Stowaway (Star Line Express Romance Book 1)

  Stowaway

  star line express

  romance #1

  Alessia Bowman

  Copyright © 2018 by Alessia Bowman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  cover art by Rebecacovers | fiverr.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1-949059-03-8 (ebook)

  Eclipse Ink, Bronx, NY

  Stowaway is a work of fiction. References to historical events or real people or places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual anything or anyone is entirely coincidental.

  Visit my website: https://www.alessiabowman.com/

  Star Line Express Romances

  #1 Stowaway

  #2 Shore Leave

  #3 Delivery

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Author’s Note

  For lovers in every galaxy

  Chapter 1

  Aymee

  I can’t say that it’s comfortable in here, but I wasn’t looking for comfort. I was looking for escape—and you can’t get more escaped than this. Hiding in a storage locker in the practically prehistoric intergalactic cargo transport that I had the bad sense to choose for my departure.

  But this ship—or I—was in the right place at the right time. That right place being just a few meters away from the place where, had I stayed, I would’ve been arrested. Even though I’m innocent.

  Of course I’m innocent.

  The right time was, for this godforsaken ship, directly before takeoff, and for me, seconds or maybe an entire minute or two before I would’ve been discovered.

  It’s fucking hot as a too-hot oven in here.

  But stowaways can’t be choosers. I think that’s a motto I read somewhere. Back when I had reading material. Before I was standing, crouching, or squatting in a heated-to-three-billion-degrees storage locker on the sorriest cargo transport in the entire galaxy. In the entire Seven Galaxies, no doubt.

  Still, better than being arrested, right? And convicted, since, as we all know, even the innocent are convicted. Especially the innocent, I think. Having the bad sense to get arrested is a strong indication of guilt.

  Although, really, in some ways, I am guilty. While still very very innocent. So say I.

  I can’t really sit down in here. That’s what I guess under other circumstances I’d call a challenge, but right about now I’m going to call it what it is: a fucking nuisance. And, something else I hadn’t taken into consideration before I hopped on board and stowed myself away, feeling damned clever and immensely relieved: Where is this ship headed to? And how long will it take to get there?

  I have other questions plaguing me as well. Where is the bathroom? might be the one that’s foremost in my mind, or bladder.

  And where is there some food I can steal? Because, when you run away without a plan, without any supplies . . . hell, without anything at all except what I’m wearing, which is too blasted much for this steaming burning hot locker . . .

  Well, you see what I mean. I’m unprepared.

  Such is the life of a stowaway. If I’d only known that I was going to be one, I would have packed away some supplies—like food and water, for two glaring examples—studied up on the best places to hide in an intergalactic freighter, places that weren’t roughly the temperature of the sandburner at the Soron station, and picked a much much much better ship. Something that was built in, say, the last two or three centuries. Not this POS.

  I wonder how long I can last squatting here—squatting is the new standing up—without food, water, coolness, a toilet, or contact with anyone except myself.

  Ten more seconds, as it turns out.

  Note to self: the next time you’re desperate for a piss, don’t squat. Especially not in a boiling-hot storage locker in the galaxy’s worst cargo transport. Because if you do, you’re going to end up even more desperate than you were before. And be forced to leave your safe, if unbearably hot, hiding place.

  Which is what I did. And ran right into the next-to-last being I wanted to run into.

  Well, at least it wasn’t the absolute last being I wanted to run into. The one I’d become a stowaway because of. The one I was a criminal because of. A very extremely innocent criminal.

  Niklas

  I had dreams when I was younger—and this definitely wasn’t one of them. To be the first officer of an intergalactic ship? Yes, of course. But this ship? Never. Not once in my boyhood did I ever stare off dreamily into the ethers and envision myself the first officer of a cargo transport. Or even on a cargo transport. What kind of kid would dream about that? The kind that the owner of a cargo transport company would have.

  And if I had dreamt about being at the helm of a cargo transport, it would’ve been an Orquen-class stator or maybe one of those Phoetrum jobs. Ah, the sleek lines, the feel of the controls during the black shift, the excitement, the beauty.

  I hadn’t wanted to be on a cargo ship at all, I was more the adventure-and-thrills type, but I definitely hadn’t wanted to be the first officer on this cargo ship, the Centreale, whose name is maybe the only appealing part of it. Although I’ve come to hate even that.

  But this is how my life’s gone. I get the problems.

  Like this soaking drenching wet yet still weirdly, enticingly attractive stowaway.

  “Speak up,” I say.

  “Bathroom,” says the stowaway.

  “Interesting name, that,” I say.

  “I need a toilet. Now,” says the stowaway, like she’s the first officer and I’m the stowaway.

  “They are rather a necessity,” I say.

  “For fuck’s sake!” the stowaway says. “I’m desperate!”

