Hearts Akilter (9 page)

She startled and blurted out a sharp, “What?”

“The wrench ceased functioning twenty seconds ago.”

She removed the unit. “Okay, try the hand. Is it working up to specs?”

He flexed and spun each of the three fingers on the appendage. “Affirmative. Yes. All is within working parameters.”

“Great, and, Henry, please don’t put any more of your digits into a RoboBot’s mouth.”

“Puppy is not a RoboBot. It is a toy. A much beloved toy.”

“Yeah, a toy with the Bite Force Quotient of an uber-katachin.” She glanced at the pile of parts that had been Puppy. “Next time a kid throws a tantrum over getting an injection, don’t bribe him with anything he can smash and it goes berserk.”

“Affirmative. Yes. Duly noted.”

Swiveling her task chair, she deposited the wrench in its holder on the wall. When she turned back to face Henry, she checked the clock. Five more minutes had gone by and no Deacon.

Her stomach grumbled.

She was hungry and shouldn’t wait much longer.

“Marlee, four times while I have been here you have looked at the clock. Is Deacon late for your date?”

“It’s not a date, just supper at The Mall Bistro.”

“You do not look as if you are eager for Deacon to appear. Has he displeased you?”

“No, nothing like that.” She averted her gaze and studied her chipped fingernails.

“Marlee?”

“What?”

“I have concluded something troubles you. Must I quiz you until I ascertain your malady?”

“I don’t have a malady, and I don’t need amateur psychoanalysis.”

“You are being sarcastic, are you not?”

She met his serene, glass-eyed gaze. “No, not sarcastic. I guess I’m irritated with myself and letting my imagination create angsting horrors.”

“About what precisely?”

Did she dare confide in Henry?

The situation needed to be resolved. Damned if she did and damned if she didn’t, and who better than Henry to see things logically? Analyze her quandary? Reach a sensible conclusion?

“Marlee? Please say something.”

She needed advice. That’s all there was to it. “Okay. I’ll lay it on the line. I like—
really, really
—like Deacon.”

“I have drawn that conclusion, but there is something else, is there not?”

She said quietly, “We haven’t had sex.”

“Is sex with Deacon important to you?”

“I like being seduced. I like foreplay. I like sex.”

“And Deacon does not?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know. We kiss. We cuddle. Twice we’ve walked the conservatory gardens and talked all night. He helped me get a nice sofa bed and anchor it to the decking of my quarters, but all we do is sit on it. No sleeping together. No sex.” She sat up straighter and confessed her worst fear. “I think he just wants to be a friend.”

“You want to be more than friends? You want to be lovers?”

She nodded.
And maybe more, something permanent, like raising a family together
.

“Have you discussed this with him?”

She shook her head. “It’s not a subject I want to broach.”

Henry’s voice held a stern, almost fatherly, admonishment. “You should talk to Deacon.”

From behind Marlee came Deacon’s cheery voice, “Talk to me about what?”

Skom!
Deacon was here.

“So, what’s up?” Deacon said, half his cheeriness gone.

Henry replied, “Marlee wants to have sex with you.”

Skom, skom, skom!
Leave it to Henry. The mortification scorched Marlee’s cheeks, and she covered her face with her hands.

“I see.” No trace of cheerfulness remained in Deacon’s voice.

“Deacon,” Henry said, using his resonant nurse’s tone, “I must return to sickbay. I urge you to immediately resolve this situation between you and Marlee.”

“Okay. No problem.”

Marlee listened to Henry’s treads rumble across the decking, pause, and then the door snicked shut.

It figured Henry would ensure she and Deacon had privacy.
Skom!
What should she say? What should she do?

The sound of a task chair being wheeled closer to her was followed by the unmistakable creak of the seat when Deacon sat down. An instant later, his cool hands circled her wrists, gently pulling her hands away from her face.

She opened her eyes and focused on the auto-zipper of his pristine uniform-coveralls and inhaled the faint, but not unpleasant, odor of burnt
explosive de jour
, the scent as tart as a blend of insta-cement and putty oil.

“Marlee?”

“Go away. Please, just go away.” The heat of her embarrassment re-intensified across her cheekbones.

“I can’t.” He released her wrists.

“I feel enough of a fool for confiding in Henry and having him blab to you.” She hugged herself, but it didn’t ease her discomfort.

“You’ve never been a fool. Maybe a little impetuous, but never a fool, sweetheart.”

“Stop calling me sweetheart. It’s a meaningless word.”

“Not to me. Remember our first kiss? When you came to in sickbay?”

She muttered, “Hard to forget it.”

“That was when I realized you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to call sweetheart.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No, I’m not. Look, Marlee, in my job, one wrong move, one infinitesimal vibration, and the bomb I was defusing or assembling could kill me. What woman wants to live under the guillotine of never knowing if I will come home or not?”

“So you figured it was safer to have one-night stands?”

“Sometimes, but I usually went for women who had their own agendas, and we both knew nothing would be permanent.”

“Like with Woodridge?”

He nodded.

“So, since you’ve been demoted to an instructor—”

“I was not demoted. Who told you that?”

“Woodridge.”

