Giving into temptation—something I was concerned might become a habit around him—I reached out for his tie, straightened the knot, and said, “Don’t let it go to your head.”
21
The third bar Freddie,the twins, and I stumbled into—after sipping martinis while watching Old Earth twentieth-century flappers dance at the jazz club on deck five, then sampling the objectively bizarre but surprisingly delicious cocktails at the Blurvan tavern on eighteen—was one of my favorites on the ship. It was a dimly lit Venusian pub with dark wood tables and chairs surrounded by rich leather booths, one of which we piled into while a fiddler serenaded us from a small stage in the corner.
It had taken far too many drinks, but the twins were finally loose and laughing. And no longer eyeing every other guest with deep—and honestly kind of menacing—suspicion. Mission accomplished, even if my sobriety was collateral damage.
Sitting across from me, Freddie ran two fingers over the reddish-brown leather of our booth. “I like this place. It reminds me of home.”
I nodded, my head swimming, while Morgath dropped his forehead onto my shoulder and confessed, “I think I’m drunk.”
Rax snorted, muttered, “Lightweight,” then hiccupped.
Nestling my cheek into Morgath’s green hair, I said, “Never admit to being drunk, darling. We deny it until our faces are deep in the toilet.”
“What in the worlds is going on here?” said a terribly sober voice.
“Chandler!” Freddie almost shouted, scrambling to straighten his hair, his tie, trying his level best to appear sober while I considered hiding under the table. “Sunny and I were only trying to set the twins’ minds at ease regarding the FFKs and that other business with”—he looked around, then mouthed dramatically—“the senator.” While Chan raised a brow, Freddie explained, “We thought, you know, whiskey ought to do the trick.”
“Did it?” Chan asked. Even his hoverchair seemed dubious, humming reprovingly at us as the fiddler finished one song and started in on another.
“Yep,” I chirped, then asked, “What are you doing here?” shifting the focus away from our drunkenness and aiming it toward the fact that Chan rarely went out to any of the bars on the ship. Certainly never by himself.
Running a hand over his head, he said, “There was an incident at the bowling alley on deck nine. A Vorpol was ‘accidentally’”—he drew quotes in the air—“tripped by a Gorbie during his hopping approach to the line. And in the ensuing scuffle, a bowling ball found its way first through one of the light fixtures, then halfway through the floor on its way back down.”
That wasn’t good. Aside from stepping on their foot, tripping a Vorpol was as disrespectful as getting a Gorbie’s hair wet. Wars had been started for less.
“Did you say the ballfound its way?” Freddie asked, his head tilting, his lips fixed in a pensive pout.
Chan sighed. “Unfortunately. Who threw the ball was a mystery I couldn’t solve. And in the name of keeping interspecies peace, I abandoned the investigation in favor of providing unlimited free bowling for both parties. After that mess, with no help from any of you, by the way, I wanted a drink.”
“Alone?” I asked, my suspicion mounting, my cupid senses tingling. “You’re at a bar by yourself?”
“Well, not exactly,” he replied. His chin ducked. His ears turned pink.Gotcha.
Scooting to the edge of my seat, I peered around our booth, trying—and failing—to be inconspicuous. Failing even harder when I spotted Makenna at a two-top table in the corner of the bar and gasped, “Chan. Are you on a date?”
“Chandler,” Morgath said knowingly, extending his fist for a bump. “My man.”
“Keep your voices down,” Chan hissed, pushing Morgath’s fist out of the way. “It’s not a date. It’s a friendly get-together. That’s all.”
“Doesn’t look like it’s only a friendly get-together to me,” Freddie said, angling his head to sneak a peek at Makenna. “She’s staring at you. She’s also smiling at you. She’s stare-smiling. Smile-staring? Smaring?” He snorted. “I made up a word.”
“Bravo, Chan,” I cheered, beaming with unrestrained pride. “But why are you here talking to us when you should be over there telling Makenna that her skin is more luminous than the glow of Ulaperia’s moons over the Senasar Sea?”
“Sunny.” His eyes flared. “Could… Can I steal that?”
“Take it and run,” I said. My words were thick and slow, but I didn’t care anymore. I was too busy propping my elbow on the edge of my table, watching Chan cruise back toMakenna, trying to read their lips. Which, in my current state, was surprisingly difficult.
“Shit.” Rax shook his head. “I think I’m drunk too. Come on, Morg. We gotta go.”
“So soon?” I asked, then bit back a squeak when Freddie dove beneath the table to pick up the napkin he’d dropped—and so he could run his fingers up the back of my leg.
“Sorry, Sunny.” Sliding out of the booth, Rax nodded toward his brother and said, “Let’s go, dingus. We’re hitting the training room at zero five hundred.”
“Seriously?” Morgath tripped over his own feet when he tried to stand. “We can’t take one day off?”
Shoving Morgath toward the door, Rax scoffed. “Asks the king of skipping leg day.”
