elite in Sector 12 was the main source of revenue for the orphanage. This man’s eyes looked just like honey number seven—my favorite. Almost the darkest. The darker honeys had more flavor.
He stopped a few feet from me, and those honey-brown eyes dipped, taking me in from my head to my toes. My clothing was skintight, and I felt a blush flare under his slow inspection.
Finally, he looked up. “Just checking for weapons.”
I snorted. “Really? Weapons? I haven’t heard that one before.”
He winked at me like the scoundrel I highly suspected he was. “We’re inventive out here in 2. Where’re you from?”
“What makes you think I’m not from here?”
“You’re a 12-er. I can hear it in your posh voice.”
Time seemed to slow down as my mind processed his words one by one, even though it only took a second. I hardly spoke to anyone besides my crew, and they didn’t care what I sounded like. Blurring my trail outside of the Endeavor meant it was time to work on a new accent, though. It was too bad. The precise, cut-glass diction was one of the only things I liked about Sector 12.
I crossed my arms, one hip jutting out as I shifted my balance. “If you already knew, then why did you ask?”
He shook his head as though dismayed, his close-cropped brown hair glinting in the slanting, mote-filled rays. His hair spiked a little haphazardly in front where some cowlicks seemed to have minds of their own. My fingers twitched with the sudden urge to reach out and smooth them down.
Strange. I usually resisted all forms of uniformity in conscious protest of the oppressive galactic order. And wanting to touch a total stranger was weird in itself.
“Why. Did. You. Ask.” He enunciated each word pointedly, although even that didn’t mask the slight drawl in his voice or the humor underlying it. “Hear that? You’ve got to slide it all together, fancy pants. Like this: why’d’ya’ask?”
Fancy pants? I arched one brow—high—and then dutifully parroted, “Why’d’ya’ask?”
“Good.” He gave a quick nod of approval. “Now lose the imperious look, and you might fit in around the docks.”
I gaped—inwardly, at least. On the outside, I just stood there. What the hell? How had he pegged me so fast, and so freaking well?
“I haven’t been to Sector 12 in a long time. I’m from 8, if you really want to know.”
“Really wanna know,” he corrected.
I didn’t parrot this time. He was exaggerating. Except for a few prolonged vowels and slightly sloppy articulation, his speech sounded perfectly neutral to me.
He pursed his lips, looking deep in thought. “You can’t be full 8. I know what the rats out there sound like.”
So he’d been around the galaxy. So had I.
I took a deep breath and uncrossed my arms. “You Ganavan?” I asked.
“Might be. Who’s asking?”
I had the strongest impulse to say Quintessa Novalight and blow his fucking world to bits because he was ticking me off, but I wasn’t stupid enough for that. “Tess Bailey,” I answered, resurrecting her from the dead.
“And what are you looking for in my shop, Tess Bailey?”
His gaze dipped as he said my name, as though he were stamping the letters onto my body, or somehow imprinting them right into both of us. I got the feeling this guy never forgot a thing, and I suddenly wished I’d made up something else. Why didn’t I ever just blurt out Jane Smith?
“Do you have more of a name than just Ganavan?” I asked, ignoring the heat tingling up my spine. Part of it was habitual nervousness, but there was also something else. Something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Shade Ganavan,” he answered, looking dead serious for the first time since we’d met. The rascal was gone for just a moment, and in his place, there was a man whose deep voice and assessing eyes caused a slight tremor to go through me.
I couldn’t tell if I wanted to step closer to him, or get the hell out of his shop. Usually, I wasn’t conflicted about that type of thing.
I opted for staying where I was. “Well, Shade Ganavan, I need someone to repair my ship. Do you know of anyone who has at least eight standard tiles of reinforced, space-worthy metal, welding equipment, and a way to get it all up to the three-hundred-and-fourteenth level of the Squirrel Tree?”
His head reared back. “You’re in the fucking Squirrel Tree? Shit, princess, I guarantee they’re ripping you off.”