“You had one of those glo-bright mohawks?” That was the best he could come up with.
Steve laughed, a sound of husky amusement. “Yes, I wore one. The Bal’zaren System, in fact.”
“The what?”
“The where,” Steve corrected. He took another swallow of his drink and returned the container to the table. “Your mid-summer festival happened to coincide with our Festival of Victory. Hence, we celebrated wearing the hair maps.”
“The what?” Liam said again.
Steve plucked a canapé from Liam’s own plate and bit into it with a grin. “We celebrate our victories against the Targolt by wearing the maps of the star systems we’ve liberated in our hair at Festival. It’s sort of like we’re displaying snapshots of our awesomeness for all to see.”
“Oh.” Liam still didn’t know what to say. “Cool.”
The way these people spoke of visiting other star systems, like taking a trip to Disneyland or an airplane to Tokyo, blew his mind.
“What system was Mike wear—” Liam’s memory shifted, then clarified. “Wait. He wasn’t, was he?”
The question wasn’t immediately answered because Steve was engaged in a battle with his beverage. He sipped…or tried to. A frown marred his mouth when he pulled it away and scowled. He tilted his head farther back as he tried again. No luck then either, apparently. He pulled it from his face, frowned harder and shook it, and lastly squinted into the can’s mouth with one eye.
What he saw didn’t appear to please him. With a defeated sigh, he crushed the container with his fist and set it back onto the table before returning to the conversation.
“No, Mike didn’t celebrate,” Steve said.
“Why not? Designated driver or on duty?”
“The weight of responsibility weighs on him these days.”
Liam couldn’t stop himself. The words just tumbled out of his mouth. “But he danced and…and kissed me.”
That wonderful, full smile blazed across Steve’s face. “Yes, he did, and wasn’t that amazing?”
Liam’s throat closed. He cleared it furiously and tried to form an answer. When that didn’t release the constriction, he pulled the can of Coke from where he’d stashed it in his fatigues and popped the top.
He swallowed a desperate amount and reflected how “amazing” was a fair description of what had happened, except he’d add “delicious” to the mix. Had Mike felt the connection?
Had Mike reveled in the heat and the fire between him like Liam had? That formidable erection wedged against his ass as they danced told him Mike had.
He lowered the can and wiped his mouth with his forearm sleeve. He stared at the floor and tried get a handle on the emotions crashing through him. Christ, how can he be ignoring me? It hurt.
Where was the fucker anyway? Hiding? And what was with the beards?
“The facial hair indicates battle-readiness,” said Steve. “And he’s over there.”
Startled, Liam jerked his gaze from his boot tips. Was his curiosity that obvious?
Steve gave him a wink and sideways nod of his head. Liam followed the gesture and located Mike standing with the base commander and the Envoy. The commander spoke with what looked to be an animated energy and waved his index finger in Mike’s face. It might have been his imagination but he thought Mike looked embarrassed.
An ass-chewing? For what?
He glanced back to the man beside him, who had followed his gaze and was also observing the discussion between the base echelons. Something that might have been annoyance furrowed his brow. Jeez, the resemblance between Steve and Mike was downright unnerving. It was inevitable, but yeah, he asked the stupidest question in the world.
“You two twins?”
Steve refocused on him. “I’m not familiar with that term.”
“You know”—but apparently Steve didn’t— “two kids to one mother.”
“Ah. I understand. Multiple births. We also have that.” He snatched one of those long, hot and seasoned tuber things from Liam’s plate and ate it in two bites.
“They’re my favorite,” he offered as an explanation.
“Fries are a staple of American life.” Liam ate one himself. He noticed the pile looked smaller than he remembered. Had Steve filched some earlier without him realizing?
Steve winked at him again, and Liam wondered if the guy was also a mind-reader. That would be embarrassing, as well as hilarious, considering the hot-as-hell sex scene he’d fantasized about at orientation.
“The term for multiple births is ‘twins’?” Steve asked.
Liam yanked his attention away from the dick-hardening memory and focused on the conversation with an effort. “For two, yes. Three are called triplets.”
“Hmm.” Steve set aside his plate and folded his hands on his knee. “What is the maximum litter size?”
Liam chuckled. “Litter size” was technically correct, and yet so incredibly weird to hear.
Steve dropped his foot to the floor and shifted his weight, crossing his feet at the ankles as he perched on the table’s edge. He wore tanker-style boots, Liam realized. It wasn’t laces threaded through grommets that held them in place, but instead, ankle and arch bands of whatever the Urilqii used for leather and Velcro.
Liam remembered the question asked. “The largest number I remember seeing on the news was eight babies.”
“Huh,” Steve mused. “And to think only eight made the news…”
He had to be kidding, right? Jeez, eight… “Who came first? You or Mike?”
“Came first? Oh, I see.” Steve matched him smile for smile. “I arrived on time. Mike, however, kicked his way out seven minutes early so he won the race.”
He thought about Mike and the driving intensity he’d faced in the depths of those amazing starfire eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”
“He’s a competitive assclown.”
Together they laughed, then simultaneously slanted a glance toward the topic of their conversation. It came as a surprise to see Mike frowning in their direction, his face a thundercloud of annoyance. Steve cleared his throat and became fascinated with the remnants of his dinner. He picked at the food bits still on the plate and munched, engrossed.
Behind Mike, Mr. Robertson—er, the Envoy—commanded the conversation. He made languid
