Ruth D. Kerce, Erotic Romance Author

Sins of Adaven Back to Excerpt Page

Chapter One
Planet Adaven, E-Zone 69
     A ray of white light sliced through a slit in the dingy green, glass shield covering—like a laser beam zeroing in on its target. Slade Hunter sensed the familiar intrusion, a daily happening, and forced his eyes open a crack.

     Yep. Dawn had arrived…again. Damn. Why did it come so early in the day? The Planetary Senate really ought to do something about that.

     Dust motes danced in the light and his nose twitched from a sneeze that never quite took hold. A small-winged gomit buzzed around the quarters, smacked into a wall panel and fell out of sight. Like a bug on a suicide mission. “Serves you right, asshole.”

     Transports zipped by outside and the caustic smell of too many engaged energy-packs hung in the air. From the lot outside his quarters, a personal trans panel slammed and a female squealed in laughter.

     “Don’t people sleep anymore?” he grumbled.

     A collision-horn blared and the sound shot through his skull like a heat-seeking missile. The pain was so severe that death’s sweet oblivion would have been welcome in exchange. He had to lay off the booze. Liquor wasn’t dulling the sharp edge of his guilt anyway.

     Beads of sticky sweat rolled down his body. Beneath him, the sleeper bunk’s padding felt damp. Summer on Adaven, in the E-Zone, was a bitch. The one-hundred-plus degree temperatures would be the death of him yet. No hum filled the quarters to offer relief. The cooling unit must be malfunctioning again. Stupid, rusted-out piece of crap.

     He coughed to clear his scratchy throat, then squinted at the timer on the table next to his bunk, trying to focus on the glowing red numbers. A nauseating color to wake up to.

     A suedi-bug skittered across the digits, leaving a slimy trail, then disappeared around the back. Still early. Too early to rise.

     He eased over on his side, away from the piercing blade of sunlight and outside activity. Sunrise sucked. No sane person would get up this time of day.

     Something coarse tickled his nose and he forced himself to focus. Hair. Not his own. A wave of dizziness hit and an internal alarm rippled through his body, raising the fuzz on the back of his neck.

     Long black tresses flowed over the padding next to him. “Who the hell?” His head pounded harder, making his eyeballs feel like they were about to pop.

     He rose up on his elbow and peered over a slim, bare shoulder. Shit. A female. Dread gripped his stomach and churned the insides. He looked again. Worse. A female he didn’t recognize.

     He glanced beneath the cover draped over their bodies and groaned. Except for foot-slips, he was naked as a plucked deela-bird. He must have downed more booze last eve than he thought. He fell back against the padding and dragged a hand down his face. A string of self-damning curses tromped across his brain, making him wince.

     The pain hit him full force—not only from his excessive drinking, but the reason for his drinking. Fifty-three days had passed since “the incident”, as he had come to think of it. Each sunrise brought back the memory as if it happened only yesterday.

     For almost two moons, guilt and agony had been his constant companions, tormenting his conscience at every turn. In response, he’d tormented his body with too much liquor, pills to help him sleep when the booze didn’t knock him out and no sex…until now. His back kinked and he wondered if he’d attempted some sort of weird humping position.

     His gaze darted toward the female beside him, who was now whistling some tune out her nose every time she breathed. Lovely. Not even a mechanical. Unless she had some sort of nasal malfunction.

     He wanted nothing more than to burrow under the covers and hide from the world but he knew he’d better get up and get clothed before whomever-she-was came to. He flipped back the cover and eased to a sitting position on the side of the bunk, ignoring the vicious hammering in his head.

     With a tug of frustration, he yanked off one foot-slip, then the other, wondering why he’d left them on in this heat, instead of discarding them with his boots. He must have looked like a first-class loser—stupid drunk, probably unable to form an intelligible sentence, fucking away with foot-slips on.

     Where the hell were his unders? He scanned the visitor quarters that had served as his home for the past twelve moons. It was a short scan.

     One sleeper bunk, one small table, one seat, one clothes-storage unit. One. A dull ache started in the vicinity of his heart.

     He should have swallowed his pride and stayed with his brother, instead of this cheap place. But he hadn’t relied on anyone for support since he’d returned to Adaven. He wasn’t going to do so now just because he’d taken a low-paying job in the E-Zone that meant something to him.

     At least, his job used to mean something to him. Until two moons ago, it had been his reason for getting up each day. Adaven’s E-Zone 69 was the ultimate playground for adults. Any decadent indulgence could be bought here and was on a daily basis. He and his team worked security. Laws existed, even in a place where most people came to forget the rules of their respective planetary system.

     The slam of another personal trans panel jerked him from his thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder. The female turned over on her back and smacked her lips. His stomach clenched and he fought the urge to bolt. Thankfully, her eyes remained closed.

     More thankfully, she appeared of legal age for the E-Zone. He breathed a sigh of relief for small favors. Oftentimes younger females sneaked in, looking for a thrill. Anyone caught in a sexual situation with an underaged male or female endured a severe public flogging and hefty fines as punishment.

