of linens on the sink, where above it hung an old, gilded
mirror.
“What the hell am I
doing?” he muttered to his reflection, digging fingers into his
sticky, spiked everywhere hair. He had no business telling lies
to a dying old man, making promises some other man was supposed
to keep. His people would come for him and he would have to
leave and Lyrianne would be no better off, just a single woman
trying to run a farm by herself.
Shaking his head, he
stepped back and leaned over to unstrap his boots. She’d called
him her hero. He snorted at that, not amused but bitter. He was
no such thing. He was just a selfish space jockey who’d crash
landed in her backyard the night her father died. That didn’t
make him a savior, it made him an asshole.
Leaving the boots and
grimy, sweaty socks tucked inside, Miguel caught and lifted the
borrowed shirt over his head, put his Fed-issued weapon on the
side of the sink and quickly unlaced the pants. It was a good
thing he didn’t go commando because it’d be mighty embarrassing
to be walking around in some other dude’s pants, especially if
that other dude did in fact go commando.
Dropping his boxer
briefs on top of his boots, he reached into the bathtub, one of
those old porcelain ones with the clawed feet (which seemed
surreal, as it was something he’d have seen on his home planet
and wouldn’t have expected on some backwater farming colony),
and started turning the handle faucets until the warm ran hot.
Then he climbed in and gingerly sat himself down.
He didn’t belong
here. He reached for the soap and depressed the plunger, cupping
his hands next in the running water before he sloshed it over
himself and started to scrub at the dirt and sweat dried on his
skin.
“You should not be
here, man,” he told himself grimly, watching the dirty soap
bubbles slide down the drain. Not only was he in enemy
territory, he was in the bathtub of a possible Alliance
sympathizer.
More soap, more
water, and a lot more scrubbing later and the pilot, hair
squeaky clean and dusky skin red and raw, climbed out of the tub
and picked up a towel. He needed to get back to the barn and
destroy his capsule. Then he needed to get back in the woods and
hunker down while he waited for an extraction team.
What he did was pull
on the fresh pants, soft from use and forced into hugging his
junk when his underwear proved just too sweaty to put back on.
He scrubbed at his hair until it no longer dripped, then he
reached for the shirt laid out for him and opened the bathroom
door.
Miguel walked into
the kitchen barefoot, working his arms into the sleeves of the
tunic.
Lyrianne looked up, a
little more animation in her eyes than before as she smiled at
him. The table was set for one and she pulled the chair out and
patted the back of it to indicate he should sit. “I've already
eaten.” She had, or at least tried, but had been unable to choke
down more than a few bites of the tender roast.
She sat in a chair
opposite the one with the table setting and food laid out before
it and rested her chin on her palms. While he'd been in the
bath, she'd done her best to clean up short of climbing in a
bath herself. That would have to wait, but at least her hair was
combed and neatly braided and her face had been scrubbed clean.
The bump and purple bruise above her right eye was more clearly
visible but she hadn't even given it a second thought.
She still had work to
do, so she hadn't changed out of the sweaty, grimy coveralls.
Her feet were now bare save for the makeshift wrap she'd wound
around the sprained ankle. She'd tried putting on another pair
of boots, but they wouldn't go over the bandage. It wasn't like
she hadn't spent a good deal of her life barefoot, however. She
could handle it.
“I took Farley some
bedding and towels and he told me you were an asshole and a very
mirror.
“What the hell am I
doing?” he muttered to his reflection, digging fingers into his
sticky, spiked everywhere hair. He had no business telling lies
to a dying old man, making promises some other man was supposed
to keep. His people would come for him and he would have to
leave and Lyrianne would be no better off, just a single woman
trying to run a farm by herself.
Shaking his head, he
stepped back and leaned over to unstrap his boots. She’d called
him her hero. He snorted at that, not amused but bitter. He was
no such thing. He was just a selfish space jockey who’d crash
landed in her backyard the night her father died. That didn’t
make him a savior, it made him an asshole.
Leaving the boots and
grimy, sweaty socks tucked inside, Miguel caught and lifted the
borrowed shirt over his head, put his Fed-issued weapon on the
side of the sink and quickly unlaced the pants. It was a good
thing he didn’t go commando because it’d be mighty embarrassing
to be walking around in some other dude’s pants, especially if
that other dude did in fact go commando.
Dropping his boxer
briefs on top of his boots, he reached into the bathtub, one of
those old porcelain ones with the clawed feet (which seemed
surreal, as it was something he’d have seen on his home planet
and wouldn’t have expected on some backwater farming colony),
and started turning the handle faucets until the warm ran hot.
Then he climbed in and gingerly sat himself down.
He didn’t belong
here. He reached for the soap and depressed the plunger, cupping
his hands next in the running water before he sloshed it over
himself and started to scrub at the dirt and sweat dried on his
skin.
“You should not be
here, man,” he told himself grimly, watching the dirty soap
bubbles slide down the drain. Not only was he in enemy
territory, he was in the bathtub of a possible Alliance
sympathizer.
More soap, more
water, and a lot more scrubbing later and the pilot, hair
squeaky clean and dusky skin red and raw, climbed out of the tub
and picked up a towel. He needed to get back to the barn and
destroy his capsule. Then he needed to get back in the woods and
hunker down while he waited for an extraction team.
What he did was pull
on the fresh pants, soft from use and forced into hugging his
junk when his underwear proved just too sweaty to put back on.
He scrubbed at his hair until it no longer dripped, then he
reached for the shirt laid out for him and opened the bathroom
door.
Miguel walked into
the kitchen barefoot, working his arms into the sleeves of the
tunic.
Lyrianne looked up, a
little more animation in her eyes than before as she smiled at
him. The table was set for one and she pulled the chair out and
patted the back of it to indicate he should sit. “I've already
eaten.” She had, or at least tried, but had been unable to choke
down more than a few bites of the tender roast.
She sat in a chair
opposite the one with the table setting and food laid out before
it and rested her chin on her palms. While he'd been in the
bath, she'd done her best to clean up short of climbing in a
bath herself. That would have to wait, but at least her hair was
combed and neatly braided and her face had been scrubbed clean.
The bump and purple bruise above her right eye was more clearly
visible but she hadn't even given it a second thought.
She still had work to
do, so she hadn't changed out of the sweaty, grimy coveralls.
Her feet were now bare save for the makeshift wrap she'd wound
around the sprained ankle. She'd tried putting on another pair
of boots, but they wouldn't go over the bandage. It wasn't like
she hadn't spent a good deal of her life barefoot, however. She
could handle it.
“I took Farley some
bedding and towels and he told me you were an asshole and a very
Similar Books
