6. Attraction in the Middle of Nowhere
6
Attraction in the Middle of Nowhere
B laze
You are an idiot, Blaze , I tell myself . Did seventeen years in the foster care system on Earth teach you nothing?
I’m in the middle of nowhere with a strip of metal as protection against a seven-foot gladiator built bigger than any linebacker on Earth. He’s a killer. He outweighs me by a hundred pounds, and he just ripped off the tiny strip of cloth covering his junk. And, yeah, he waited for me to get injured so he wouldn’t have to run fast to catch me.
I can’t see much of the rough terrain, but I can see Mr. Macho’s cock. His name is Titan, doesn’t that mean huge? It should have been my first hint.
“Come here,” his voice is low and rough.
I hobble back toward where we came from, but don’t get more than ten feet before he’s got my upper arm in his iron grip.
Although I excelled in my rigorous sniper course, I can’t say the same about hand-to-hand combat. I wriggle and pull and attempt a few takedowns, but I can’t slip free.
My knee barely connects with his balls before he lifts me up and almost slams me against his upthrust knee in a move designed to break my back. I watch his eyes open wide, as if his behavior surprised him.
Just as fast as he grabbed me, he sets me down so hard my teeth clack together in pain.
“I was going to bind your ankle. My loincloth happens to be the only clothing I have. Forget I tried. The offer is officially off the table. Keep up or don’t. I don’t care.”
He strides off faster than his previous pace.
“Shit,” I say as I hobble after him. “What was I supposed to think? We’re not exactly besties. You ripped your clothes off the moment we were alone.”
“Just because I kill for a living, Slayer , does not make me a monster. I’m not a rapist. Forget it. I won’t try to help you in the future.”
He takes off again, his loincloth thrown over his shoulder. I follow as best I can, trying not to yelp every time my ankle takes another jolt. Maybe I’m crazy, but I think he’s slowed his pace.
“Titan,” I say when I finally catch up with him. “If you’re, uh, not going to use that loincloth, think I could borrow it?”
He stops, turns, and inspects me longer than we have time for. His blue alien face is hard. Harder than it was back in that gymnasium.
He’s got thick plates on his forehead and cheeks. They aren’t unattractive. They accentuate the masculine planes and angles of his face. His lips are plush and a deep shade of blue. Before our journey, I noticed how good they looked against his blue/green skin. His hair is blue/black in the pale moonlight. It was impossible to miss his piercing blue eyes in the bright lights of the gym. He’s kind of handsome, in an alien way.
“I’m waiting for an apology,” he says, his voice harsh, demanding, his gaze not leaving mine.
This male is a mountain. He kills people for a living. He admitted he might throw me to the wolves if the going got rough. But I think he was offended by my assumption that he was going to assault me.
“Titan, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” my voice is filled with sincerity.
He scoffs and tosses his head, the alien equivalent of an eyeroll. “You can’t hurt a gladiator’s feelings, little female. I don’t have any.”
My traveling companion is a liar. I must have hurt his feelings, or he wouldn’t have demanded an apology.
He kneels at my feet, one foot flat on the ground so his knee is bent at a ninety degree angle, and then pats his thigh. After I remove my boot and place my foot on his flesh, he wraps the rag in a figure eight around my ankle and the arch of my foot. The amount of tension he uses is perfect. He’s probably done this a hundred times.
There’s something bizarrely intimate about this. One of his hands is on my calf, steadying me, the other is wrapping and lifting in turn. His hands are surprisingly gentle.
I almost lose my balance, so I grab his shoulders. He has plating here, too. It reminds me of a pliable shell that baby turtles have. The rest of his skin is like thick suede over steel. It’s a compelling combination of formidable and sexy. I shake my head to banish that thought.
The moment he ties off the end of the fabric, he rises and heads west, seeming not to care whether I follow or not.
I quickly shove my foot into my boot and secure the binding around the ankle. If I didn’t have the bad habit of leaving the bindings loose, the sprained ankle would have never happened in the first place. I make sure the bindings are tight now.
The wrap and tighter binding on my boot help stabilize the sprain and will reduce the swelling, but even using the steel bar as a walking stick, every step sends a shock of pain through me. I clamp my lips together and follow as closely as I can.
I learned how to fight early in life. I had a few foster homes that weren’t bad, but more than my share were just in it for the money. Food wasn’t plentiful and if you wanted to eat, you had to create a place toward the top of the family pecking order.
