Page 2 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
“Don’t ‘Jules’ me,” she snaps. “What about now? You finished not one, but all three of your certifications in your first year. In record time, you’ve become a specialist in your field, even getting promoted. Now you’re sitting in MCC with underlings to do your bidding.”
“Underlings?” I laugh again, earning me another glare from Sean.
“Well, I’m not calling them minions, that’s just rude.”
“I didn’t—”
“No more excuses, girl. I can’t take it knowing you’re down there, living in that shit apartment, doing nothing but reading about the filthy things youshouldbe doing.”
“They aren’t filthy, and my apartment isn’tthatbad. Besides, my lease is coming up. I’m thinking about buying a house.”
“Thinking about and doing are two different things.” She huffs out a breath. “Promise me you’ll go out tonight.”
I start envisioning the crowds, the heat of the room, the noise of a bar and suddenly my blush isn’t the only thing making me sweat. “No Jules, I’m not going out. I’m on call. It’s not like I can drink.” Or have anyone to go with me to make sure I don’t pass out from nerves or general social awkwardness.
“Jackie, what am I going to do with you? You’re gorgeous. You have that wild blond hair that guys love. You don’t even wear makeup and men flirt with you. And when they are flirting with you, you don’t have a clue. Or you turn fire engine red and stiff as the carbon fiber on our heat shield. I mean, what the fuck, girl? Wait, you’re rolling your eyes at me, aren’t you?”
I stop my eyes mid-roll. “Uh, no?”
“Ugh. I wasn’t going to do this, but you leave me no choice. You either go out tonight, or I’ll call Ian’s console, and I happen to know he’s working tonight, and tell him you told me you want to bone him. Hard.”
Mission Control Center is manned 24/7, with the days split up into three eight-hour shifts. People are always here providing support and more. So even though I’ve been lucky to get the standard 7 p.m. to 4 p.m. gig today, Ian, also an EVA specialist, will take over after my shift.
“Jules. You can’t keep doing this.” I turn my head quickly and catch a glimpse of Ian, behind the glass, in the back room, waiting to take over.
Ian is a co-worker Jules thinks is cute. Jules likes to use him to blackmail me whenever the mood strikes her. Ian happens to be hot and single. Seeing as when we do talk, it is about work, I don’t freeze and turn into mute nerd statue. This makes Jules think we would be perfect together. He is her only fodder really, as most of the engineers here are either married, in a relationship, or have been here since the Apollo days.
Last time, she blackmailed me into going out to a bar with her by threatening to send Ian flowers from me during one of our EVA meetings. And that is how I ended up drunk, telling Jules about my romance novel vice in the middle of a rowdy drunken bar crowd.
A request for a flight operations summary comes through on my headset.
“Gotta go, Jules, MCC calls.” Saved by the MCC bell, as it were.
“All right, Jackie, but what’s it going to be? You going out, or am I setting Ian on you?”
Or not. “Jules…” It doesn’t escape me how whiney I sound right now.
“Tick tock, sweetheart. I’ve got nothing but time to float and scheme until seventeen hundred Earth central time.”
The flight op request repeats in my ear. Louder.
“Fine! I’ll go out. But that’s all I’m promising.”
“That’ll do, hooker. That’ll do.”
* * *
Four hours later,cut to me, sitting alone in Big Texas Saloon, drinking a Coke, surrounded by a flurry of people who are dancing and having fun. My barstool is in the perfect spot for people-watching – behind the railing that encloses the oval wooden dance floor and wedged beside a wooden post. Couples spin, belt buckles glisten and rhinestones sparkle.
A whole hour passes this way. Not a single person asks me to dance. This is a good thing as I don’t actually know how to dance. But still, it would’ve been nice to have had the option of turning someone down. Even one of the older dudes with the crazy big hats.
On the plus side, I did not hyperventilate at the size of the crowd. I feel flushed, but I’m going to blame that on the heat of the place and not my uncontrollable blush factor.
“Another Captain and Coke, ma’am?”
Startled, I look behind me at a petite waitress in a tight black tank top, cut-off denim skirt and black cowboy boots. Her blackish-brown hair is piled on top of her head, secured with what looks like an office supply of ballpoint pens. I rub the toes of my sneakers together as I take in her expertly applied red lipstick. Sheesh, even the waitress looks cooler than me. And she ma’am-ed me.
“Just a Coke please. And no need for the ma’am.”
