CHAPTER 44

 

TARA

 

Brax had been so reluctant about losing his heavy metal cuffs.  He had held his ground, even going so far as to lean back when I tried to lead him out of the room.

All right.  Working on a hunch, I slide off the leather bracelet that Tac made me.  It has enough length that it wraps a couple of times around my wrist, so when I unwind it, it’s easy to use it to cuff us together.

And just like I’d guessed: Brax lets me do it, and only after this does he follow when I tug him forward.  Obviously, he could snap it, but I’m hoping that since he isn’t interested in hurting me, that he’ll be careful not to snap it and hurt me as we go around the ship.  Yes, he’s a real danger to the guys, not me—I did pick up on that between my super sleuth skills and all the little territorial Brax-growls that went on whenever the guys tried to drop in.

I don’t know how my ass got suddenly stamped all ‘Property-of-Brax’—but I didn’t agree to this.  Now that I’ve had a chance to do a little ironing-out of my issues, I don’t think Tac agrees with this either, at least not entirely.  I guess he should have spit on me first.

I am enormously grateful that Brax’s form of ‘marking’ is spit and not urine, or he’d have lifted his leg all over me by now.

As it is, he felt it necessary to give me a thorough ‘sliming’ before we could leave the room.

I’m still shaking my head over it.  Crazy alien.  At least his spit smells good, and dries fast.  And speaking of aliens, I need to find one, and make up.  Because I feel really guilty for the way I ignored him when he came to check on me.  It’s not his fault I have hang-ups.  It’s also pretty much not his fault he had a part in triggering them.  He is not responsible for the events that happened in my past and I’m not convinced his actions in these circumstances were as callous as I instinctively took them to be.  He doesn’t deserve—doesn’t seem to have done a thing that actually qualifies for how deeply betrayed I’d felt.

And since I can’t actually say any of this to him in a way he’ll understand, making up is basically going to be a hug.  That’s the gist of my plan.  It’s basic, but, I’m hoping it’s a good start.  Clear.  Concise.  I just have to keep this giant stripey-golden grouch from losing his mind when I do it.

We’re almost to the service room when an alarm blares.  I should be used to it:  I’ve heard it enough times, but I still flinch.  Brax’s hands carefully come around me to cup over my ears.

I blink, facing forward and processing the warmth of his hands and the thoughtfulness of his gesture.  Is this the same guy that insisted I kneel for him?

Pressure is gently applied, his hands pressing slightly in, then down, so that my head tips back enough that I can see him looming above me.  He shakes his head, causing his horns to scrape tracks on the hallway walls.

“‘No,’ you don’t want me to bug Tac right now?”  This is the most serious-sounding of the alarms.  “Or you just don’t want me to see Tac at all?”

His eyes narrow as he studies my lips, before his gaze travels to mine again.  He looks frustrated—boy can I sympathize.  This no-talking isn’t exactly what I’d call a good time either.

Another alarm starts to blare.

I sigh.  I work to pull my chin down until Brax let’s up on the pressure, but like a sweet dork, he keeps his hands over my ears as I guide us to the maintenance closet, then to another deck, one where the alarms can still be heard, but only barely.  It’s almost silent here.  This is Lem’s level, with his side of the hallway being the quietest place in the whole ship.  I pull the baggie of mop-cleaner chunks from my pocket.  Earlier, when I’d been confused, and scared and—I think—sort of understandably-angry: Brax handed me the mopping-soap bars.  The ones that were kind of therapeutic to snap into little tiny pieces.

Oh, I’d snapped.  I’d snapped all right.  I threw them, I kicked them, and I’d stomped on them.  I’d used all the strength I possessed to grind them between my hands.

Admittedly, I wasn’t all that strong: when one piece refused to break and tried to ruin my fantasy—the one where I’m hulk-capable and in control of everything I want to be—I’d felt so incensed.  Powerless.

Until Brax had reached over me, closed his hands over mine, and crammed our hands together, pulverizing that soap.

Now I turn to him and motion for the bucket he’s been wheeling behind us, courtesy of his tail’s guidance.  He scowls.

“I can mop.”

His scowl grows deeper.

I point to the mop handle he’s got tucked under his arm.  I look him right in the eye, and I snap my fingers.

Brax jerks back in shock.  And then…

He throws back his head, and laughs.