     The light was dim in the quarters, so he couldn’t make out all the details of her features, not while his eyes kept going in and out of focus anyhow. He wondered if he’d brought back a Fantasy-Female or a Last-Call-Horror to his sleeper bunk. He could flip the cover off her and find out. But then, he wasn’t really that interested, considering he felt like he’d just gone three rounds with The Phantasm Resort’s she-cats…and lost.

     His foot nudged something silky on the floor and he glanced down. The female’s outfit lay crumpled beside the sleeper bunk. He pulled back, as if burned by the fire-red garment.

     What had he done with his clothes? He’d spotted his long-pants hanging halfway off the round table in the corner but his top and unders were missing in action.

     He slowly stood, cringing when the sleeper bunk shifted and creaked. He peered again at the female. When she didn’t move, he crept over to the clothes-storage unit, eased open a drawer and rifled through his garments.

     He pulled out a gray, barely there pair of unders with some beast’s long nose hanging off the front of it, which was supposed to fit over his cock. Females! They gave the most ridiculous gifts. Supposedly, the item was based on a design from centuries ago on Old Earth. Their men must have had small cocks. That nose was way too tiny!

     Discarding it, he opted for a pair of simple, no-nosed white ones instead. He tried to slip into them while standing but lost his balance and stubbed his toe on the storage unit.

     He bit his tongue to keep from crying out. Enough foul words exploded in his brain to burn any remaining undamaged cells into ash. Tears gathered in his eyes but he forced them back, fisting the white material in his hand. He hobbled into the tiny personal hygiene room and let the door-hatch slide closed before hitting the light panel.

     The glare seared his senses and he leaned against the counter, squeezing his eyes shut. How much sleep had he managed this time? It couldn’t have been more than three or four cycles, even though he’d taken off work early.

     He pried open his eyes and peered at his image in the wall-mounted reflector. He looked half dead—pale face, bloodshot eyes, hair sticking out in every direction like it was trying to jump off his head.

     He shuffled over to the waste-collector and relieved himself. He didn’t purge the contents. It would make too much noise. Instead, he closed the lid and sat on the top to finally pull on the unders, safely this time.

     Sluggish and wanting nothing more than sleep, he cursed the fact that he couldn’t crawl back into his bunk and fall unconscious until he felt better. He forced himself to his feet, tugged up the unders the rest of the way, then punched the blue button on the tap. Cold water sluiced between his fingers. He kept it low, hoping not to wake the mystery female. Who was she?

     Thinking about last eve, he remembered going into the Royal Kingdom tavern, remembered throwing back several straight shots of Qieatela. Then…nothing. He was such an idiot. What good did drinking himself into oblivion do? It provided only temporary relief at best. Picking up some strange female, who he couldn’t even remember, showed him he’d gone over the edge.

     Maybe if he was lucky, she would be gone when he came out. Maybe if he was really lucky, she’d turn out to be a figment of his overly tired imagination. A sharp rap on the door-hatch made him jump and bang his knuckles against the underside of the faucet. “Shit.” So much for luck.

     “Hey, honey! I gotta get outta here.”

     Maybe he should just ignore her. Yeah. That sounded like a plan, except her voice pricked his conscience. He supposed he owed it to her to face her in the light of day. He splashed cold water on his face, then pulled on the cover-up that hung from a hook beside the door-hatch. Taking a deep breath, he let the door-hatch slide open, praying the female was at least dressed. He sighed in relief when naked skin didn’t greet him.

     Then again, bare flesh might have been better.

     The bright, nauseatingly red outfit she wore burned his retinas and his stomach threatened to heave. Narrowing his gaze, as if that would help his equilibrium and his memory, he studied her.

     Definitely not a mechanical. She wouldn’t look so used. Black straggly hair and day-old face-coloring made her appear older than she probably was. He also noticed the striped markings at the top of her nose. A Tybar, not native to Adaven, but a female from a nearby planet.

     Her skimpy outfit barely contained her massive breasts, which he’d bet were bought and paid for. They were too out of proportion with her body to be real. He never had liked fake tits. He didn’t like the look, feel or taste of them. Nothing compared to totally real, fleshy breasts with extra-sensitive nipples. Oh, yeah.

     Her insect-bitten bare legs ended with worn, short golden boots on her feet. “Very used goods” was the thought that came to mind. He had absolutely no recollection of her. He must have been desperate for some pussy to bring her all the way back to his quarters.

     “Hey,” he croaked, picking up a cloth to wipe his hands and face. His mouth felt drier than the Adaven winds. He’d give a moon’s credits for a cold drink right now.

     “I gotta leave,” she repeated, her voice rising in irritation.

     Good. Leave. The faster the better.

     “Well, honey? You just gonna stand there with your mouth hanging open?”

     He winced and inwardly cursed. That voice could break glass. The shrill tone knifed right through his pounding head. Typical of Tybar females.

     She looked at him in question.

     What was he supposed to say, I’ll contact you? He certainly didn’t intend to kiss her goodbye. His stomach churned and he feared he would lose it if she didn’t disappear in the next two clicks.

     The last time he’d felt so awful he’d been an under-ager and experienced a bad reaction to a line of white-dust he’d stupidly tried. That had been the first and last time he’d put an illegal substance in his system.

