2. Hitch in the Giddy-up
TWO
HITCH IN THE GIDDY-UP
Jules
My mouth feels like the arid surface of Mars. Plans are still in the works for that particular mission and by the time it flies I’ll probably be too old to sign up, but still, I imagine the red dirt planet has nothing on what I’m tasting at the moment.
I blink a few times in tandem with opening and closing my mouth, trying to produce some sort of moisture.
Fuck. I have to lay off the hard stuff so soon after de-orbit.
For six months I’ve been floating around in zero gravity.
I’ve helped conduct scientific experiments that could have significant impact on the medical community’s race to find cures for terminal diseases.
I’ve Skyped into classrooms across the world to inspire young minds to study science.
Not to mention, I’ve been tethered to the outside of the International Space Station while moving at over 17,000 miles an hour to basically hotwire the main computers.
So it’s understandable how I may be a tad let down at the reality of my daily life on Earth.
Which is why those shots sounded like a damn fine choice last night.
Don’t get me wrong— I’ve worked really hard to get where I am today. Only the best of the best get to be astronauts.
But I’ve been in space. Space . After that, coming home to my sparsely furnished condo in humid Clear Lake, Texas where my hair has more kink than the local sex shop isn’t the adrenaline rush you’d think.
I mean, I guess I could make it homier. For someone who thinks a periodic table T-shirt is cool, my best friend, Jackie, has sweet taste in home decor.
She even painted her ceiling to look like the galaxy.
However, after seeing the real thing up close and personal, an imitation isn’t gonna do it for me.
Growing up military brat style, you learn not to get too comfortable or put your personal touch on things.
Easier to sell. Easier to move on. But still, I should get Jackie over here.
At the very least I need shades. The bright light filtering through my windows isn’t doing me any favors right now.
I try and pull the sheet up over my head, but it doesn’tbudge.
I’m about to try my relaxation mantras that help me sleep in zero gravity when the aforementioned sheet slides off my body and the mattress jostles.
Holy fuck. I am not alone.
Now, this doesn’t upset me in the way that you might think. I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman. I haven’t been a virgin since my older brother’s friend Todd claimed my final frontier after our high school’s Under the Stars themed dance when I was in tenth grade.
However, I currently feel untouched in all the ways a woman should feel touched on the morning after a good bout of sexual release.
So that either means I didn’t have sex, or the dude I let be my first since gravity started weighing down my boobs again has a seriously small peen. And that’s just sad.
Slowly, I roll out of bed. It’s pretty easy, seeing as I only have a king-size mattress laid out on the floor.
Yeah, I definitely need to spruce the place up. Or you know, get actual furniture. Adulting and stuff.
Whatever. Back to the dude in my bed.
He is fine . So, well done me.
He’s sleeping on his stomach with his head turned to the side.
I can’t see his face, but even so, he looks familiar.
Shit. It better not be someone from work.
I’ve never dipped my wick in the NASA watering hole, so to speak.
It isn’t against the rules or anything, but I like to keep my professional and personal lives separate.
Less mess getting to the top that way. I don’t need someone crying foul, accusing me of sleeping my way to the top, when everyone knows I simply kick ass at my job.
Double standards and all that, so whatever. Better safe than sorry.
But somehow, I don’t think this guy is NASA.
His skin is tan, like deep tan. In Texas, that isn’t too out of the ordinary, but his body is hard.
Not just with muscle, though there is plenty of that.
Small, random scars mar his skin, as well as some sort of burn line slashed across one of his forearms. The hand not shoved under my extra pillow has obvious calluses.
This dude works for a living. That shit is so hot.
I can’t stand these wimpy millennials who bitch about their lives while doing nothing.
Life isn’t for the weak and success isn’t earned by the meek.
That’s one thing two-star Air Force General William Starr, otherwise known as my father, has said (repeatedly) that I actually agree with.
In my mind, there is nothing hotter than work ethic.
Well, that and a set of rock hard abs, apparently.
The dude in my bed snorts lightly and turns over.
One good look at his square jaw, dark morning scruff and hollowed cheekbones and I know the sinking feeling in my stomach has nothing to do with gravity or the amount of alcohol I consumed the night before.
It also has nothing to do with the tent this guy is currently pitching under my sheets, letting me know that if we’dactually had sex, I’d be feeling it for sure.
