Chapter 2
2
The first few days of D&R week were, predictably, a boring, tedious slog. The only break in the monotony came from a terrifying and extremely uncomfortable ziplining tour through the LunaCorp Fun Zone—a fifteen-kilometer-long green space in the center of the CAK, fashioned after Old Earth’s Central Park.
Feeling like I’d more than satisfied my team-building quota when I let a freckle-faced Mercurian teenager strap me into a harness and shove me without mercy across the abyss, I was determined to avoid the evening’s ugly sweater contest come hells or high water. Instead, I showered, slid into my favorite little black dress, and staked a claim to a stool at the hotel bar.
These days, I felt most at home in places like this—loud, dark, anonymous. But after I’d spent the last three days fighting so hard not to roll my eyes or groan in boredom that I think I sprained something, even the dim bar couldn’t calm my nerves. I was antsy, out of sorts, unsettled. And there was only one sure-fire cure for that .
After ordering a glass of dry Delphinian red, I opened Squee , my favorite VC dating app. A group of empaths from the ocean planet of Portis developed Squee using an algorithm that connected individuals based not on who their perfect partner would be forever, but on who their perfect date would be at that precise moment. Immediate gratification—a heady sensation that evidently made Portisans exclaim, Squee ! Hence the name. I, myself, had never Squee ed after using the app. But I’d definitely had some phenomenal one-nighters. And that was exactly what I needed now.
Taking a sip of my wine, which was surprisingly good, I set my desired search parameters: Age, thirty to fifty . Gender, any and all . Fur, no (allergic). Tentacles, no (shit always got weird). Horns, hmm, why not . Multiple partners… I considered this briefly, ultimately marking no when I realized that at forty, I was too old for that amount of work.
While I tapped my foot against the barstool, the app—reading my biorhythms and hormone fluctuations—lit up my VC with recommendations for a partner within a two-kilometer radius of my hotel. Which came to a whopping total of 4,152 beings. Apparently, I wasn’t the only antsy tourist looking for a little CAK strange.
While Squee was designed to whittle my choices down to a handful of optimal matches for my current mood, occasionally, I liked perusing bios for my own entertainment. For instance, there was Martin, an accountant with a medium build from my home planet of Tranquis. Martin was recently divorced. He loved classical piano and downhill skiing, and he used to perform as a contortionist at the Gala Galaxia Extravaganza.
That might be interesting .
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than Squee flashed a 12% match for current mood warning over Martin’s dimpled chin. Fair enough.
After a few more minutes of being scolded for considering partners Squee deemed unsuitable, I allowed the app to find my match. It presented me with three choices: two Venusian men and one stunning Portisan woman, her skin as blue as the oceans of her planet.
I considered sending the Portisan an in-app message, but with the Revel lights twinkling over the bar and the table of Vorpols behind me singing ( meowing, more like ) their planet’s bizarre, cat-themed holiday music, my mood was far too precarious to share it with an empath.
The Venusians were both handsome, but one of them, Joshua, had piercing gray-blue eyes that reminded me of a thunderstorm. There was no weather onthe Ignisar , and sometimes I missed the rain.
He was funny too. His bio read: Intermittently interesting. Passably presentable. Very Venusian, and that was all. And Joshua was staying in this hotel. Aside from self-deprecating humor, convenience was my second biggest turn-on.
When I asked Squee to inform Joshua that I was interested, I received an Excellent choice, Sunastara message. Inclined to agree, I downed the rest of my wine, tapped the glass for a refill, and awaited Joshua’s response.
Fifteen minutes later, he walked into the bar, slid his hands into his pockets, and glanced down the line of stools. When his gaze snagged on mine, his instant smirk pulled a happy little hum from somewhere deep in my throat .
Dressed in an impeccable black suit and tie, he weaved effortlessly through high-top tables and serving drones, devouring the distance to me in long, fluid strides. His dark-brown hair—that I imagined had been expertly styled all day—was happy-hour mussed now, a few strands falling over his forehead. His cheekbones rode high above his strong jaw and freshly shaved chin. And in the middle of all this apparent perfection, his nose was a bit crooked right over the bridge, like maybe he’d broken it once.