I may have been short, but I learned how to elbow, kick, and snitch with the best of them to get my basic needs met. Then I joined the military, where I developed next-level skills.
Perhaps I should thank my lucky stars that the last three years were relatively bully-free in my Halckon Mistress’s house. I was the only slave, and although there was a ton of work to do, there was no one around to torment me.
I’ve never felt as vulnerable as I do tonight. All those people in that gymnasium waiting for The Game to begin were bigger and stronger than me. I need Titan more than I want to admit.
This place, bathed in watery moonlight, is eerie. The path we’re walking must have been bombed into oblivion. There’s nothing but rubble the size of my fist or smaller. About a block from our path, there are buildings—a small abandoned city—that look like a bombed-out war zone.
It’s silent except for the occasional squeak of a rodent.
“Is it time to head north?” I ask even as I wonder when I gave up any fight for supremacy and handed total decision-making power to Titan.
“Attention all contestants,” a female voice emits from the two drones that have been following us since we left the building. “Government regulations require us to give you a six-hour break. You have ten minutes to seek shelter. From that moment, if you move more than ten feet from your location, we will set your collar to 10-power until you expire. We want to ensure The Game is fair.”
“Fair,” I snort in derision.
“We’ll shelter in one of these buildings. Hurry,” he says as he takes off. I limp after him. He’s able-bodied and can see in the dark. I’ll let him do recon because he’s going to reach our destination before me. I hope he picks the least rat-infested structure.
“They’ll be unstable,” I call to him. “Watch out.”
Ten minutes later, we’re huddled on the second floor of what might have been an old apartment house. It smells like dust and cement. I relieved myself outside before I entered. I don’t want to break the ten-foot rule, nor do I want to go to the bathroom in front of Titan.
“Time,” the AI says. “Out of one-hundred contestants, forty-seven remain alive. Three have reached the goal. Government regulations mandate you receive one bottle of water and one nutrition bar, which we will deliver to you by drone. Update, forty-six remain alive, two have reached the goal.”
Titan
I knew it was smart to avoid a direct route. There must have been several skirmishes resulting in a high death toll. The last casualty they announced must have been at the flag.
“Even if we reach the flag, how are we going to win against all the other contestants?” Slayer asks. “The people who are already there are going to pick us off.”
“I don’t know, but worry does no good. Get some sleep.”
I use my booted foot to scrape enough rubble out of the way to lie down. When I watch her doing the same, she sucks in a harsh breath. She’s clearly in pain, so I lift her out of the way and do it for her.
“Thanks.”
Trusting neither the other contestants nor the producers, we spent our last minute putting rocks on the steps, hoping it would warn us of intruders. During our last few seconds, we gathered larger pieces of the crumbling structure and put them across the open doorway to trip an intruder or at least alert us. Our steel bars are lying beside us. If someone enters, they’ll be the only weapons we have.
As I lie down I notice my back for the first time since I arrived at The Game. My species heals fast. The plating on my back is especially hearty. Between the painkillers and my metabolism, I’m out of pain. I’ll be fully healed by morning.
“The cement is cold,” Slayer says when she lies down.
We’re inches from each other, face to face. In the gymnasium, I thought she looked bland and unattractive, but she’s grown on me.
She’s staring at me and for the first time in my life, I want to ask another person what they’re thinking. I won’t, though. It’s obvious she doesn’t like me. It’s equally obvious that if a miracle happens and we both get to the flag, I’m going to have to kill her.
The drones’ small vid screens flash and draw our attention with the word “Ranking”. Next to the picture with my name it says “4/46” and hers says “46/46”. A moment later, the screens read “4/45” and “45/45.” I’m surprised I’m not ranked higher. Hahn may have falsified my identity, but no one could look at me and not realize I’m a gladiator.
My drone’s screen informs me I have 122 credits to spend. I choose to buy four nutrition bars since they’re so generously supplying only one and I haven’t eaten all day.
Slayer’s drone says she has 6,001 credits. She’s high on the credits tote board, a favorite with the viewers, although she’s ranked last in her odds to win.
“I don’t have enough for a laser rifle. Crap,” she says, her gaze scrolling through the menu as if she thinks she’ll find an ion cannon in her price range.
When she tries to buy a laser pistol, the AI informs her, “That option is not available at this time,” and turns off.
“Shit!” she yells. “You could have at least let me buy food!”
“I’ll give you one of my bars,” I offer before I can stop myself.