The sinking feeling has to do with the fact that the man in my bed is Holt West. A man that I may have secretly (and repeatedly) fantasized about while floating around in space.
Awesome.
My reflection in my bathroom mirror looks just as wild as my thoughts.
I may have made a strategic retreat into my small ensuite, but that doesn’t mean I can’t handle this.
I’m an astronaut. The fastest ever promoted, and currently slated to become the youngest commander ever. Not youngest woman commander, but youngest commander. Period.
I’ve flown over Syrian War zones while in the Air Force and ejected at speeds that would make normal civilians pee their pants. I ride a Ducati and am equally comfortable naked or in leather pants. I need to woman-up.
So what if Holt West is currently in a state of undress in my bed?
So what if the package he seems to be carrying makes me want to jump on board and ride him like a mechanical bull I may or may not have made my bitch in a downtown Houston bar once upon a time?
I’ve spent my whole life overcoming obstacles, defying odds and handling myself in stressful situations. I will handle this.
If I knew what this was.
I grab fistfuls of my hair and tug, like that will somehow help fill the blank spots in my brain.
Why can’t I remember last night? Thinking back, I didn’t have that much to drink.
Not for me, anyway. I remember Holt coming up to Rose and me at the bar, looking like a hotter reincarnation of Matthew McConaughey’s cowboy stripper in Magic Mike.
But then… nothing. I have the vague sense that I climbed… a tree? No, that can’t be right.
Hmmmm.
I blow out a big breath and take a look at myself in the mirror. Tugging my hair did not help the visual situation.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter what I look like. What matters is that I retreated to the bathroom when I discovered Holt in my bed. Starrs don’t retreat.
Time to deal.
I pluck my robe off the hook on the back of the door.
Before tying it, I’m out the door, prepared to wake Holt and send him on his way.
What I’m not prepared for is him already sitting on the edge of the bed getting a complete look at my womanly goods before I have a chance to close and tie my robe.
I’m on fire this morning.
Silence. Holt just stares at the column of skin exposed between the untied robe.
“Yo. Dude? Eyes up here.”
He clears his throat and finally looks me in the eye. Is he blushing? Holy hell, he is. That is kind of adorable, actually. Who knew hot, rich men could blush?
“Thanks.” I wrap the robe closed and wrench the belt in a tight bow.
My hands go to my hips. Body language. Never cross your arms in uncomfortable situations.
It lets the other person know you feel threatened.
Always find the upper hand, or the upper hand will find you.
Another helpful hint from General Starr.
I have higher ground for the moment, with Holt still sitting on the bed, so I need to take advantage, cut to the chase.
“We didn’t have sex.” Damn it. That is not what I meant to say.
Holt’s eyebrows shoot up and he seems to be choking back a laugh. “Ah, yes.That is correct.”
Mentally, I shrug. In for penny, in for a pound and all that. “Why?”
His brows V in confusion. “Why didn’t we have sex?”
“Yes. Why didn’t we have sex?”
He adds a head tilt to his furrowed brow. “You were drunk.”
I think on that, surprised and impressed with his gentlemanly restraint. Lord knows I’d probably been up for it.
Okay, regroup. New tactic. I straighten and run my hands down my robe. “Why am I naked?”
“You, ah, took your clothes off.” He clears his throat, not meeting my eyes. “To music.”
“To music?”
“Yes.” He gestures to the floor where my stereo sits, under the multiple to-do lists taped to my wall. My phone is connected and I can see my “Two Finger Salute” playlist up on the screen. Great. I apparently strip-teased for Holt to my masturbation mix.
“I see.” Fuck it. I will own this shit. Vertebrae snap to attention as I straighten my spine even further. “Were you drunk?” Please tell me he was drunk last night too. Please let his memories of last night be pleasantly blurred by the warmth of intoxication.
“No.”
Shit. “Are you gay?”
A sharp bark of laughter escapes him, surprising us both. “That would be a no.”
Okay, my ego takes a blow. Not that I’d wanted to have intoxicated sex, but the dude could’ve looked pained that we didn’t have sex. Especially if he isn’t gay.
“Why did you stay the night?”
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
This is followed by a moment or two of silence as I try to figure out if he is serious or not. From his bewildered expression, it seems he is.