Chapter 6
Tavryn
It turns out having someone else on the ship isn’t actually the worst thing ever.
Sure, I have humans onboard somewhat frequently, but those humans just lay in the cargo hold processing the terrible things they’ve been through.
Even the lucky ones who avoided the standard atrocities need most of the voyage to decompress and prepare to return to their lives on Earth.
Banjo is different. The last thing he does is keep to himself.
I can tell he’s trying to keep himself quiet and busy, but there’s only so much he can do before his loud, cheerful personality starts to bleed out.
I attempt to scare him off by being as distant and cold to him as I am to every human.
Judging by the erection I wake to every morning, it’s not working.
At first, I continued to tease him like I did that first morning.
But now, I have to stop. The sexual tension gets thicker every morning, to the point where it’s almost impossible to hide my own arousal.
And although I’ve gotten over the fact that I seem incapable of not cuddling Banjo at night, I still refuse to touch him any other time.
I have standards, after all, standards that absolutely no human could meet.
Not even a human as kind, considerate, and hot as Banjo.
I lounge back in my chair in the cockpit.
It’s nearly lunch, and I can hear Banjo banging around in the kitchen.
He’s not a bad cook now that Stells has taught him some tricks on how to use non-Earth food.
The meals I’ve been eating are far more interesting and delicious than the rehydrated gunk I normally settle for.
I’ve already made a list of groceries to pick up while we’re on Qauvela.
The price will be ridiculous, sure, but I have the credits.
Might as well spend them while I have my own personal chef.
“Did you notify the Despot of our arrival?” I ask Stells.
“Yes, Captain.”
I roll my eyes at the honorific. Stells is still attempting to get back into my good graces. Between her flattery and the appreciative looks Banjo gives me, my confidence is on another level. I had no idea it could even get any higher.
“I received a message back confirming both the arrival gate and the delivery of the requested supplies.”
“Fantastic.” Banjo is eager to get off the ship. He hasn’t said anything about it to me directly, but I can see how antsy he is.
The ship has never been cleaner, and yet he’s still left with time to cook, play the guitar, and ask Stells at least five hundred questions every day.
Oh, and sing. He sings when he does all of those things.
Sometimes, he even sings his questions to Stells.
After a couple of days, I started to tune it out.
The translator I have doesn’t do well with non-spoken words, so most of what he’s saying comes across garbled anyway.
The guitar music is alright. It doesn’t make me feel like I need to lock myself away in the cockpit, which is something.
The strangest thing Banjo does is walk around the ship like he’s looking for someone, even when I’m in the room. There’s no telling what’s going on in that cute, empty head of his. Overall, he’s been behaving himself, so I’m rewarding him by letting him assist me with the Qauvela delivery.
Unfortunately for him—and quite fortunately for me—he’ll have to do so under the guise of being my pet.
It’s the only way of getting a human into Qauvela under the new rules, unless of course, the Despot and his little mate grant you some sort of leniency.
I could have used my sway with them to ask for that, but it’s more fun to parade Banjo around like some kind of prized animal.
If he doesn’t like it, he can always remain on the ship with Stells.
I won’t force him, as much as I’d like to.
“Have you informed Banjo of the expectations on Qauvela?” Stells asks, pulling my attention away from other things I’d enjoy making Banjo do.
I’d always thought a lack of intelligence wouldn’t be a turn on, but the opposite is apparently true.
I don’t have to worry about Banjo plotting behind my back or trying to escape.
He’s simply not capable of that kind of forethought.
It doesn’t make him dull, though, not in the slightest. He’s so eager to learn new things, and he always gets so excited when he does something well.
I find myself grinning without even realizing it.
Not smirking. A real, full-on smile. Ugh, what is happening to me? !
Stells clears her throat, and I realize she asked me a question.
“Do you mind repeating that?” I ask, unsuccessfully pretending like I was too busy checking our arrival gate to have heard her. Stells goes along with the act.
“Have you informed Banjo of the expectations on Qauvela?” She says it more slowly this time. I roll my eyes. Overreacting much, Stells? “Or would you like me to explain it to him?”
“Oh, no, I’m going to tell him,” I promise her, my smile turning more wicked. “You can be available to answer any questions he might have.” I’ll undoubtedly have more important things to do than to answer the inevitable barrage of questions Banjo seems to have when confronted with new information.
“Lunch is ready if y’all are!” Banjo calls from the kitchen.
I take a moment to note that we’ve been assigned to gate fifty-four before heading into the living area to join him. As usual, there are utensils, napkins, and drinks already laid out on the table. Apparently, “fixin’ the table” is an important tradition to humans before meals.
Lunch is some kind of soup that smells better than it looks.
I glance between it and Banjo, who has already helped himself to a bowl and is sitting at the table.