  “You might’ve considered that before you snuck onto this ship and hid in the hot box,” I say. It’s actually giving me a great deal of pleasure that she’s chosen this particular storage locker as her hiding place. The hot box. Her shirt’s sticking to her and I can see everything underneath it, ruling out the need for imagination, which, when you’re aggravated, can get out of hand.

  “First Officer Arca,” I say, holding out my hand like I’m going to shake hers, which I wouldn’t think of doing. She must be a native of Choryn, our last port, and therefore no one I’d ever be interested in. Or touch. Or think sexual thoughts about. Or allow on this ship.

  “Damn you!” says the stowaway. That accent reeks of Choryn. Her legs are crossed and I guess she means it. She needs the toilet.

  “Over there,” I say, relenting, pointing to the WC, which is about five paces to my left. Let her use the toilet, then I’ll put her in the brig, where she belongs.

  I must’ve skipped that class at the academy, the one where they tell you how to deal with stowaways, because just then I
made the classic mistake: I took my eyes off her.

  Now, instead of wasting my time escorting her to the brig, which, compared to the hot box, is a palace, although compared to even my less-than stellar quarters, is a hellhole, I have to start searching for this Chorynean sneak. Who’s probably wanted for fifteen crimes on her unappealing and furthermore generally worthless planet.

  Aymee

  Aaaahhhhhh. The pleasure of pissing. And being in a place that’s not roughly the same temperature as a vat of molten molybdenum. Or hotter.

  On my way here to the facilities, I noticed a likely corridor, which I intend to sneak down assuming the above-it-all first officer of this tub doesn’t have his eye on the door, which I’m guessing he won’t.

  He’s got that haughty, I’m-so-fucking-great thing going on, the one that a lot of the males from the Terran System’s Big World have, the thing that’s drenched in testosterone, set on fire by a body whose muscles are primed to burst out of their casings, and then let loose into the galaxy to aggravate, annoy, lord it over, and, damn me for thinking this, arouse every female in their path.

  Not that the likes of him would have anything to do with a Chorynean like me—or any Chorynean. Or any stowaway. Or, in the case of First Officer Look How Sexy I Am, any female who wouldn’t fall all over herself complimenting and caressing him, since that’s what Big World Terran males have come to expect. At least that’s what it’s like in the vids.

  I crack the door open. He’s turned the other way! Egotistical, sure-of-himself, Big World idiot, first officer of the oldest, run-downest intergalactic cargo ship that isn’t in a museum—he’s not paying attention. This, I think, is a hint to why he’s an officer on this shitmobile instead of a nice, new, sleek, intergalactic cruiser.

  He’s got a great butt though. I’ll give him that. And while I’m giving that to him, I’ll just take off down this corridor here and see if I can find a better hiding place than my former inadequate residence. A cooler hiding place. Maybe one where I can actually sit down or, if I get truly lucky, lie down.

  Just as I’m congratulating myself for being such an exceptional sneak, I feel a hand on my upper arm. Well, that can’t be the first officer. No self-respecting Big World Terran would stoop so low as to touch a Chorynean. Especially not an officer, even of a hellship like this one.

  Shows you how wrong even an innocent criminal stowaway like me can be.

  Chapter 2

  Niklas

  “The brig’s this way,” I say. I’ve got her upper arm in my grasp and since I haven’t turned to stone yet or developed an instant rash or had any of the other purported comeuppances that having direct contact with a tainted Chorynean is supposed to create, I take a moment to enjoy the feel of her.

  Very pleasant, I think, but then I remember that I’d probably think it was very pleasant to touch any female, even a Chorynean, since I haven’t had my hands on any female since so long ago I’ve lost track of the exact count.

  Seventeen months. And three days. But it’s not like I remember how many hours. I reach into my pocket and feel for the bracelet. It’s still there. As it’s been the whole time.

  She turns to look at me with her huge, wide, gray-green eyes.

  “Hands off,” she says, like she has any right to say anything at all, which I proceed to remind her of. She struggles, but I’m much stronger than she is, having maleness, rightness, and years of being pressed into by a tougher gravity than anything on Choryn, or on this ship, either.

  “This is my ship, and I can do whatever the hell I want to,” I say. For some reason, this makes me feel great, like I’ve just won a prize or a new ship or the posting on the Marinax, which posting I’ve been denied four or five times now. Hence my purgatory here on the Star Line Express freighter Centreale. As though the Star Line Express has any other freighters.

  “Let go of me,” she says, squirming. I wonder what she’d feel like squirming under other conditions. Under . . . well . . . under me.

  It really has been too long since I’ve had a female. Elna, the crew member in charge of the manifests, has made it clear she’d be willing. And even though I’m not attracted to her—or not very attracted to her—maybe it’s time I took her up on the offer. If I’ve fallen so far as to be having sexual fantasies about not just a Chorynean, but a stowaway Chorynean.