When he reached the bar, he stood over me, so close the tip of my shoe ran up against his pant leg. Staring down at me with those stormy eyes, his lips curling into a fantastic smile that was fifty percent suggestion, fifty percent hope, and one hundred percent working for me, he said, “Phoebe?”
While my foot floated up enough to trace along the muscles of his calf, I replied with, “Joshua?”
Nobody used their real names on Squee . Phoebe was a name I’d read in some romance book. Where Joshua had come from, I could only guess. Maybe it was his college roommate, or that one uncle who showed up blitzed to every family function. It didn’t matter.
Joshua, or whoever he was, continued to aim that suggestive smile at me as he slipped off his suit jacket and folded it over his arm. As he loosened his tie, as I imagined tugging it the rest of the way off with my teeth, he tilted his head toward the corner of the restaurant. “There’s an open booth back there. Care to join me?”
I turned to look. Indeed, there was. A small booth. Intimate, dark. Yes, please.
The hand he extended was warm, and his grip was gentle yet firm as he led me away from the bar. I felt every ounce of wine I’d just guzzled while trying to follow in a straight line behind him. But my attention kept slipping to his backside, which was round and firm and more than a little biteable.
Would you like to rate this match? Squee asked, the message popping over his bum in my vision, five empty stars awaiting my evaluation. I certainly would. I rated all my matches, but never until the night was over. So I closed the app while Joshua slowed a step.
Busy wondering if he’d received the same message, if he’d submitted a star-rating for me, and, more importantly, what it might have been, I tripped over my own feet. Getting my shit together, I refocused my efforts on making it from the bar to the booth without falling face-first into his spectacular butt.
Joshua released my hand to let me slide into one side of the booth, then he slid smoothly into the other. The upholstery was soft and plush, velvety. I wanted to wrap myself inside it.
“This is nice,” he said, brushing a long-fingered hand over the soft black fabric. “Feels like kitten fur. I wonder if they’re always like this, or if they reupholstered them just for Vorp’s Winter Revel.”
Running my fingers along my cushion, I murmured, “Hmm, you’re right. I can almost hear it purring.”
Vorpols had, in my personal opinion, a ridiculous obsession with cats. After LunaCorp ships first traveled from New Earth’s single moon through the wormhole to Juniper-13 over a thousand years ago, several animal species were exchanged between the star systems in a campaign entitled Peace Through Pets. PTP was largely unsuccessful—many animals were eaten outright, and trestals (ten-feet-long raptor birds used for hunting on Gorbulon-7) still terrorized the New Earth Americas. But there was one glowing exception to the PTP disaster. As soon as the first Vorpol felt the fuzzy tail of a cat wrap around its singular leg, the entire species went off the rails for the furry little felines. Now they wore cat clothing, lived in cat-shaped houses, visited cat-themed amusement parks, and owned an inordinate number of actual cats.
Joshua leaned in close and rested his elbows on the table. His grin was conspiratorial. “As marketing strategies go, these booths are pretty fan cat stic.”
Having never met a pun I didn’t love, I grinned back and replied, “Meowsively brilliant.”
His rich, warm laughter poured over me like honey. Breaking eye contact, he glanced around the bar. “I’m surprised more Vorpols aren’t dressed up tonight.”
Spotting only one set of kitten ears perched on top of an exceptionally drunk Vorpol’s head, I said, “You’re right. They rarely miss a chance to dress up for the holiday. That reminds me. Wasn’t there an Old Earth musical where people sang and danced dressed up as cats?”
“I have no idea,” he said, brushing the soft strands of his bangs back into place. “But I wouldn’t be surprised. There was an Old Earth musical for just about everything.”
“There was. I’m certain of it. In fact, I think it was called”—I leaned back, spreading my hands out before me as I announced dramatically—“ Cats .”
