Starflight (Starflight, #1)(5)

Instinct told her to retreat—something wasn’t right—but she crossed both arms over her chest and asked in her sweetest voice, “How can I assist you, Mr. Spaulding?”

He turned and favored her with a glance as cold and empty as their surroundings. Wordlessly, he swept a hand toward the service door at the hull of the ship.

At first Solara didn’t understand. She gazed through the porthole at the outpost station to watch attendants pump fuel into the ship’s massive holding tanks. But then her gaze drifted downward, and she spotted her trunk on the floor. There was no mistaking the government-standard stenciling on the lid: BROOKS, SOLARA. CHARITABLE INSTITUTE #22573.

She was still staring at her luggage when she asked, “What’s this?”

“This,” he told her, “is where you get off.”

She whipped her gaze to his. “You can’t be serious.”

“Have you ever known me to enjoy a joke?”

“But this is an outpost. There’s nothing here. That’s why everyone’s staying on board.”

His casual shrug said that wasn’t his problem. “There are other ships. If you’re lucky, maybe someone less discriminating than me will hire you.”

Solara’s mouth went dry. Would he really leave her stranded at an outpost without a single credit to her name? Surely he knew what awaited her out there. She had never traveled beyond Earth before, but she’d heard stories of what girls like her had to do in these situations. She would be at the mercy of every lonely ship hand and oily smuggler who passed through this hub.

Maybe Doran was only trying to scare her.

“This isn’t funny,” she said in a small voice.

“Who’s laughing?” he asked. “By the way, you can keep the boots and clothes I bought for you. They’re of no use to me.”

She searched his face for a glimpse of kindness, the barest spark of compassion, finding none. As awful as Doran’s constant insults were, she’d never believed him capable of this kind of cruelty. She still didn’t want to believe it. “You’re really going to do this?” she asked. “Leave me here with nowhere to go?”

By way of answer, he brushed past her toward the stairs.

“Damn it, Doran!” she yelled, enjoying a morsel of satisfaction when the echo made him flinch. “We have a contract!”

He spun on her from his place at the top step. “And I warned you what would happen if you disappointed me.”

Disappointed him?

The accusation was so ridiculous that it stole Solara’s voice. She’d done everything he had asked of her, completed each demeaning task without once complaining. How dare he accuse her of failing to honor her side of the bargain?

Her vision tunneled, and she thrust a finger at him. “I came to your suite in the middle of the night to bring you a glass of water when you were too lazy to walk to the bathroom. I cleaned your girlfriend’s vomit off the sofa cushions.” Solara’s voice raised a pitch. “For God’s sake, I even fetched her panties when you two left them in the elevator! I wanted to amputate my own hand after that!”

Doran’s cheeks flushed bright pink, but he kept his tone cool. “I don’t tolerate liars.”

“Liars,” she repeated, finally understanding the real issue. She’d refused to share the details of her conviction with him. Well, that wasn’t going to change. She ripped off one glove and held her knuckles in his face. “So this is what it’s about? You want to know what I did to earn my ink?”

His blue eyes narrowed. “I can’t promise I’ll reconsider my decision.”

“That’s okay. I want you to know.” She gripped the stair rails and leaned down until she was close enough to smell his musky cologne. “I killed my last boss—buried a wrench in his brain when he tried to fire me.”

Doran took one step backward down the stairs, then another.

“But the judge had mercy,” she said, holding his gaze as she followed him down the steps. “Because my boss was just like you…a total waste of flesh.”

“I don’t believe you.” But Doran’s trembling voice contradicted his words.

“That I killed someone?” she asked. “Or that you’re a waste of flesh? Because one of those statements is true.”

He glared at her. “While you’re hustling a ride to the outer realm, I’ll be sipping champagne in bed with my girlfriend. Who’s the real failure here?”

“You are,” Solara said. “No doubt about it.” An odd sense of calm settled over her, steadying her pulse and slowing her breath. It felt good to speak her mind, even if each word was a nail in her coffin. “I might have dirt under my fingernails and tattoos across my knuckles,” she told him, “but I can fix that with a hot bath and a visit to the flesh forger. You’re dirty in a place that can’t be washed. You’ll never change, and you’ll never make a difference. When you die, no one will miss you, because your life won’t matter.” She followed him down the stairs until they stood nose-to-nose at the base. “You don’t matter.”

If she didn’t know better, she’d think her words had stung him. “Don’t pretend you’re better than me,” he whispered. “By the time you afford your first bolt bucket, I’ll control all the fuel in the galaxy. The Solar League would collapse without Spaulding, and they know it. If you hadn’t been expelled, you would’ve seen the League president at graduation—to congratulate me.”