21. Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
For the rest of the day, I worried Tobago might be upset with me.
When we gathered in the galley for family dinner, though, he was back to his usual easy, affable but watchful self.
After taking his seat at the head of the table—captain’s prerogative, that—he winked at me as Ursa and I took our seats on the bench.
No hard feelings, that wink said, and my body sagged with relief.
Case in point: Tonight we were eating protein substitute seasoned with rosemary and what tasted like it might be fermented ketchup. The combination was . . . interesting to say the least.
But since we all had to take our turn cooking, it was generally accepted that we would eat what we were given with very mild complaining.
Since my own lemon rind and dehydrated vegetable stew from a few days ago had only been passably edible, I was certainly in no position to cast any stones.
Nevertheless, I would be very happy once we reached port and were able to stock up on some fresh supplies.
Everyone at the table seemed to be similarly excited for our stop tomorrow in Amazonia—though not entirely, it seemed, for the same reasons as myself.
“Amazonia has the best brothels,” Croydon cheered after having perhaps one too many glasses of Burt’s bathtub gin. “Cuz all the lady whores are required to modify their breasts to be C cup or larger.”
Val rolled her eyes as she reached for another crust of bread. “That’s just a myth.”
“No it isn’t!” Croydon protested indignantly. “I read about it once in a brochure.”
Tobago just shook his head, making brief but amused eye contact with me. “Oh. Well. If there was a brochure . . .”
Croydon didn’t seem to realize he was being mocked and nodded gleefully at what he took to be Tobago’s confirmation. Across the table from him, LeFleur pulled a face. “Who cares how big ’er tits are? I always take a whore from behind.”
What an utterly horrifying statement. To my dismay, several of the men around the table nodded, as if this were a common rule by which to abide.
I suppose it very well might have been. Haven 3 likely had brothels of its own, but because intercourse was such a taboo, knowledge of them was not broadcast widely—and certainly not discussed over the dinner table.
I was trying to open my mind to new experiences and ways of thinking, but sometimes people were just gross.
To my surprise, two of the men whom I now knew to be Val’s partners chimed in on the issue of which position was best to “bed a whore.”2 They also seemed to be excited about the opportunity to visit the brothel tomorrow.
Again, I was trying to be the least judgmental version of myself—Havenian ways were not the only ways, after all!
—but I didn’t understand how Val could sit by so calmly and listen to two of her lovers enthuse about the breast sizes of the women they were planning to “hump” the next day. 3
Burt didn’t join in the conversation, I noticed. Of all her partners, he seemed to be the most romantically connected to Val. Perhaps that made a difference?
“Ursa,” Alexei called from further down the table. “Are you excited to get your first taste of whore tomorrow?”
He gave me a sort of smug look as he said it. It seemed he had really taken it personally that I hadn’t liked his sausage the other day.
My heart racing, I dared a quick look over at Ursa, to find his face was completely blank. It had, frankly, never occurred to me that Ursa would be invited along to the brothels with the other men. He was mine and I was his.
But what did that mean, exactly? We’d never defined our relationship in so many words. I hadn’t thought it necessary. It seemed basic and fundamental to me that if I loved Ursa and he loved me, there would be nobody else involved in that equation.
Before my conversation with Val, the worry had never crossed my mind.
Now I couldn’t stop thinking about it, in all its variations.
Zenny. Nameless Amazonian sex workers who might have genetically perfect tits and who wouldn’t tell Ursa he “mustn’t” and shy away from his touch sometimes because they thought they ought to.
Was that something Ursa would want? I gave him another surreptitious glance to see how he would respond, but, rather typically, he said nothing, just kept his eyes down on his food.
His expression was still unreadable. It was possible he didn’t even understand what Alexei was referencing; it perhaps goes without saying that we didn’t take much time discussing brothels during our language lessons back on Earth.
Or maybe he didn’t want me to know what he was thinking. Maybe he wanted to explore, to sample some variety, and didn’t know how to tell me.
It wasn’t a conversation I particularly wanted to have in front of the others. So I was grateful when Val chimed in with a brisk, no-nonsense, “Leave it. Mina and Ursa aren’t open.”
