Mars Ho! (Mars Adventure Romance Series Book 1) Read online

  “Lori Ridgway, right?” a voice called out before Lori’s duffel bag even landed on the bottom mattress.

  Lori turned and found a friendly smile. The slightly built woman with medium-brown skin sat cross-legged on the lower bed of the opposite bunk, a tablet computer propped on her knees. A striking, pale red-head lounged on the bed above her.

  “Lori Ridgway?” the woman on the bottom bunk asked again, her sea-green eyes studying Lori’s face. “Or are you . . .” She consulted her screen. “. . . Leah Yew?”

  Lori stared at her for a long moment. No one was supposed to know the names of the candidates before the contest began, but this woman seemed to have the entire roster at her fingertips.

  “Yes, I’m Lori. How do you do?” The formality felt sticky in her throat, but the small woman didn’t seem to notice. Instead, her smile broadened as she leaned over her screen and offered a slender hand.

  “April Chennells. Camp counselor.” April chuckled to herself and looked back at her screen. Lori crossed the short distance between the beds and leaned against one of the posts of April’s bunk. “So, you work for the show?”

  April’s grin widened as she shook her head without looking up. “Nah. I just have some psychology and social work training.”

  The red-head from the upper bunk leaned down, coming nearly nose to nose with Lori. “She thinks she has a lock on a final slot. Counselor and electrical engineer. No one else has that pedigree.”

  Lori took a step back. The contestants weren’t supposed to talk about their skill sets with each other; it was in the program rules. Dr. Lauren would go ballistic if he knew about this breach, and that made Lori giggle. Of course the candidates would compete with each other from the moment they stepped through the airlock.

  The red-head hopped down from her bunk and took a seat beside April. “Irene Sintes.” She gave Lori a quick nod, then peered down at April’s screen. The quirk of a smile tugged at her mouth. “Are you the one who got down and dirty in the changing rooms?”

  “What?” Lori couldn’t help the alarm in her voice.

  “Ooh!” Conspiratorial mirth lit up April’s face, and her fingers hovered over her tablet’s virtual keyboard. “Tell me everything.”

  “She’s keeping a spreadsheet of all of the men,” Irene offered by way of explanation. “Any details you share benefit all of us. You know, what they’re like, their potential as mates. And other attributes.” Irene laughed.

  Lori started to back away. “I’m afraid you’ve got me confused with someone else.”

  Irene got up from April’s bed. “I don’t think so. It was Mark Lauren, right? Tall, dark, Canadian? He was shouting about you saying goodbye to your underwear.”

  Lori felt her face flush red as beads of perspiration broke out on her brow.

  “Way to start out with a bang!” Irene held up a hand for a high five, then burst out laughing. “So to speak.” When Lori shied away, Irene looked down at April. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us if we want to win the title of Mars Ho.”

  The title of Mars Ho? Lori sat on the edge of her own bunk. She felt hot, flustered, bordering on panic. She’d barely begun the contest and was already saddled with the reputation of dome slut?

  “Really bad choice on the part of the PR team, if you ask me,” April commented as she entered a few keystrokes. “Plus, I fully intend to claim that title myself. Don’t you worry about that.” She scooted forward and peered over at Lori. “Okay, so I’m going to need some details.”

  Lori swallowed hard, beginning to feel nauseous. It wouldn’t bode well for her in the competition to be caught barfing barely fifteen minutes in. She scanned the walls and ceiling for the cameras she knew must be there, recording her every word and facial expression, to be edited for maximum impact and the highest possible degree of scandal and embarrassment. Mars Ho was at least as much about entertainment as choosing Earth’s first Mars colonists.

  Is this what her friends and family would see when they tuned in?

  She thought about making a dash for the bathroom, away from the cameras and the questions. But that would make her look even worse.

  “I didn’t have sex with anybody!” Lori exclaimed more forcefully than she intended.

  April frowned at her over the top of her screen. “Not ever?”

  “No, of course not. I mean . . .” Lori looked at the floor and blew out a long breath. “I didn’t have sex with another contestant—or anybody else—in the changing rooms.”

  “That’s okay.” April carried her tablet over to Lori’s bunk and sat down beside her. She curled her legs beneath her and got comfortable. “But something did happen, right?”

