Page 3 of Theta

"Ohhhh," I breathe, understanding dawning. "The whole sitting-down thing."

She chuckles dryly. "Yes, Killy, the whole sitting-down thing. It's hard enough to pee outside in the woods as a girl when I can see what I'm doing. In the dark, in a bucket, in the hold of a ship on open ocean?”

I clear my throat. "Ah. Yes. Right. I…can see how that might be tricky."

"What I'm saying, Killian," her voice is desert-dry now, "is that I'm going to need some help."

"Oh." I try to picture what that would look like and utterly fail. "Um…okay. I…sure. Whatever you need."

She groans a laugh. "This is my worst nightmare, by the way. I'm pee shy as it is. I can hold my pee for…god, for ages. But I can’t anymore. I know it's gonna be gross and awkward, and I'm sorry."

I stand up, pushing my back against the wall for balance—the ship is moving, and I think she’s right that we're on the open ocean, judging by the way the floor tilts this way and that as we drift up one wave and down another…big waves, long slides down and longer climb-ups, and the occasional stomach-twisting pitch from side to side.

Once I'm on my feet, I brace one hand on the wall and hunt the darkness with the other until I make contact with her.

I grope blindly at the first brush—clothing, and then something firm, and then something soft and squishy.

Story's hand grips my wrist and gently but firmly pulls my hand away. "Um, Killy? That's my boob."

My heart leaps into my throat, and I yank my hand away like I’d touched a hot stovetop. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry."

She huffs a laugh. "It's okay. Just…here." She somehow finds my hand in the darkness, and I help her up. "Now where is this damn bucket?"

I try not to think about the fact that I touched her chest. It was the briefest of contact—a single, simple touch, unknowing and accidental. But now that I know?

Fuck.

I push that idiocy out of my head as much as I can, keeping Story's hand in mine as I shuffle along the wall. The pitch and roll of the floor are more pronounced than I’d realized, and I decide it’s a better plan to follow the wall than to cross the empty space.

We reach the corner eventually, shuffling and shuffling as the container dips and rises, bucks and yaws—and then there’s a tickling of fingers on the metal overhead, tapping tapping tapping in a staccato rhythm. And then a hundred fingers, and then a deafening deluge of what sounds like a hail of bullets on the container—followed by a crash of thunder and then the increased pitch of the floor.

A storm.

Story puffs a laugh. “Really right now?” She stumbles as the desk pitches us forward and then rolls us left.

We both topple to the floor in a tangle of limbs hitting unforgiving metal. The air is knocked out of me as Story lands on top of me, an elbow in my gut and her face against mine. I smell coffee on her breath. Her thigh is between mine, her knee jammed uncomfortably if not painfully against my tenders. My head is at an awkward angle against the wall, my neck tilted and turned, and until Story untangles herself from me, I'm stuck.

She puts a hand on my chest for balance and tries to find her knees, but in doing so her knee smashes my balls against the floor.

"Killy?"

I can't breathe. Can't move. The agony is excruciating and I can't do a thing except gag through it.

"Killy, what—what's wrong?"

"Knee," I gasp through gritted teeth.

She pats at my chest, wriggles, shifts, and then stills as her hands explore enough to orient herself to my body—now moving gingerly, she wriggles backward, one hand on my thigh as she finds her balance. "Did I…um…?"

“Yep,” I rasp, my voice tight and hoarse.

"I kneed you?"

"Yeah," I rasp again.

"In the testicles?"

“Yep.” I cackle as breath returns with the slow cessation of the pain. "Not so much kneed as knelt on."