Runner: The Fringe, Book 3 (12 page)

Foster stomped about the ship mumbling to himself for over an hour. He was livid.

“Trust is for suckers. Yeah, lot to be said about that.” He knew better than to trust anyone, but the money had been so good.

“Damn my stupid, greedy hide.”

Checking the contract one more time, he finally allowed himself to get his hopes up. He’d forgotten to put in the “dur-heys” of the contract, which meant he could bring them up now.

Foremost was the reader restriction. He believed Roberts knew about her abilities before the contract was signed and hadn’t disclosed them. Effectively, it killed the contract.

“But for the failsafe.” He shook his head. “No way would Roberts bring that up.” Not a chance Roberts would pay that much for Jynx. Since he was a triple-platinum Runner, the full amount of the contract was tripled three times, thus 10Mil became 30Mil, which became 90Mil, which became a whopping 270Mil.

“And if I do cancel the contract, what then?” He looked out to the utter black of the Void. He couldn’t just set Jynx free. Someone else would pick her up in a flash. The only place she’d ever be safe was here, on his ship. How could he keep her like a prisoner for the rest of her life? It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t let her go, and he couldn’t keep her. What the hell would he do with her?

“It’s not my responsibility.”

It wasn’t his fault Jynx got herself into such a jam. Well, technically it wasn’t her fault either. He could blame Rotten Roberts for everything.

This was precisely the kind of moral dilemma he hated. It gnawed at him. He couldn’t just think of only covering his own ass. Covering Jynx sprang to mind, but there was more than that to his longing. The fate of the Void could rest with him. If Jynx was right, that the IWOG had not only the source but the cure to the Tyaa plague, they would undoubtedly use both to their highest advantage. If she’d told him the truth, and he believed she had, the destruction of the universe as he knew it could be imminent.

Sifting through his paperback book collection, he tried to find something to keep Jynx busy, and keep her mind off trying to seduce him. Because it was working. He felt responsible for her safety and resented the hell out of that uncomfortable feeling. He wanted to take her up on her offer, wanted to do things to her that made him feel simultaneously excited and guilty. But he felt the weight of even more pressing down on his head.

He came to appreciate the name of his ship more and more.

About two hours later, Foster returned and slid a book under the cell door. “Here.” He turned and walked away.

Jynx picked the battered paperback up but hardly glanced at the cover. “You would be special to me, Mr. Nash.”

“What?” he asked as he continued to hurry away. He seemed determined to get as far from her as fast as possible.

“You seem to be under the impression that I would take any man as my lover at the moment, but I wouldn’t. If you were short, bald and pudgy, I don’t think I would be interested in you. But you’re not. You’re tall, blond and muscular. You are a walking erotic fantasy, a living legend from a thousand IWOG tales. You wouldn’t be my first lover, which would be very special, but you would be my last, and that is special too.”

He stopped but didn’t turn to face her. She worried she’d said the wrong thing when his shoulders tensed.

“Every time I think you’ve gone about as far as you can go, you amaze me and go even further. I don’t want to be special to you. I don’t want to be a—” He turned. “What did you call me?”

Catching his azure gaze, she hesitated only briefly, then said, “A walking erotic fantasy.”

“Yeah, that. If you think that strokes my ego, you’re wrong.” He pulled his hair back and blew out a harsh breath.

“You don’t like to think of yourself as—”

“I think of myself as a man. Not some fantasy. I’m not a whore or a stud or whatever it is you call a male prostitute.” Naked hostility filled his face as he glared at her.

She recoiled, suddenly ashamed. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you were.” She’d thought her description would please him, but instead, she’d enraged him. Again.

“Seems to me that’s
exactly
how you’re treating me. I’m just something for you to play with while you wait.” His hair fell into his eyes when he shook his head. “You accused me of reducing you to a sexual object when I wanted to watch you shower, accused me of behaving like an adolescent IWOG boy, but you are behaving even worse. You’re behaving as if I’m a pleasure slave, a thrall, on demand for your amusing afternoon of diversionary gratification.”

Contrite, she offered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to treat you that way. That’s not how I see you at all.” She clutched the bars. “You are very attractive, and I would be lying if I said you weren’t, but more than that, you have a soft heart, and I like that too.”

