“The biometrics chip,” Clarke says, because it apparently isn’t obvious. She drags her other thumb across the skin a few inches below her inner elbow. The chip lights up, a dot of blue visible through her skin. “Another drink right now would put me over the limit. I don’t want to have to talk to Yves tonight.”
A lot happens on Julian’s face in the next five seconds. Clarke misses some of it, but she definitely catches confusion and anger. She starts to retreat, not sure what she’s done to upset him, but he relaxes his expression with the next breath when he sees her discomfort. “We’re going to have to talk about that later, when you’re sober.”
“Talk about what? What’s your off-hours limit?”
“I don’t have one.”
Clarke scrunches her face up. “Do they deactivate your chip when you’re not working?”
Thierry appears before Julian can respond, draping himself over Clarke’s shoulders, loose with happiness. “Guys! It’s timeto order dinner. And to help me convince Graham that everyone’s had more than enough vanilla cake to last them a lifetime, so he should stop worrying about what Hailey’s great-aunt likes and choose something interesting. Come on!”
The pretty bartender shoots Clarke a smile as Thierry tugs her toward the table. Clarke feels the afterimage of Julian’s hands on her body long after he lets go.
13
Luna’s crater clubs are whatthe name implies: clubs built into man-made craters, scale replicas of the moon’s famous geographical features. Each is sunk several stories deep and topped with a dome that can display anything from a live replica of the sky outside to messages paid for by clubgoers to flickering lights that match the pulsing music. Clarke loves crater clubs. Give her a bass line she can feel in her chest and lighting unsteady enough that even if people recognize her, they won’t get clear pictures, and she can lose herself in movement.
It gets hot fast in the middle of the floor. She takes off her top after a moment of deliberation, leaving her in high-waisted shorts and a longline bralette. She’s still more covered than half the people here, and besides, most of the system’s seen her stripped down to nearly nothing for training footage.
A hand snakes between her arm and her ribs. She sighs, ready to politely but firmly dissuade a clubgoer for the tenth time, but bumps into what the hand is holding: a water pouch, sealed and cool.
She turns. It’s Julian, looking unfairly good. He’s lost his shirt, too, now wearing only a thin undershirt that might as well be a second skin. Many of his individual tattoos are still hidden,but the gorgeous sleeve covering his right arm is on display. It’s a complex series of interwoven line work, in the shapes of the tracks where he’s won major races. A map of his victories, inked on his skin.
He presses the water to her stomach. She accepts it and goes right on dancing, pausing every now and then for a sip. Julian passes waters to Thierry and Graham when they whirl past, too, and she can’t help laughing. All those people who think Julian’s not personable, that he’s stiff and uncaring—they’re idiots.
They dance near each other for a while. Clarke keeps catching glimpses of his body, all contained strength and fluid motion. Several people approach him, invite themselves into his orbit; he turns them all away. Clarke, on the receiving end of multiple inquisitive touches and alluring smiles of her own, does the same, and wonders if she’s imagining feeling Julian’s eyes on her the whole time.
Someone trips into her not long after she’s drained her water and tossed the empty pouch into the sky, where a gravity tunnel catches it and sucks it into the wall to be sanitized and reused. Clarke almost hits the floor, but Julian’s hand closes around her upper arm and pulls her to her feet. She overbalances, falling into his chest. He catches her by the waist, holds her protectively against the frame of his body until she’s steady again.
And then he doesn’t let go. He slides one hand around to the small of Clarke’s back, thumb skimming over the exposed strip of skin above her shorts, and tucks her close. They’re pressed together from shoulder to thigh, and Clarke’s whole body sings with the contact. The smell of him—clean sweat, the botanical product he uses to tame his hair, the faint tang of ozone from their ships—crowds into Clarke’s nose.
He drops his hips on the next beat and rocks out to the side. Clarke, legs locked with his as they are, goes with him.
It’s just dancing, she tries to tell herself as he repeats the motion, guiding Clarke into rhythm, shredding her restraint with every touch.No different from what everyone else here is doing. It doesn’t mean anything.
His free hand, the one not molding their bodies together, comes up to Clarke’s jaw. He applies pressure, tilting her face up and to the side. He brings his head down, and for a second she thinks he’s going to kiss her neck—she thinks she’s going tolethim—
He murmurs something in her ear. He’s close, close as close can be, but it’s too loud in here for her to make out the words. All she gets is the uplift at the end of his sentence. A question. An invitation?
Clarke should say no. She’s sobered up by now, is fully in control of herself, but is she everreallyin control of herself when Julian’s around? And it’s the same for him. Every time they get too close, something likethishappens. Something where a moment is somehow both weightless and heavy, where they teeter on the brink. The best choice here, the rational choice, is to put distance between them. Step out of his arms. Try to forget what it feels like when his thighs flex against her.
Screw it. What’s the harm, if they go hook up in a dark corner somewhere? They’ll get it out of their systems, like Thierry said, and finally be able to move on.
She nods into Julian’s hand. He takes a breath and threads their fingers together, pulling her through the crowd. Anticipation buzzes in her capillaries until she realizes he’s leading her not to an exit or a bathroom or anywhere else semisecluded, butto the elevator that goes to the small platform perched on top of the dome. It’s a haven for club patrons wanting some fresh air.
Oh. This isn’t—Julian doesn’t—he wants totalk, not—
Oh.
Julian weaves between the couple dozen other people up on the platform to an unoccupied spot near the railing. Clarke follows, trying to center herself. She feels rejected, which is dumb, because that’s not what happened, and the sudden flatlining of her arousal has left her disappointed and mildly nauseous. She breathes deeply in the cool night air, skin prickling at the temperature change, and takes in the view.
It’s late, but the city is still vibrating with life. Earth hangs in the sky where it always does, a swirl of blue, green, and white perched seven degrees above the horizon. A few of the largest space stations are visible, held in orbital lock above fixed points on Earth’s surface.
“I don’t know how to be friends with you. Not for the cameras, not for real,” Julian says.
It feels like blowing through the barrier during an on-planet race, when gravity reminds you that you’re bound by the laws of physics and you plummet toward the ground. Clarke swallows. “I know. Me, either.”
Julian huffs out a raw-sounding laugh and braces his hands on the railing. “So, how do we do this? How do we act like we’re seventeen again?”