  When Lori didn’t respond, April placed the tablet on the bed and rested a gentle hand on Lori’s shoulder. “Not exactly what you expected in here, huh?”

  Lori laughed, and it felt good. There was genuine concern in April’s voice, and having someone utter those simple words loosened something in Lori’s gut. She breathed more evenly as the tension eased out of her shoulders.

  “No, it’s not.” Lori looked around again for the hidden cameras and tried not to worry—too much—about how her early moments in the dome might play to Mars Ho’s global audience.

  April leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Just remember, it’s only a game.”

  Lori turned sharply to April. Only a game? Every person who came through that airlock had been selected from more than a million applicants. They’d been vetted on macroscopic and microscopic levels, and supposedly everything in between. They’d each fought hard to get this far—at least Lori had, fueled by the dream of being one of Earth’s first colonists on Mars.

  It certainly was not just a game, not with a life-changing, interplanetary opportunity on the line.

  Lori’s mouth opened to lodge a protest, but April gave a slight shake of the head, urging Lori to remain silent. Then she winked at her and picked up her tablet.

  “So, the details?”

  Lori shrugged. If she was going to remain in this program for the long haul, she was going to have to make friends. She might as well start now.

  She relayed the facts of her unplanned, unclothed meeting with Dr. Lauren—first name Mark, according to April’s spreadsheet. Lori started to leave out the part about being reluctant to part with her lavender lingerie, but she felt a burgeoning kinship when April and Irene—and bunkmates Kirsten and Robyn—expressed eager sympathy for her plight and described their own poignant last moments with a reliable pair of Spanx and lucky green socks (Irene), and a comfortably worn pair of Kate Spade boots (Kirsten).

  Leah, arriving in the bunk room in the middle of the nostalgia, said she’d nearly come to tears when she handed her special ice cream spoon over to her brother.

  April had left behind her favorite t-shirt—a relic from a WOMAD festival in the Canary Islands—and Robyn had relinquished a keepsake necklace that was a “going far, far away” gift from her neighbors.

  Lori no longer felt as chagrined about her underwear adieu.

  But April pressed for even more detail about Mark Lauren, and Lori found herself trying to recall the exact color of the man’s hair. Would she describe it as a seal brown, or brown like a bear? Was his hair curly, or was it wavy? And April wasn’t just asking about the hair on his head.

  “You’re lucky you got an up-close look at the merchandise so early,” April muttered as she entered data into her spreadsheet. “You know, before you’re committed to anything.”

  Lori began to understand the purpose of April’s project. There were eighteen women coming into the MHCH, and fourteen men—proportional to the gender split in applications. Eight successful candidates would never see another Earthside human being in the flesh. They would spend the rest of their lives with each other—as friends and lovers—and April’s strategy seemed a sound one.

  Lori did her best to answer April’s questions and to ignore Irene’s crude remarks, especially when she was pr
essed for details about Dr. Lauren’s more intimate specifications.

  Of course she had noticed him. She’d gotten more than an extended eyeful as the man stood naked before her and berated her sentimental attachment to her undergarments. It would have been impossible not to observe his strong shoulders, or the way his squarish jaw set off the roundness of his mouth. And had his lower lip actually quivered, just a bit, with anger?

  Lori relaxed into the conversation and allowed her imagination to wander over the memory of his body—the cut of his thigh muscles, and the unmistakable but not obnoxiously prominent outline of his abdominals. She began to wonder, if she hadn’t been startled by the intrusion, if she hadn’t already been tense and anxious about the contest, and if Dr. Lauren hadn’t been such a stickler for the rules . . . Might something have happened between them?

  Might something still happen?

  “Was he lusty?”

  Lori was jostled out of her brief reverie. “Lusty?”

  April was looking at her. “On a scale of one to five.”

  Lori blinked. She’d never been asked to gauge a naked stranger’s lustiness.

  “You know, horny.” Irene flashed a smile that was simultaneously wicked and irritated. “Was he good to go, like a five? Or more shy and retiring, like a one.”

  “Or a zero,” April said.

  Lori had no idea. She played it safe with a middling guess of three.

  “You didn’t happen to catch Ric Vargas in the buff, too, did you?” Irene asked. When Lori shook her head, Irene shrugged and walked back to her bunk.