“No.” He laughed. “Really? It was just called ‘ Cats ’? If this is true, how has Cats not been revived on Vorp?”
I gasped. “We should do it. We’ll be stinking rich. Finally able to leave this life of corporate drudgery behind us and live out the rest of our days drinking mai tais on Portisan beaches and refusing to wear any clothes.”
He sighed, staring wistfully at the ceiling. “That’s the dream, isn’t it? ”
“This is so much better than an ugly sweater contest.” I said this mostly to myself, mostly because Joshua was more magnetic than Jupiter’s core.
“Wait. You too?” His eyes flared. “It was on my itinerary, but I ditched. Even though I do have an exceptionally hideous cat sweater a Vorpol I worked with on my last ship gave to me.”
“Ah. You could have been a contender,” I said, and he burst into laughter. Then his eyes narrowed, like he was about to tell me a secret. “It’s interesting, don’t you think?”
I crossed my legs. “What’s that, darling?”
“You and I were due at the same party. We might have met tonight either way.”
That is interesting , I thought, more intrigued by this stranger than I’d been by anyone in years. “Has anyone ever told you that you are very charming, Joshua?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you are very beautiful, Phoebe?”
“Charming and smart. Gorgeous as well. Almost too perfect.” I cocked my head. “Are you a serial killer?” And suddenly, I forgot how tired I was, because Joshua’s broad smile was starlight in the dark bar, his hand brushing through his hair a gentle breeze stirring something deep in my belly.
A serving drone floated by our table, but we were so intent on each other that it had to bob in place several times and make a bleep-bloop noise before it pulled our attention.
“Drinks?” Joshua asked.
I nodded.
He ordered whiskey, and I switched from wine to a holiday cocktail the serving drone suggested called a Meowtini. It was tasty, if not a little tart, and it had candy rocks I didn’t notice right away at the bottom of the glass. When they caught my attention several sips later, I was worried—and mildly horrified—that they were meant to replicate kitty litter.
“So, what brings you to the City of All Knowledge, Phoebe?” Joshua asked, sipping his kitty-litter-free whiskey, his gray eyes sharp as diamonds.
“Work, of course. And you?”
“Same. What do you do?”
Meeting his penetrating stare with one of my own, I said, “Whatever I want.”
His laughter was a low, two-note rumble that hit me right in the spine. With a hint of a smile, he asked, “And what is it you want?”
It was only then that I noticed his slight Venusian accent—like a hint of an Old Earth Scottish burr—growing thicker with every sip he took of his drink. It was somehow adorable and scorchingly hot at the same time. I licked my lips, ready to tell him exactly what was on my mind. But then my stomach growled. “Right now,” I said, “I’d like some food. Later?” I raised and lowered my shoulder. “Anything’s possible.”
“Anything?” he repeated with mischief in his eyes. “Well, then, let’s get you fed.”
He was gorgeous and sexy and delightful, and I was so in the mood for something delightful. “One moment,” I said, holding up a finger while I opened Squee again, breaking my own rules of waiting until the end of the night to give him a five-star rating.
“What was that?” he asked, his brow furrowed.
“Just leaving Squee a rating for this match.”
Sitting back against the booth with an amused tilt to his lips, he asked, “How did I do?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said, leaning forward, letting my gaze travel down his throat, dip into the notch between his collarbones. “But I have a feeling you’ll do just fine.”
The serving drone returned, breaking the charged silence that had settled between us.
“Are you ready?” Joshua asked.
Was I ever .
After the kitty litter garnish mishap, I declined the Winter Revel special of Calicoq au Vin and decided to stick to steak. Joshua ordered scallops. And then we ate, talking and laughing and flirting shamelessly between bites.