He grimaced. “Well, you’re wrong. I don’t have a soft heart. I’m a ruthless bastard. All I care about is my contract. Got it?” He whisked his hair out of his eyes with a flip of his chin, then dumped it right back down as he lowered his gaze to one of the beeping gizmos on his belt.

“You keep saying that, but I think you’re trying to convince yourself, not me.”

He glared at her. “You
are
insane. You just don’t see what’s right in front of your face.”

“Neither do you.”

“I think I see you just fine.” His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.

“You say you don’t have a soft heart, yet you’re disgusted by the fact I’m treating you as a sexual object. Do you see the conflict in those two statements? A man without a heart, a ruthless bastard, would have been all over me, probably without my consent. A ruthless bastard would be flattered by my interest and take advantage of it. That you’re appalled by my desire altogether is—”

“Then I’m a perverse bastard,” he bellowed, lifting his hands. “Hell! Maybe I’m gay.”

She rolled her eyes. “Maybe your reputation is an utter farce. Never-Fail Nash, the ruthless, brutal and vicious bastard. Maybe under all of that, you really are a nice guy who doesn’t want to hurt anyone.” Very suddenly, he looked scared, as if she’d gotten far too close to the truth. “A marshmallow heart hidden under a good thick armor of reputation. Nice Guy Nash.”

His face twisted into a snarl. “Maybe your reputation is richly deserved.”

“Excellent backhand, but you don’t believe that any more than I do. I didn’t do what Roberts—”

“Roberts has spread all kinds of information about you. A lot of it about your sexual proclivities. Four men? Not according to the media. I wasn’t sure who to believe, but by the way you’re acting, I’m starting to believe the reports.”

“You think I’m a what? A whore? A prostitute?” The very idea stunned her so much, she smiled.

“No.” Rocking back on his heels, he said, “Prostitutes get paid. You do it for free. Which makes you a slut.”

He seemed to expect her to be mortally wounded by such a vicious comment. When she laughed, he frowned.

“You’re trying too hard, Mr. Nash. It simply isn’t in you to be a bully.” She leaned against the bars. “I’m not a slut, and you know it.”

“You’re certainly acting like one. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck. Take out duck, put in slut, repeat that to yourself, and you’ll get my point.” His brows lowered to that ominous V, which made him look brutal, but his soulful eyes gave away the truth.

“Do I really look like a slut in this dress?” She considered her lilac spring dress. Sleeveless, with a scoop neck, high back, modest armholes and a hem that hit the tops of her knees. The dress wasn’t the least bit tawdry by any world’s cultural standards. “I think I look more like a librarian.”

“Not with that rack.”

Up her eyebrows went. “I look like a slut because I have large breasts?” It was a chronic IWOG cultural misconception, that there was an inverse relationship between brains and breasts. Many IWOG men also thought women with larger breasts were more promiscuous.

He didn’t say anything. When he realized his gaze lingered on her breasts, he looked to the ceiling.

“And do I really walk like a slut?” She walked back and forth along the front of her cell. “How does a slut walk? Shouldn’t I be trolling under a street lamp? Vamping to a cluster of horny males?”

He still didn’t say anything and refused to look at her.

“As far as quacking like a slut—”

“You talk like a slut.” His voice was filled with disgust.

“Is that it?”

He glared at a spot just over her shoulder.

“You think I talk like a slut because I don’t equivocate about what I think, what I want, what I expect as far as sex between us is concerned?” It seemed the less he said, the louder he spoke about himself. His hostility revealed a great deal, probably far more than he wanted to show her.

“You talk about sex like you’re discussing the weather. You act like it’s less of a concern than what you’d like to eat for lunch.” He checked one of the pieces of equipment on his belt and frowned with concern.

“No. I talk about it honestly, like I do everything else. I want something from you: sex. I’m telling you that in no uncertain terms. As far as where or when or how, that is entirely up for debate.” She shrugged. “You’re horrified I’m even interested, let alone willing to admit it, even more so that I want to discuss it.”

“It’s not something we should be discussing at all, because it’s something that isn’t going to happen.”

