KHALL
Khall walked down the ramp to his craft, his mind so much in the stars that he nearly bumped into one of the stewards.
“Easy, Captain Rivvor,” she giggled. “Shall we dance?”
He gave her a friendly smile that hopefully said that he wasn’t interested.
The women who shipped in from other planets after the Nordholm massacre were often extra friendly. When he was feeling generous, he figured they felt sorry for him, with two kids at home and no wife.
When he wasn’t feeling generous, he knew the appeal was likely his semi-celebrity status and the money they assumed he had.
They didn’t know the half of it. Khall had been wealthy even before he retired from the military and won the coveted commercial run from Ulfgard to Arkadia.
He had a knack for investing, but none of the gambler’s tendency to take things too far. For Khall, it was more about the beauty of the math and calculating chances.
As a result, he was pretty sure he was what many women might call a catch.
And then there was the calendar.
Gods, but it had gotten him attention he never wanted. That photo had taken the rings by storm, and for a while it seemed like it was all anyone talked about.
Though, naturally, they tended to clam up as soon as he entered the room, which somehow made it all feel more shameful.
That photo even overshadowed the intergalactic memory of his heroism in the war. And until the moment he saw himself, naked but for the helmet over his junk, plastered all over the net, he had already thought his so-called heroism caused too much fuss.
And his poor children. He prayed that Bo never saw that damned picture.
He thanked the gods that although Minerva had surely seen it, she hadn’t mentioned it to him. He would have been mortified, even though it had been for an excellent cause.
The calendar had raked in credits for the veteran’s ward from all over the system. But he would have happily written them a check himself instead. He often cursed the day he agreed to pose.
Until last night.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw her face, lips parted, cheeks flushed, staring at his picture.
His cock strained in his pants again and he stifled a groan.
He was about to pilot a spacecraft. Hundreds of lives would be in his hands. He had to get it together.
“Morning, Captain Rivvor,” another of the stewards said.
“Hey, Talvv,” Khall replied.
Talvv winked and tapped his cap. He was a young Bergalian, with thick golden fur. He could have had any of the other stewards he wanted, all of them maybe. But he always flirted with Khall even though the others had told him Captain Rivvor was a lost cause.
Khall got himself onto the craft in one piece, determined to focus on the present.
By the time the last passenger had been welcomed aboard, he was ready to get to flying.
He only welcomed the luxury flights these days. His co-pilot, Farrsah, did the honors the rest of the time.
She had lucked out today, this was a massive flight. And she was razzing him about it the minute he stepped into the cockpit.
“Have fun greeting the marks?” she teased, waving her four arms and waggling her forty fingers at him. “You sure made a meal out of it.”
“You should have everything ready to go, then, right?” He smirked at her.
She winked and nodded to his seat. “Got you a coffee.”