re right. We can’t make the jump. Which is why we’re making a pit stop.”
He stiffens, and I watch the muscles in his jaw flex. That jaw I wanted to bite. Still want to bite. Stars, I want to climb onto his lap right here in the cockpit and—
“A pit stop?” His voice cuts through my increasingly inappropriate thoughts. “We are being hunted by a Meridian kill-squad, Polly. Stopping is death.”
“Flying a ship that’s spewing coolant and radiation is also death, just louder.” I tap a sequence into the nav-computer, very deliberately not looking at how his hands rest on his thighs. Those elegant, long-fingered hands that know exactly how to—
Stop. Just stop.
A new destination locks in—a jagged, ugly cluster of coordinates buried deep in the sector’s trash belt. “We’re going to Junker’s Rest.”
Rynn leans forward, reading the data on his screen. His lip curls. It’s a subtle movement, elegant and disdainful, and it does absolutely terrible things to my insides. Things that involve that mouth on various parts of my body.
“Junker’s Rest? That designation is flagged in the STI database as a Class-4 hazardous waste zone and known criminal haven.”
“Exactly,” I grin, though my heart is hammering against my ribs and I’m still wet from this morning when he growled in my ear that I’d smell like him. “No sensors, no patrols, and they only take cash. It’s perfect.”
“It is a garbage dump.”
“It’s my garbage dump. And right now, it’s the only place we can get a stealth stabilizer without flagging your family’s enemies.”
I level the ship out, bringing us into the approach vector.
Through the swirling gas, the station appears—a massive, floating monstrosity welded together from the hulls of dead starships.
It looks like a robotic tumor growing in space, bristling with mismatched antennas and leaking atmosphere.
It’s ugly, dangerous, and smells like ozone and bad decisions.
Home sweet home.
“Zip, kill the transponder,” I order. “We’re going in quiet.”
“TRANSPONDER OFF. SHIELDS DOWN to 10%. PRAYING TO THE BINARY GODS INITIATED.”
I spin my chair to face Rynn. He’s already reaching for his blaster, checking the charge with efficient, lethal movements. I watch his hands, remembering how they felt on my hips, digging in, holding me still while he ground against me.
My mouth goes dry.
“Okay, listen up, Your Highness,” I say, unbuckling my harness and standing on legs that feel less steady than they should. “Rules of the Rest. Rule one: No names. Rule two: Cash only. Rule three: If someone offers you ‘blue milk,’ say no, unless you want to hallucinate for three days.”
He stands too, smoothing his jacket. The motion draws my eye to his chest, and I’m suddenly flooded with the memory of how those micro-scales felt under my palm. How they fluttered and warmed when I touched him. How his whole body vibrated with that subsonic purr.
“I am capable of handling a criminal outpost, Polly.”
“Are you?” I step into his personal space—too close, way too close—and the air between us instantly thickens. Hot and heavy and charged with everything we almost did. Everything we’re going to do. Because it’s not a question of if anymore. It’s when.
And I can tell by the way his pupils dilate that he’s thinking the exact same thing.
“Because you look like you just walked out of a diplomatic summit.” My voice comes out breathier than intended. “You’re too clean. Too shiny. You scream ‘rich hostage’ or ‘undercover cop.’ Both of which get you stabbed in the neck before we even clear the airlock.”
He frowns, looking down at his expensive, tailored suit. “This is Aethel-weave. It is resistant to—”
“It’s resistant to dirt. That’s the problem.” I reach out, grabbing the lapels of his jacket, and feel the sudden tension in his body. Every muscle locking tight. Just like they did when I ground against him in the bunk.
I wonder if he’s hard right now. I wonder if he’s been hard since we left the Fringe. I wonder what would happen if I just dropped to my knees and—
“What are you doing?” His voice drops an octave, that low rumble vibrating in his chest. The same rumble I felt against my back when he was buried between my thighs, telling me all the filthy things he wanted to do to me.
“Making you blend in.” I yank his collar, popping the top button. My knuckles brush his throat, and I feel his pulse jump. “You need to look less like a diplomat and more like a guy who’s had a rough week.”
I reach up and mess up his hair—his perfect, silky, dark hair that I want wrapped around my fist while he’s buried inside me—shoving my fingers through it until it looks appropriately disheveled.
He stands perfectly still, barely breathing. His eyes are locked on my face, pupils blown wide, and I can see the gold starting to bleed into the black. His throat works as he swallows.
“Better,” I whisper, my voice a little breathless. I grab a rag from the console, smudge a little grease on my thumb. “But you’re still too pretty.”
I reach up to brush the grease along his sharp jawline—that jaw I desperately want to feel between my thighs—and the moment my fingertip makes contact, electricity jumps between us. Literal sparks. The micro-scales beneath his skin flutter, warming, responding to my touch.
He catches my wrist in an iron grip, his thumb pressing into my pulse point. Holding me. Trapping me.
“Is this necessary?” he asks, his voice rough and strained.
“Unless you want to be mugged for your cheekbones?” I try to laugh, but it comes out as a shaky exhale. “Yes.”
He doesn’t let go. He steps closer, so close his thighs brush mine, and I can feel the heat radiating off him. That enhanced Valorian temperature that kept me alive last night. That I want wrapped around me again. In me.
“You enjoy this,” he says, his grip tightening just a fraction. “Tarnishing me.”
“Maybe I just like seeing the cracks in the armor.” My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it. His thumb strokes across my pulse, and the touch sends heat straight between my legs.
I’m wet. Again. Still. I’ve been wet ever since he kissed me like he was trying to consume my soul.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and I watch his control fracture. Just a little. Just enough to see the hunger underneath.
“Polly.” My name sounds like a warning. Or a prayer.
For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. I think he’s going to push me back against the console and finish what we started. My lips part, waiting, wanting—
“DOCKING CLAMPS ENGAGED,” Zip booms, shattering the moment. “WELCOME TO JUNKER’S REST. ATMOSPHERIC QUALITY: QUESTIONABLE. CHANCE OF TETANUS: HIGH. CHANCE OF CAPTAIN AND PASSENGER COMPLETING THEIR UNFINISHED BUSINESS: STATISTICALLY INEVITABLE.”
“Zip!” I yelp, jerking back.
“SIMPLY STATING THE OBVIOUS DATA POINTS.”
Rynn releases my wrist slowly, his gaze lingering on my mouth for one torture-filled second before he steps back.
The mask slides back into place—the cool, detached diplomat—but I can see the tension in his jaw.
The way his hands flex at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from reaching for me again.
“Lead the way, Captain,” he says, his voice carefully controlled. “Let us acquire your parts and leave this cesspool.”