Page 4 of Theta

Her hands pat my belly, and then, unexpectedly, my zipper. "Killy, I'm so sorry."

I grab at her hands before she can make contact again. "Story?" I ask, pushing them away from my throbbing privates. "Patting my balls isn't going to help."

"That was…?"

"Yup."

"I thought it was—"

I laugh. "Nope."

Something thunks against metal. "Killian, I'm so, so sorry. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I’m fine. It was an accident."

"Speaking of accidents, I'm about to have one."

I work to my feet and then tap on the wall. "That's my hand. So I don't grope you again."

Another of those uncharacteristic giggles—she's typically restrained, quiet and reserved like her mother and Uncle Selm. When she laughs, it's a quiet, musical thing whereas these giggles seem to burst out of her, noisy and abrupt. "I appreciate that, Killian, thank you."

"I can't tell if you're joking," I say.

"Me either!" A huff of laughter. "I'm sorry. I'm cracking a little bit, I think. It’s just that I’m about to pee myself and I really don't want to do that when we don't have any idea when we'll be able to change clothes again."

Or if, I don’t say.

Her hand finds mine; I help her to her feet, and we make our way along the wall to the next corner. Then I pat my way down the corner until I find the rim of the plastic bucket.

“Okay, so, um…how does this work?" I ask. "How, um…how do I help?"

She thinks for a moment. "I…ugh. This is so mortifying, Killian. And I'm so, so glad you can't see anything because this is going to be so embarrassing." A sigh. "I have to get half undressed, basically, or I risk getting pee all over my pants. So first I think just help me balance."

“Okay, here." I take her hand and guide it to my shoulder. "Lean against the wall and hang on to me."

Thunder booms overhead with such deafening noise that my ears ring, and the ship pitches violently—quite a thing when the ship is a five-hundred-foot-long container ship with all the latest stabilization technology.

"Easier said than done," she mutters.

I lean against the wall as well and hold her shoulders with my hands, keeping her balanced as she tries to remove her pants.

"Dammit," she hisses. "I knotted these stupid things too tight and I have to pee so fucking bad I can’t—dammit!" She’s audibly in a panic, and I can feel her shifting her weight with desperation.

"I…here, let me try." I follow her arm to her shoulder and then find her hip, and then her hands as she frantically tries to unknot the string of what I assume are her scrub bottoms.

I feel the knot, consciously not hurrying even though I know time is of the essence because Dad has drilled into my head that when you rush, you fuck up. Or, as Uncle Dukes likes to preach: “Slow is smooth and smooth is fast.” I find the edges of the knot, the shape of it, and then work one loop loose with my short, blunt fingernails. After that, it's a simple matter of tugging the knot apart the rest of the way. As soon as I have the knot undone, Story is frantically shoving her bottoms down.

"Okay. Okay." She leans back into the corner and takes my hands. "Hold me, please. Just…help me balance. I just have to…"

I hear the hollow scrape of the bucket as she adjusts it, gripping both of my hands in one of hers while trying to balance against the wall in what I imagine is an awkward and difficult crouch, hovering over the bucket.

"Um, why not just sit on it?" I ask.

She cackles, sounding a bit hysterical. "Shush. Don’t—just don't talk. Please don't talk."

Once she has the bucket positioned, judging by the cessation of the scraping, Story grasps at my arms and holds tightly, pushing and pulling to stay balanced as the ship bucks and tosses with the violence of the storm.

"Dammit. I can do this. Just pee, dammit."