“Okay, I’ll admit I didn’t correct her. Look, when I realized I never wanted to face another Yokovnin, I decided to resign my commission. My CO convinced me to take a stint as an instructor. Turns out, I like the job.”

The loud chugging and vibrations of a passing crane’s engine rattled her workshop door and sent a dozen tools on Marlee’s partition walls jiggling.

When the noise level died away, Deacon said. “Let’s go someplace quiet and finish this discussion.”

“My quarters or yours?”

At the corner of his lips, a smile curled. “Neither.”

What did he mean by that? She studied his face and its neutral mask.

“Come with me, Marlee. Trust me and ask no questions.”

If she didn’t iron this no-sex thing out with him, she’d go crazy.

Her stomach grumbled.

“Okay, but only if we grab a snack en route. I’m famished.”

He chuckled and an hour later, dozens of decks down in the space station, she followed him into a bay of story-tall, cargo containers. Row upon row of containers were stacked three high and each stack had a spiral staircase running from the decking to the upper containers. A landing served each container’s people-sized hatch, which had been retrofitted into the container’s narrow end.

He stopped at the first unit and tabbed in a code on the access panel. A rumbling ensued, and the door slipped aside. Lights came on, revealing paneled living quarters.

“This,” Deacon said, “should give us the privacy we need.”

She could almost swear he stopped himself from adding, “…and we are so deep in the station’s cavernous depths Henry won’t find us.”

Well, the robot did have a knack for interrupting.

She peered into the container and inhaled the scent of an air freshener’s floral blend. “This is one of those overflow housing modules.”

“Recycling at its best.” He waved his hand, indicating she should enter.

After she stepped through the portal, he entered and closed the door. The only furnishings were a pair of glass topped end tables and a tufted, eggshell-white sofa where red, green, and black pillows added a splash of color.

“Well,” Deacon said, “what do you think of the place?”

“It’s okay if you like shantytown housing over quarters. Are you going to rent this place?”

He chuckled. “No. I own it and three other units, as investments and an income source.” He cleared his throat and said with pride, “This one is ours.”

“Ours?”

He nodded. “Now, come, sit, and let’s talk.” He headed for the sofa.

The moment of reckoning was at hand and panic swooped through her like a million bats. Sucking up her courage, she followed Deacon, then sat facing him.

When she went to speak, Deacon put his index finger to her lips. “Marlee, let me go first.” He withdrew his finger.

She nodded.

Seeing him rub both of his hands on his thighs, as if to dry the sweat off them, Marlee glanced at her own hands and noted they trembled. Was he as nervous as she was? She clasped her clammy hands on her lap, drawing her fingers tightly together, waiting for Deacon to say his piece.

A long moment later, Deacon squared his shoulders and met her gaze. “I planned to bring you here when I had more furniture. I thought we might spend the night.” He pointed to the back of the room, where a paneled partition held a closed pocket door. “In the bedroom. In bed.”

The dread holding its vice-like grip on her vanished. In her joy, her words came out in a high-pitched squeak. “You want to have sex with me?”

He chuckled. “Yes, Marlee, I want to. I’ve been longing to.” His boy-next-door grin shoved back his cheeks. “It became evident that moment in your closet. When you stood in your fuzzy pink sleepsuit.” His grin softened. “You looked at me with your gorgeous onyx eyes, and I was…bewitched.”

He thought her eyes were gorgeous? She had bewitched him? “But, Deacon, you haven’t acted like a man who wants sex with me.”

“Ah, that. It’s because I was…afraid.”

“Afraid? You? The unflappable bomb expert?”

“I was afraid you would equate me to Robert.”

“Roger. His name was Roger, and there’s no comparison. Believe me, there is no comparison.”

He waved his hand, dismissing the issue. “Marlee, there’s more. I didn’t want you to get the idea all I wanted was sex, especially when it occurred to me that if we had sex in your quarters, and things didn’t work out between us, you would end up clearing out your place again and sleeping in the closet.”

She hadn’t thought of that, but it was a likely outcome.

“And if we had sex in my quarters, and things disintegrated—” He flashed a lopsided smile. “I just might clear out my place and sleep in the closet.”

She quashed the urge to laugh. “Can’t have both of us sleeping in separate closets, now can we?”

In his eyes, she saw a bright sheen of longing and something else. Hope? Maybe even—love?

He took her hands in his. “Marlee, I’m willing to wait, to let you set the pace of our relationship because…” He swallowed hard enough for his Adam’s apple to bob, and his words came out half-choked. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”

A joyous warmth swirled through her. “Wow, Deacon.” The heat of tears welled up around her optical implants. “Love and practicality.” She threw her arms about his neck, hugging him.

No doubt about it. She had fallen in love with him.

Feeling his arms encircle her, she whispered into his ear, “Me, too.”

A word about the author…

Catherine is a wife, mother, horseperson (Morgan horses), Red Hatter, sewer/crafter, 4-H leader, ribbon-winning amateur photographer, and above all, a storyteller who lives on a farm in rural Western Pennsylvania. Writing as C. E. McLean, her short stories have appeared in hard-copy and online magazines and anthologies.

Connect with Catherine at

http://tinyurl.com/connectwithcatherine

or visit her website:

http://www.CatherineEmclean.com

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this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.