Fatal Boarding Page 5

  Chapter 5

 

 

  There is something unsettling about a shower that recycles the water from the drain. It's pure enough to drink, but you have this subconscious suspicion you are washing the same dirt and grime off over and over. I wrapped myself in a short, brown towel that barely came around my waist, dimmed the lights low, and collapsed at last into the bed. I pulled a thin, tan-colored blanket from the hidden compartment in the wall and settled back. The bourbon was working well. The cabin walls and ceiling began to lose their definition in the fading room light. I closed my eyes and hoped I would not dream. I thanked the unheralded goddess of sleep for providing a temporary escape from reality.

  The door chime went ‘tong’.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and resisted the urge to scream. "What?"

  The doors popped open, and there stood Nira Prnca. Her inky black hair was still damp and hung in strands about her face and shoulders. She had on a loose fitting pair of light blue coveralls with a slight pink trim and no name tag, the kind used by the female nursing staff. They were long sleeved, undone at the cuffs, and unzipped to the chest. She was barefoot. There was a half-smile locked into her delicate pink mouth. Her pearly dark eyes had an intimidating look of utter resolve in them. She strolled into my cabin without saying a word, leaned back against the desk, and casually looked around.

  "Nira, what the hell are you doing out of sickbay?"

  She looked me over with an intensity that made me want to pull the blanket up higher.

  "I'm a big girl now, Adrian. I wasn't being cared for in the nursery, you know."

  "But they said it was a good four-inch laceration. They said you'd lost a respectable amount of blood, that you'd be kept off duty for at least four or five days."

  She came to the side of the bed and stared down at me, her glistening black locks dangling down around her gentle face. The male radar in me became aware she was wearing nothing under the coveralls.

  Male perception of the amount of clothes being worn by any given woman beneath the colorful outer layers is a finely-tuned sensory skill that borders on clairvoyance. It is a talent most likely developed the day after the first Neanderthal lady decided to adorn herself with the ferns and flowers from the rain forest surrounding her cave. There must be some kind of special radiant frequencies given off by the more sensuous female body parts. These subtle, irresistible signals have a certain debilitating effect on the male mind, to the point he can no longer pay adequate attention to whatever he happens to be doing at the time of exposure. So disarming is this phenomenon, some have been known to pilot their speeding vehicles into immovable objects. The male can on occasion completely lose the ability to think rationally. This anesthetizing influence is intensified by the female by varying and adjusting the sway, bounce, and pose of her body. Too deliberate an effort has been known to paralyze the male completely.

  I snapped myself out of it. "What are you doing here?"

  "I feel just fine, Adrian dear."

  "Loss of blood can cause feelings of euphoria, you know. It can make you do things you might not otherwise."

  "The Doctor topped me off, honey. I'm just fine. Besides, you've used that once already."

  "Look, Nira, this sort of thing happens all the time. You have a serious near-miss and someone is there to help you out of it. There's depression and elation afterward. You get to thinking you owe that person something you really don't. It wears off after awhile, but you can do something really stupid before it does, something you regret afterward. There's no bill, Nira. You don't owe me anything. I was just doing my job. We're not an item."

  I thought that would be enough insulation, enough removal. She was one of the most dynamic, successful individuals I had ever met. The mere suggestion of rejection was likely to infuriate her. Insincere morality can be one of the best possible concealments for insecurity. To feign disinterest would certainly send this beautiful creature storming out, and when she finally regained her composure she would realize what an impulsive mistake she had almost made.

  She kicked out an inviting curve of hip and sat on the edge of the bed facing me. She leaned forward and braced herself with one hand on either side of my head, staring down at me, a string of damp hair brushing my face.

  "Well, ah jest was a-hopin' to show all ma gratitude to ma hero Mista Buck Rogers. Lil' 'ole country gals like me kin git so taken we jest don't know what we are doin'!" She leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the lips. She backed off enough to look me squarely in the eye and suddenly knew I was lost.

  "Guess I'm not much of a psychologist."

  She smiled knowingly. She spoke softly. "Something happened out there between us, Adrian. We were trading each other's breath. I can think of a lot better ways to trade breath with someone, can't you? Something got started out there. It must be finished. I'm here to finish it."

  "But you’re on medication. You're probably under the influence...."

  "I'm under more influence than medication, darling."

  "But, the laceration. You should be resting...."

  Her voice became low and hypnotically mellow. "I've been glued back together, dear. Guaranteed for life. But if you're really so worried about my little boo-boo, why don't I show it to you?"

  I expected her to pull up one sleeve. Instead, she stood and very deliberately unzipped her flight suit to the navel. She reached up, still staring me in the eye, and pulled the thin fabric free from her shoulders. It fell in a heap at her feet. A wide bandage covered one wrist.

  I had always imagined Nira's body to be muscled and compact. It was soft and voluptuous. I couldn't help but stare. That part of my mind which is responsible for rational, sensible behavior gave me a little four-fingered wave, a meek "bye-bye", and dropped out of sight completely. She hooked one knee up and over me, exposing herself completely, and sat down in a straddle across my legs. Smooth, white, even breasts bounced gently as she adjusted herself. Fine, burgundy nipples became tight and erect. I looked back up into her eyes. She smiled down at me knowingly. I opened my mouth to speak, and realized I knew nothing to say. She leaned forward and clamped her soft, wet mouth over my mine.

  Shock and sensuality seem to go well together. There are those times when you have been so severely frightened, so unthinkably traumatized, that a residual shock effect stays with you for years, sometimes forever. You can see this lingering shadow of fear in the eyes of people who have skydived and should not have, or in the soldiers of war who have been forced into hand-to-hand combat when they were not expecting it. It is as though some childish part of the soul is still crying out for help, as though it has not yet received word all is well. No amount of therapy usually cures this condition. Very few things do. Confronting the same level of danger a second time occasionally will, but the real, best, time-tested antidote is hard sex with love mixed in. It has a way of resetting the necessary circuit breaker.

  The world became a sensuous pool of color and warmth. We slipped and slid our way into each other, over and over, finding the places not yet touched, and testing each other's vulnerability. The visual became a strobe of sexual light accented by the sounds of passion and effort. Endurance gave out before desire. We reluctantly ground down into a tangle on the bed and held to each other in exhausted satisfaction. The day had taken its toll, but it had saved the best for last.

  Love making has its own set of rules for time. Or, maybe time has no control over love. When it's good, two hours can seem like ten minutes. And when it is good, you hardly care. Her slight movement brought me half awake. She was lying on her side against me, her right leg sprawled across my thighs, her right arm draped over my chest. She made an annoyed purring sound as I felt her ooze away from me and out of bed. Through a glassy-eyed stare, I could see her looking down at me as she pulled the wrinkled coveralls back on. She bent over, dragging her hair across my face, and gently bit my earlobe. She kissed me on the cheek and in a mocking, ha
ughty voice whispered, "Oh, I'm so ashamed."

  I heard her short, throaty laugh above the swish of the doors as she left. Clearly I had lost all credibility as a debater of idealism. She'd left me limp and beaten. I lay with one arm draped over the side of the bed, floating in the sensuous corona of half sleep and decided winning wasn't everything.