  And I am having sexual fantasies about her. I’m thinking how much fun it would be to put her in the brig and put that metal ring around her neck, fasten it to the wall, and then shut the door behind me as I ravage her. While she begs me never to stop.

  Yes. That would be fine. Although, as I feel her spit in my face, I understand immediately that she doesn’t think this would be fine at all. Even though I have a huge suspicion that she’s even more attracted to me than I am to her. After all, I am a male Terran. From the Big World. And the first officer and part-owner of the Centreale.

  And her captor. Has a nice sound to it, I think.

  “You are not sending me back to Choryn,” she says, changing the subject. It was my subject she’s changing, but the way I look at it, that is the subject.

  “Well, you’re absolutely right about that,” I say as I shove her into the cell and close the door on her, skipping the metal ring, the cord fastening it to the wall, and the ravaging. I look at her through the porthole in the door as I engage the lock.

  “Your name?” I say. In the sexual fantasy I was having, I hadn’t bothered with this bit of information, but as first officer of the ship, I have a kind of a duty to take the names of my prisoners.

  “I wouldn’t tell you my name if you were the last being in the Seven Galaxies!” says the hellcat.

  “Fine by me,” I say, and turn to leave. Then turn back. “Just remember that prisoners without names don’t receive their daily rations. And, meagre and repulsive as they are, they’re a damned sight better than starvation.”

  She insults me by telling me her name’s Salana, the name of a lead female character in a once-popular-but-now-despised vid series.

  Aymee

  “Salana,” I say.

  An idiot like this crapship’s first officer wouldn’t know that I’m lying. And I don’t care what anyone else thinks, I love Helmsman’s Mate, and Salana’s my favorite character. Even if everyone hates it and her these days.

  But a Terran from the Big World would never have heard of this, and I’m so glad I thought of this name so quickly. Because if I tell him my real name, he will send me back to Choryn. Probably in an ejection burial sack, which is the only way I’d ever go back there. So there is that to be said in its favor.

  “Salana,” the big, bad first officer says, glaring at me with those yellow-gold eyes of his.

  I wish he weren’t so good-looking. His thick blond hair, tied ship’s officer–style at the nape of his neck, is just begging to be touched. And I’d like to take a bite out of him, then lick the wound. Then . . .

  “What’s your actual name?” the Big World Terran says.

  “It’s a coincidence,” I say, thinking really well on the fly. I mean, someone else must’ve once had this name, right? Why not me?

  “All right, then, Salana, I’m Captain Harlan, and, as such, I’m going to schedule your execution for”—he pauses to pretend-consider—“fifteen hundred. Which will save a lot of effort and resources, since you won’t need any daily rations.”

  Damn Saturn’s bloody rings. Saturn—I’m pretty sure that’s the Terran System’s rings-aplenty planet in its ridiculously named solar group. As though no other planetary group has a sun.

  This bastard has seen Helmsman’s Mate. On which series Captain Harlan is forever sentencing people to their execution. Except for the females he keeps for himself. Those end up in his embrace . . . and that Captain Harlan only wishes he looked as delicious as this pretend Captain Harlan.

  “Fuck you,” I say, because I can’t think of anything more original and also because—well, never mind. But he is damned attractive. And on the othe
r side of a big, locked door. But as horrible as it is to be locked up in this cell, it’s an improvement over the hot box, which was a vast improvement over things back on Choryn. A huge vast incredible improvement.

  “Starve to death, then,” he says, and turns away. I can see his luscious muscles bunching under his shirt as he strolls down the corridor, away from me, and I sense that he may really let me starve to death, which, now that I’ve had a good piss, I’d really rather not. I’d rather have something to eat.

  Then, on further inspection out into the corridor, I realize his muscles aren’t bunching so much as they’re heaving with laughter. Because, to First Officer I’m Locking You Up and Go to Hell with Yourself, I’m a great big joke.

  “Fuck you!” I say as loudly as I can, shouting through the porthole, and I watch as his shoulders rise and fall with more hilarious laughter. Which just serves to infuriate me further.

  That’s when he turns around and gives me a wicked smile that I can feel right down through my chest and into my loins. A smile that tells me two things: he hates Choryn and everything about it, and he hates me most of all, because I’m everything Choryn is famous, that is, infamous, for: odd good looks, a scheming mind, and a tendency toward all things criminal.

  Except that, of course, I am innocent.

  Sort of.

  Niklas

  Despite the fact that she’s requesting me to fuck her, I restrain myself. After seventeen months and three days, another few hours or days won’t make any difference at all. I don’t think. And there’s always Elna, who has one great advantage over my prisoner—she’s not Chorynean.

  The entire planet of Choryn should just be eliminated from the system if not from existence. How it was ever allowed to join the Seven Galaxy Congress is beyond me. Everyone knows that the entire population is criminal and that they’re the most nefarious lot of beings ever encountered by any life-form.