“You need it to sop up some of the drugs in your system. I’ll survive on what I’ve got.”
“How’d you know I was drugged?” I ask, my voice laced with suspicion.
Is this all part of The Game ? Is she a plant? It makes sense. Why would anyone who looks like her be entered into this contest? It’s obvious she has no chance of winning.
“Glassy eyes, unsteady on your feet, slowed reflexes, and perhaps the clear plas-film on your back that does nothing to hide the stripes of a lash. Looks like someone beat the shit out of you right before you barged into the holding area.”
“I’m clearheaded now and my species heals fast. I’ll be fine in the morning. If you don’t kill me while I sleep.”
“I need your help to reach the flag. I assume you feel the same way about me. Once we’re there, anything goes.”
She’s honest, I’ll give her that.
I turn away from her, although I’m too edgy to drift to sleep.
“So, what happened to your back?” she asks.
I’m silent for a long time as I wonder how much to tell her. I don’t want my entire life story to tumble out and be broadcast across the galaxy, so I simply say, “Punishment.”
“I must have ESP. I figured that out already,” her tone is sarcastic.
I’ve never had a friend. A ludus isn’t built for that. You might have to kill your friend tomorrow. With Slayer, the odds of me having to kill her are even higher. Somehow, though, I want to talk.
“My master and mistress had a fight and took it out on me.” Perhaps this will earn me sympathy points with the viewers.
Her fingers skate along the plas-film so softly I barely feel her touch.
“When?” she asks.
“Right before I was hovered to The Game .”
“Brutal. Have you been a slave for long?”
“Aye.”
Her fingers have migrated to my arm. It’s safer territory—unharmed.
“Do you think your parents are watching?”
“No. My name’s been changed a handful of times. I’m over a decade older than when I was kidnapped, and I’m not the carefree male they knew before I was abducted. They may be watching, but they won’t know I’m their son. What could they do if they did know? Rekindle their love for me and then have their son wrenched away from them a second time? It’s better this way.”
I feel a sharp pang in my guts at the thought that I’d be the type of person they’d bet against. For all I know, if they’re watching, they’ve donated credits to Slayer.
Her fingers roam up and down my arm, sliding along my skin, riveting my attention.
“Maybe it’s better that I don’t have to worry about anyone watching,” she says. “I have no one. Call me Blaze.” It’s a warm invitation.
I can only assume we’re being watched. At best, the drones are sending vid feeds back to the network. At worst, the network is beaming it out live on pay-per-view.
I roll toward her and throw my arm around her, then scoot closer so my lips almost touch her ear.
“Xzavic,” I whisper.
Her eyes must have adjusted to the darkness because her gaze flicks up and down and across my face.
I’m surprised when her palm strokes my cheek. No one has ever touched me this softly. Well, maybe my parents, but that was a long time ago—another life.
“Xzavic fits you better than Titan. You saved my life,” she whispers. “I would have been dead the first minute I left the building.”
“Aye.”
Blaze
Our new drones appear with water and bars.
He hands me two of his four bars.
“That’s generous,” I tell him, shaking my head.
He nudges them toward me again and our fingers graze as I take one. I scoff as electric sparks zing up my arm from that fleeting touch.
I’ve only experienced that feeling once before, and that was bad timing, too. It was an ill-fated date I went on the day before my first deployment. I’ve regretted not acting on that attraction a thousand times since then. First, during the lonely nights of my deployment, and then in the tiny bed in Mistress’s maid’s quarters.
This situation is more impossible than two soldiers being shipped out to different hemispheres the following day. In my current scenario, one of us might have to kill the other tomorrow.
His gaze is penetrating mine, probably searching to see if I’m feeling the attraction, too.
“The situation is ridiculous,” I whisper.
“Aye.” His knuckles stroke my cheek, the touch gentler than you imagine could come from a huge, muscled gladiator. His unbound cock brushes my belly, then slaps it with an urgent, reflexive thump. I guess I could remove his cloth from my ankle and ask him to put it where it belongs. But I won’t.
“If we do this, it will be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” I say. And I’m right, even stupider than what I did that got me forced into The Game .
“Not for me,” his breath fans my cheek.
Maybe it’s the serious look of longing in his ice-blue eyes, or maybe it’s the sincerity of his words, but I move out of the “undecided” camp and land firmly on a decision. I turn my face toward his hand and kiss his knuckles.
“This might be the best thing I do before I die,” he whispers as he leans to kiss me.