“Want what?” Saby asked, relentlessly, and squeezed his fingers. “I’m free tonight. My bunk or yours?”
“God.—Yours. “ He couldn’t possibly subject Saby to a let-down bunk. He hadn’t any sheets. He wasn’t prioritizing clearly. “I just—”
“You’re crazed. “ She stood on her toes and gave him another kiss. “PDA is positively against the regs, you know. Crew’s coming in.”
“Yeah. But the hell—” He gave her one back, the kind they’d shared in the night…
Then a hand caught his shoulder, spun him—he thought instantly, life-long sensitivity about officers and public display—of some officer catching them; then in one split-second saw blond hair and saw Christian, before Christian’s fist slammed his jaw, Saby yelled in outrage, and his back hit the wall panels.
He came off them for a grab at Christian, Christian hit him in the gut and then he landed one solid hit and another before Christian grabbed his shirt and they swung about, bang! into the echoing panels. Saby was yelling, some other female was yelling, futile hands were trying to drag them apart and then both females were trying to kick them apart while he was trying to keep a grip on Christian and get him stopped—minor hits on his back, minor kicks in the leg, which only let Christian get an arm free. Christian half-deafened him—
Somebody kicked him in the head, then in the ribs, kicked Christian too, for what he could figure, and a noise of male voices started yelling encouragement and laying bets.
He wasn’t going to lose this one, didn’t know what it was for, but he knew the stakes. He hit, he punched, he held on and tried to pin Christian flat while blows came at his midriff. He smelled alcohol. He heard Saby yelling for Michaels, for somebody, anybody, to get it stopped, but the bets were flying too fast. Christian hit him across the temple, he hit Christian in the jaw, then dropped an arm across Christian’s throat and tried to keep him down, cut off his wind, end the fight, while Christian kept trying to batter him loose.
“Break it up!” somebody yelled. Male. Loud. Mad. “Damn you, break it up!” A hand grabbed his collar, a knee came up in his face, and from the deck, afterward, in a haze of pain, he saw Austin hauling Christian off the deck and up, Christian spitting blood and bleeding from the eyebrow.
“Mister,” Austin said, shook Christian and shoved him against the wall. “Mister, you are drunk. Do you understand, you are drunk, reporting in?”
“The whole fucking crew—” Christian objected, and there was a crowd around them. Saby. Capella. Dockers, crew, all gawking, all suddenly melting away from the danger zone.
“The witnesses are your problem, mister,” Austin said. “You did it. You fix it. Hear me? After undock and zone clearance. My office. Clean, presentable, and sober.”
After which he let Christian go and stalked back into the open lift. The door hissed shut. The lift rose.
Tom blotted his lip with a bruised knuckle, felt whether teeth were loose. Saby touched his arm gingerly, meanwhile, trying to move him, but he stared steadily at Christian—he’d learned from the cousins not to turn his back. Christian stared back, mad, white, except the blood—Capella was trying to get him elsewhere, saying it was no good, it didn’t matter, they had other troubles.
Finally it made sense to get away from the scene, let the business cool down. He walked off with Saby, left Christian to his own devices, went off to Saby’s cabin and Saby’s washroom, where he could clean off the damage.
He got a chance and he’d immediately done something to screw it. Didn’t know all that he’d done, or why specifically Christian had gone for him, but he half wished Austin had knocked both of them sideways, at least not done that in front of the crew… it didn’t make sense to him, except Austin didn’t understand the impact of his actions—but Austin did. He’d no doubt of it.
He saw Saby in the mirror, behind him. Saw her looking upset.
“He’s jealous,” Saby said.
“Of you?” Talking hurt. Would. He rationed words.