Maybe it was the drinks, or maybe it was the way he listened to me so intently, leaning in, tilting his head a little, like he didn’t want to risk missing what I might say next. But I could hardly be bothered by the heads turning my way when I laughed out loud at his story of almost losing his pinky finger when he’d stuck his hand into a sleeping ballont’s mouth. His grandfather had told him that if he touched its tongue, he’d be able to see the future. The ballont—a reptilian creature native to Venus that resembled a poodle-sized dragon—woke up a split second before tongue-contact was made and bit the tip of Joshua’s pinky straight off. And the punchline: “If only I’d seen it coming,” almost made me spit out my drink.
Like most Venusians, Joshua was a natural storyteller, drawing me in like light to a black hole, like a Vorpol to a humane society. Which was how I found myself, an hour later, sharing a dessert called chocolate-covered cherry hairballs with him, my cheek resting in my hand while I imagined what his tie might feel like sliding through my fingers.
When I popped one of the bourbon-soaked, chocolate-dipped cherries into my mouth, twirling the stem until it broke free, Joshua asked, “Are they good?” his eyes trained on my lips .
“They are.” I winced after swallowing the boozy little fruit. “But strong.”
“Strong?” he asked, plucking one of the cherries from the plate, still meeting my stare. “I like strong.” When he dropped the cherry into his mouth, my toes curled in my shoes.
We reached for the next cherry at the same time, and as his fingers brushed over mine, tiny electrical impulses popped and crackled across my skin. Leaving the dessert behind, he ran his fingers gently over my knuckles, tracing the side of my hand, his thumb and forefinger sliding from the base of my pinky up to the tip.
“I hope I’m not being too forward,” he said while heat swirled between my legs. “And please stop me if I am, but I spend a great deal of time studying planetary cultures.” He watched me, his attention rapt as I licked a bit of chocolate from my fingertip. When he spoke again, his voice was half an octave lower, his pupils half a centimeter larger. “I have a feeling, considering your accent, your fair skin and hair, and the way you hold your fork between your middle finger and thumb sometimes, that your home planet is not actually Delphi, as stated on your Squee profile, but Tranquis.”
I grinned, too drunk off the cherries and the color rising into his cheeks to care that he’d breached this bit of my anonymity. “How did you know that?”
“It’s kind of my job,” he said with a sheepish shrug, his fingers still running over mine in a reverent sort of way that made my eyelids heavy. “Anyway, since Tranquis and Vorp are about as far away from each other as two planets can get, how much do you know about Winter Revel?”
“Aside from cat sweaters and yowling holiday mewsic?”
“Did you say mew sic?” When I snorted, he shook his head and said, “I’m stealing that one. ”
Try as I might—and I did really try—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smiled this much in one evening. It wasn’t that I didn’t smile in my day-to-day life aboard my ship. I had to. It was part of my job. But the expression never felt like this, impossible to hide, making my cheeks ache. “It’s all yours.”
His eyes twinkled, and I traced the lights reflecting in them the way I used to trace my finger over the constellations at night. Only instead of horses or serpents, Joshua’s stars made the shape of full, kissable lips, a necktie draped over a bedpost.
“There’s a Winter Revel custom I think you might not know about.”
“Is there?” I asked, my heart picking up an extra beat as he intertwined his fingers with mine.
“Well”—his voice dropped low—“on Vorp, when two people meet for the first time on Revel, it’s custom that they must see each other naked before parting ways.”
“Custom?” I peered up at him through my lashes. “Really?”
He held up his free hand. “I don’t make the rules.”
“Of course not.”
“In fact,” he went on, making a show of looking around like what he was about to say was of the utmost importance, “Vorpols believe that if this custom isn’t observed, then somewhere, sadly, tragically, a kitten won’t find its forever home.”
Sinking my teeth into my grinning lower lip, I asked, “Joshua, would you like to see me naked?”
With his eyes locked on mine, he replied, “More than anything in the Known Universe.” While I laughed, he tugged at his collar. “But only if you’re finished with your dessert. ”
“I’m done with this one,” I said, pointing my chin at the cherries. “But I think I’m ready for the next.”
After a heavy pause that spun me up like a faster-than-light jump drive, he grasped my hand more tightly, slid out of the booth, and pulled me to my feet.