“Soup? After last time?” I ask. I stir the contents with some suspicion.
I don’t think Banjo would purposefully poison me, but he came close with his last attempt.
Luckily, it tasted so terrible that we hadn’t managed enough bites to actually make either of us ill.
We’d ended up rehydrating two prepared meals instead.
Banjo lets out a good-natured laugh. “Stells gave me a recipe,” he explains, slurping the liquid off his spoon.
“And she made sure there were pitchers of the food this time.” I frown a little as my translation chip tells me that pitchers are vessels for holding liquids. That doesn’t inspire confidence.
“Stells made sure you had what?” I ask. He takes another bite before answering me. He’s eaten enough of his bowl by now that I assume it has to be safe, so I help myself to a few ladlefuls.
“Pitchers,” Banjo repeats. I sit down across from him. The translation comes across the same. He can tell that I’m still confused, and he frowns. “This thing ain’t workin’?” He points to the translator chip.
“I can understand you fine for the most part,” I confirm. Banjo’s thick accent, which I’ve mostly gotten used to by this point, sometimes throws off the translator. This is the first time I haven’t been able to devise his meaning through context clues.
I take the smallest bite of soup. Oh. That’s incredible. Good enough that I almost thank Stells for setting Banjo up for success. Almost. “Why did Stells give you pitchers of food?”
Banjo tilts his head ever so slightly to the side, clearly also confused. “So I knew what things looked like?” he says slowly, the statement turning into a question. And then it clicks.
He’s not saying “pitcher.” He’s saying “picture.”
“Oh, yes, that makes sense.” I dig into the meal with abandon now. At least our suite in Qauvela has two bathrooms, in the event that his soup does cause us some kind of gastrointestinal distress. That makes me feel slightly better about enjoying the meal now.
The food is so delicious I nearly forget the entire reason I needed to talk to Banjo in the first place.
I take my time savoring one more bite before speaking again.
“We’ll be docking at Qauvela in the next couple of hours.
When we get there, you need to wait on the ship while I fetch some supplies for us. ”
“Supplies?” Banjo asks, as curious as ever. He’s already downed his entire bowl and is at the hot plate helping himself to another. “Weren’t we gon’ load up after we’ve spent a couple days there?”
“Not those kinds of supplies.” I wait until he’s seated again before continuing.
“There are very strict rules regarding humans on Qauvela. In the past, humans were…” I trail off, trying to think of the least gruesome way to put this.
“Not treated very nicely by the residents. So the Despot created a new rule that pre-approved guests can bring humans into Qauvela, but only as pets. And only if they keep full control over them at all times.”
Banjo stares at me as he slowly slurps his second bowl of soup and processes the new information.
I give him all the time he needs. It’s important he understands what’s going to be expected of him.
If he’s uncomfortable with it, he can stay on board.
In that case, I might even be a gracious host and cut my time in Qauvela short.
He opens his mouth, to ask a hundred follow up questions, I assume, but instead he laughs.
Loudly. And for such a long time that it trails off into a fit of giggles.
It takes all my effort to resist laughing along with him, even though I don’t understand the joke.
At least, until I realize he thinks I’m kidding.
“This is serious,” I tell him, pressing my lips into a thin line so there’s no trace of a smile. “The supplies I’m picking up are your outfit, collar, and leash.”
Another burst of laughter escapes Banjo. “My gosh, I wish I could tell Remington about this,” he wheezes, slapping his leg. “When we was on that big ol’ UFO ship, he told me there were only three options for us humans out here: pet, meat, or mate. And I—”
His laughter grows so uncontrollable that it swallows his words, and he has to take a moment to pull himself back together.
“I told ‘im if that was the case, I wanted to be like one of them fancy dogs rich people have.” He’s nearly crying by this point, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. “And now it’s happenin’!”
Now that I understand his laughter, it’s impossible not to laugh along with him.
The sound is so strange coming from me that it surprises me a little.
Right. That’s what that sounds like. And that’s what that feels like, like a little bubble of tension rising up out of me, only to burst harmlessly in my chest. It’s better than I remember.
“I promise I’ll treat you very nicely,” I purr, my smile morphing into my usual smirk. “The collar I ordered for you has black gemstones embedded in it. It’s going to look stunning around your neck.”
Banjo’s laughter suddenly dries up as he gapes at me from across the table. “O-o-oh,” he stammers. I watch as a blush creeps up his neck and over his cheeks. “Why’d you go with black? The stylists for the TV show always said I look best in blue, ‘cause of my hair and all.”
I lean towards him over the table, and he mimics the movement, drawn to me like a magnet. “Because Banjo, darling, everyone knows black is my favorite color.” My smile grows wider and more wicked, showing off my fangs. “And I want them all to know that you belong to me."