“Not even with whores?” LeFleur protested, like this was a truly astonishing concept.4
Zenny cleared her throat. “Mina’s said she isn’t open. Doesn’t mean that Ursa isn’t.”
The table fell silent at this declaration of war—or at least that’s how I interpreted it. What else could it be? Zenny didn’t look at me as she said it. Her gaze was fixed on Ursa, the invitation in it unmistakable.
I glanced at Ursa again. He was studying Zenny, his face still blank. Impossible to know what he was thinking. Was he confused about what she was offering him? Or considering the possibility?
Zenny seemed to think it was the latter, since her lips curved into a smile. Somehow, on this small backwater ship, she had found dark red lipstick, which she wore now to devastating effect. “Well?” she prompted.
My heart was a drum, beating in my ears.
I could not believe this was happening. Anyone who was not looking at Zenny or Ursa was watching me.
All the easy camaraderie of earlier in the evening had dissolved into this tense, fraught moment.
That was the dark side of leaving everything out in the open.
What ought to have been a private conversation between myself and Ursa was now a public forum, and I would have to sit by and watch it all play out, like everyone else.
Ursa remained silent, not responding, though he still hadn’t taken his eyes from Zenny. I wanted to believe he was simply confused, but I was so terribly afraid that wasn’t the case.
Still smiling that smug smile of hers, Zenny rose to her feet. “Well?” she asked again—and then perhaps to make certain she was being perfectly clear, she tagged on, “Wanna fuck?”
I wouldn’t, couldn’t, sit by and watch him leave the table with her. I’d rather hurl myself out of the air-lock door then and there.
Ursa might have responded—I’ll never know, because the next instant I was on my feet, lunging across the table at her.
It wasn’t a conscious choice I made. If I had, I might have tried to avoid the powdered potatoes. Instead I went into them belly first, but I didn’t care, because I’d gotten hold of Zenny’s hair and managed to pull her down onto the table with me.
She started screaming. I was screaming, too, I realized belatedly—wild, animalistic shrieks that I hardly recognized as coming from me. We rolled around on the table, knocking over drinks, sending dishes flying, both of us coated in whatever rations hadn’t yet been consumed.
This lasted only a matter of moments, though it felt much, much longer.
The next thing I knew, strong arms fastened around me and lifted me from the table.
Ursa. I flailed uselessly to get back to Zenny as he carried me out of the room.
Being similarly restrained by Croydon and Alexei on the other side of the table, Zenny shrieked after me.
“Get back here, you dumb cow! Try that again, I dare you—”
The door to the galley slid shut behind us as Ursa carried me down the hall, thankfully cutting off the rest of her diatribe.
It didn’t take long for shame to catch up with me.
No, that wasn’t quite the right word for it.
I was embarrassed to have made such a spectacle of myself.
Mortified that others had witnessed it. That Tobago would surely think I’d lost my mind, and that some of the men like Croydon and LeFleur would use this to goad me mercilessly.
But shame? No. If I was being entirely honest with myself, I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong.
I’d let Zenny get away with taunting me for too long.
If it had remained just between us, a tug-of-war of wills, I might have managed to stay civilized.
But when she went after my man, propositioned him in front of everyone, tried to take what was mine . . .
The memory made my blood boil all over again. I would have lunged for her eyes if she were still in front of me.
But she wasn’t. I was alone with Ursa, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
I’d assumed he meant to take me back to our quarters to cool off, but instead he took me to the washroom.
Before I could fully make sense of it, he had deposited me in one of the shower stalls and was looking down at me expectantly.
I looked down at myself, too. Ah, yes. I was covered in food, my jumpsuit soaked through with it. My hair, too, from the feel of it. I must make a rather sorry sight.
It was the second time in our relatively brief acquaintance that Ursa was suggesting to me I ought to bathe. How humiliating, coming from a man who’d lived in a cave.
That didn’t make things any easier for my ego, especially considering that I’d just witnessed another woman offering herself up for his pleasure and he’d said nothing. Done nothing. Was it because he didn’t fully understand what she was proposing? Or because he wasn’t interested?