He did it again. He turned tail and stalked off. He’d have to get some kind of cushioning in his shoes if he was going to keep stomping about the ship.

Taking an almost masochistic delight in the name of his ship, he strode about hissing
damn you
over and over. He made his way to the bridge and threw himself into his chair. He tried to lose himself in music, but it didn’t work.

Playing a few levels of Kill Or Be Killed, blowing away digital enemies, didn’t help him blow off steam either. He plucked a paperback up at random but couldn’t get into it. Frustrated, he tossed the book into the random clutter on the floor.

He engaged the language sim, but since he spoke twenty languages fluently, the program failed to offer him any challenges. He checked his scanners and considered hitting the gym or the studio, but the ideas bored him before he even moved to go.

What he really wanted to do was talk to Jynx. He wanted to ask her about that little scar over her eye and what happened to her family. He wanted to ask her what she wanted him to do and why. What if she did want him to let her go? How could he do that knowing she’d get killed?

A light flashed on the main console. Finally, something to occupy his churning mind. It was a request for live audvid. He traced it to Juno and realized it was Roberts.

He opened the link, and said, “Hello, Vic.” In short order, Foster laid his cards on the table. “You knew she was a reader and didn’t bother to clue me in.” He shook his head. “Not nice.” Before Roberts could offer an explanation, Foster said, “The contract is officially terminated.”

The look that crossed Vic’s face was nothing short of terrifying. “What are you going to do with Jynx?”

Foster considered Vic over the audvid for a long time before he said, “Whatever the hell I want.” He disconnected before Roberts could say another word.

Chapter Twelve

“It’s lovely.” Jynx sat in the chair Foster pulled out for her. The effort he’d made was overwhelming. Rather than eating her dinner off a green plastic tray behind bars, she settled herself to a candlelit dinner at a lace-covered table. “Is this china?” She traced her finger over the brightly colored bird of paradise flower painted onto the center of the plate.

“Simulated. The silverware is actually plastimetal. But it looks like the real thing.” He nodded to her glass. “I don’t have wine. I do have beer. Do you drink beer?”

He seemed determined to be a solicitous host, but his effort came off bashful, like a boy trying to please a girl he had a tremendous crush on. She found him utterly charming. All her fear of being taken from her cell vanished.

“I’ve never had a beer.” She noticed his galley was a cozy room retrofitted to accommodate one man. The compact appliances were logically placed and obviously well used. Splattered food and a few dirty dishes made it clear that tidiness wasn’t his first priority.

“Really? Why not?” He fiddled with the food cooking on the stove top. He opened the oven door, and the succulent aroma of roasted meat almost made her swoon. She hadn’t had a decent meal in so long, her mouth watered uncontrollably.

“No reason, really. I just never have. I don’t often drink.” The last time she drank, she ended up in bed with Brandt. She looked at Foster with a curious eye. Was all of this to seduce her? He certainly didn’t have to go to all this trouble. Or maybe that was the whole problem right there. Her honesty had taken all the seduction out of their encounter. Somehow she found it hard to believe that Foster Nash was a romantic man.

“Then you have to try one of these.” He went to a secured door and flipped the catch. The pantry had rows of goods secured by clingrope. He bent over, and she dropped her gaze to his fanny. He’d traded in his ripped jeans for a pair that was on the verge of falling apart, which only made them sexier. Through the worn denim, she could see a vague hint of dark blue boxers. Silk? Suddenly she wished herself telekinetic so she could nudge that fabric just a bit.

He returned to the table with a dusty bottle. “These are very rare. Prospect beer. It comes out of Corona.” After showing her the bottle like a sommelier from a five-star restaurant, he plucked up her glass. He removed a bottle opener from a drawer and popped the metal cap carefully. He leaned her glass and the bottle together, pouring the amber liquid slowly down the side of her glass. He eased her glass upright, keeping his intense gaze on the bottle with his tongue tucked to the corner of his mouth.

“You have to watch for the yeast on the bottom of the bottle. Prospect beer isn’t filtered.”

He proudly presented her with the glass of golden-amber liquid. Sweeping up from the bottom of the tapered glass rose tiny bubbles that made a fluffy white foam along the top.