     He’d never had this bad a reaction from booze. And the female in front of him—the sick thought of plunging his cock between her bony-looking thighs—wasn’t helping any. Morbid curiosity demanded he ask for details of their time together but self-preservation insisted on ignorance. He closed his mouth, saying nothing.

     She held out her hand, palm up and cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”

     He glanced at her hand, met her impatient gaze, glanced down at her hand again, then once more raised his eyes to hers. “Huh?” Not the most articulate response but the best he could manage at the moment.

     With a frustrated sigh, she wiggled her fingers. “I want my credits. You said you’d give them to me after.”

     Credits? After? What was she jabbering about?

     “Come on, honey. Pay up for the action. I ain’t got all day.”

     Realization hit him like an electrical jolt. She wasn’t simply a Tybar. She was a zone-whore. Shit.

     In a daze and wanting her out of there fast, he squeezed past her and headed for his long-pants. Halfway across the room, his step faltered.

     Why hadn’t she demanded her credits up front? She certainly didn’t look new to the E-Zone. Suspicion crept into his mind but the liquor-induced fog surrounding his brain cells crippled any logical thought process.

     Not wanting to take time to analyze the situation, he mentally shrugged away his concerns and grabbed his long-pants. He dug into one back slit, then the other before finding the leather credit holder his sister gave him last holiday. His credits and electronic cards were still inside. At least the female hadn’t robbed him blind. “How much?”

     “Fifty.” She stepped over to him, her palm still out. “I already told you.”

     A cheap zone-whore. A cheap, ugly, dirty zone-whore. Fucking wonderful.

     He handed over the fifty credits he’d won in a cage-fight match a few days ago, then followed her to the door-hatch. Placing his palm against the side of the hatch, he blocked her exit. He had to know something before she left. “Last eve…did I, um…wear a prevention-d?” All he needed was to pick up some sort of nasty interplanetary disease.

     The female laughed, the sound piercing in the quiet dawn air. “It was more like really early before sunrise, honey.” She patted his cheek and her long, glowing red-chipped nails scraped the stubble on his face. “I’m clean. Don’t worry about it.”

     He moved aside and she slipped out into the bright sunlight. He felt like ripping the door-hatch off its track but he kept his control and let it slide closed behind her.

     He banged his forehead repeatedly against the metal, not caring about the pain. “Damn, damn, damn.” He turned to stagger toward the sleeper bunk. At the sight of the mussed covers and padding, he groaned and headed back to the hygiene room. Time for a cold shower and a long overdue puke.

* * * * *
     Symone Cutcheon sat in her personal transport docked outside the small, run-down visitor hostel just off E-Zone 69’s south end. Her fingers curled around the navi-controls until her knuckles turned white.

     He was in there. She’d learned that much.

     She’d also been told he probably wouldn’t come out for quite some time. He wasn’t normally an earlier riser. One of the cleaning staff had been more than happy to spill the information after Symone flashed some credits.

     Well, time she had.

     She’d just come from B-Zone 30, after letting her supervisor know she was taking an indefinite leave of absence from her job. She couldn’t afford it any more than she could afford the forty credits she’d given to a mechanical female earlier. Staff mechanicals turned all credits received over to their bosses. Bringing in extra elevated their status, so it hadn’t been hard to get the information she’d needed. What were credits when the person she loved most in the world had already paid the ultimate price?

     Uneasiness gripped her as she rethought her decision for the hundredth time. Was this too crazy? She wished she knew for certain.

     After a few clicks, she shook her head. No. She wouldn’t back down now. She owed this to Baillo.

     A tear trickled down her cheek and she swiped it away. She had to rein in her emotions—stay methodical, cold. It was the only way to get justice.

     The door-hatch of the quarters slid open and she leaned forward, trying to get a better view.

     She was so focused that the navi-controls digging into her midsection barely registered. She was finally going to confront the one responsible for the death of the person she had loved and respected more than any other.

     A female stepped out, stuffing something down her cleavage. Credits. Symone stiffened and disgust filled her. A zone-whore, if ever she’d seen one. The female’s red outfit and golden boots glowed in the bright sunlight.

     When she was little, whores and substance dealers roamed the neutral territory, just outside the R-Zone where she’d lived. She had gotten good at identifying and avoiding both.

     Disappointment rolled through her, along with a nagging sense of doubt. She sat back in the seat-pit and watched the female stagger off like she was half drunk or high. A Tybar. She recognized the awkward gait.

     Maybe the mechanical she’d spoken to earlier had given her the wrong location. A zone-whore wasn’t what she’d expected. From all she’d heard, the male she sought wouldn’t need to stoop that low for sex. Unless…she was a mechanical.

     The Tybar leaving his quarters certainly didn’t look like a mechanical, though all types could be purchased nowadays. She even owned one.

     Only the lowest of dregs would have sex with a flesh-and-blood zone-whore. She tried to glimpse inside the quarters but the door-hatch slid closed too quickly.

     Well, whoever lived inside had to come out sometime. If it was him, she’d follow, and when the time was right…