Free Collision Course by Zoe Archer Page B

expression. Only…admiration.
    He had never spoken of any of that, not to anyone outside of confidential officer assessments. When other 8 th Wing personnel talked of home, Kell said nothing.
    But he’d told Mara things about himself that no one had ever heard. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t certain what she might say. Part of him wondered if she would use his history to taunt him, tell him that he was nothing but street trash pretending to be an ace pilot, that his 8 th Wing uniform couldn’t hide who he really was. A hot cage encircled his chest, burning his lungs, his heart.
    Her opinion of him mattered . He saw this with a quick, vicious understanding.
    Instead of speaking, her hand slid out from beneath the table top and wrapped around the fist he was not even aware of making. Slowly, she worked her fingers between his, until they were woven together.
    The hot cage around his chest suddenly loosened.
    “This is where to come for information.” She scanned the room. Her fingers were still threaded with his, so it took him a moment to understand what she was saying. “Anything happens in Beskidt By, or on Ryge, you just come to Kusa’s. Better than the latest news uploads.”
    He saw how the network operated. People continuously moved from table to table, some of them speaking with heads together, others shouting across the room. Light glinted off cred chips changing hands.
    “That guy in the corner.” He discretely nodded toward the man in question. “He’s got to be out of favor. No one’s approaching him.”
    Mara send a quick, covert glance to where he indicated. “Runrot. He sold out his smuggling partner a few solar months ago. Been a pariah ever since.”
    “Honor among thieves.”
    A dark smile curved her mouth. “Something like that,” she said, echoing his earlier words.
    “And if they knew you brought 8 th Wing here?”
    Her smile faded. “I doubt they’d let me back in Beskidt By, let alone Kusa’s.”
    Guilt stabbed him. But this wasn’t the time to delve into apologies, even for necessary evils, not when two men pushed back from a table and ambled toward the booth where he and Mara sat. A throb of loss shot through him when she pulled her hand from his.
    She hadn’t lied when she said smugglers and scavengers liked to dress flamboyantly. One of the men, blond and fit, wore black nyyrikki-hide pants and a red silk shirt laced up the front. The other had his head shaved and was wearing a shiny blue jumpsuit so snug, Kell sadly knew he dressed to the right.
    Both men stopped to stand right in front of the booth. Their eyes gleamed when they looked at Mara. Kell contemplated how the men might appear without their heads, and decided it would be a flattering look.
    “Mara,” the blond one said, pleasure in his voice. “Good to have you back.”
    “ Very good,” seconded the man with the shaved head.
    Why? Why was it very good? Did she sleep with these preening asses, and they want a repeat performance?
    “Leyon.” She tipped her head toward the man in the enlightening jumpsuit. “Bern.”
    The men narrowed their eyes as they stared insolently as Kell. It was all he could do to keep from launching himself across the table and ripping out their throats.
    “Who’s this?” spat Leyon.
    Kell opened his mouth to speak, ready with a story that he was Mara’s new partner, but she spoke first.
    “He’s my Halu pleasure slave.”
    Kell barely resisted the impulse to gape at her. He had to nod and appear perfectly calm.
    “Looks a bit…tough…for a pleasure slave.” Bern gazed at Kell as if he was something that should be washed off the hull of a garbage scow. “We all saw how he took down Jorgo.”
    Mara gave a careless shrug. “You can get whatever kind of pleasure slave you want nowadays. Besides,” she added with a slow, hot smile, “I like them tough.”
    Anger, confusion and arousal all battled inside Kell.
    The two smugglers muttered their disappointment. “Damn, Mara.”