  “Ric Vargas.” April scrolled though her spreadsheet. “Right. Says here that he’s a perfect gentleman.”

  “Too bad,” Irene called over her shoulder as she ran her fingers through her short, red hair. “I hear he’s a hunk and a half.”

  Mark Lauren opened the door to Men’s Bunk 2 to find three double-bunk beds shoved against the walls. Four other men had arrived ahead of him and the room had a swelling first-day-of-college dorm party atmosphere. The other men, strangers mere minutes ago, were already slapping each other’s backs and calling out teasing insults about one man’s hair and the musculature of another’s backside.

  As the door closed with a quiet whump, Mark offered reserved smiles as he headed toward an unclaimed bed. He paid little notice to the sparse decorations—more reality show propaganda—and his nose wrinkled at the smell of fresh paint. He didn’t imagine there would be this much off-gassing inside the real colony habitat on Mars, but the air cyclers sounded about right to his ears.

  As soon as he rested his branded Mars Ho bag on an empty top bunk, the room fell silent and he felt a large and looming presence just behind him.

  “Hey, man,” came the smooth voice over his shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Mark turned to find himself looking up into the black eyes of a burly and seriously muscled granite slab of a man. At 6-foot-2 and just over 200 pounds, Mark was no pipsqueak himself. But the guy standing in front of him, with his hands on his hips and wearing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, had a couple of inches and a good 50 pounds of solid brawn on him.

  Mark smiled. The cameras were running, and he imagined this hunk of meat knew it. “Just settling in,” Mark said casually. “Same as everybody else.”

  Mr. Muscles lifted his chin and sniffed—actually sniffed!—loudly. Mark thought only jackasses in movies did that. He wondered if that’s where Muscles had gotten the idea.

  “That’s my bunk,” Muscles said in a thick, rumbling tone, his eyes never leaving Mark’s.

  Mark took a breath. Of course it would be like this. He’d hoped this sort of ridiculous posturing wouldn’t come into play, and that every contestant could pursue a winning seat on the Mars colony craft based on his or her true merit. But, no, this was reality television. Right from the start, Muscles was manufacturing some nonexistent beef to establish dominance. He’d probably even been coached to do so.

  There was nothing for Mark to do but laugh. It wasn’t a planned tactic, but it bought him some time to think. He didn’t want to appear weak in front of his bunkmates or the cameras, but he also didn’t intend to be pushed into a fight he didn’t want. He would have to step very carefully. He was already worried about his budding reputation as a fanatic with a stick up his butt after his run-in with that lady in her underwear in the changing rooms.

  Mark felt his body relax at the thought of her in her purple lingerie. He hadn’t caught her name, but he had caught the fiery intelligence in her eyes as well as the . . . smoothness of her body. She’d stood her ground against him, too. Immediate confrontation had been a bad choice on his part, and he felt a small knot in his gut about the way he went after her. It was a misstep he intended to rectify.

  But first he had to deal with the bad-tempered Titan in his bunk room. Mark offered his open hand. “I’m Mark Lauren.”

  Muscles made a show of refusing Mark’s greeting by slowly crossing his arms and then deliberately flexing his biceps as his thin smile turned down into a frown. “I said, that’s my bunk.”

  It was difficult, but Mark made the effort not to laugh again. He had no doubt the man in front of him could make a messy art project out of his face, but he was equally certain there was nothing significant underlying the territorial display. So Mark shrugged and lifted his duffel bag off of the mattress. “No problem.”

  He kept his stride easy as he crossed to the bunks on the opposite wall. A well-groomed man nearing forty sat on the top bed with his short legs dangling over the edge. Mark motioned to the bottom bunk and the man waved him forward.

  “It's all yours.” The older man looked visibly relieved.

  “Thanks.” Mark dropped his bag on the bottom bunk and glanced back at Muscles, who was still watching him and flexing his arms and shoulders like a cartoon bully. Mark unzipped his bag and started to unpack his things into the small drawer attached to the bunk.

  “Ric Vargas,” the man on the top bunk said in a low voice.

  Mark looked up and extended his hand. “Mark Lauren.”

  The man accepted Mark’s handshake, but shook his head. “No, the guy over there. That’s Ric Vargas.”

  Mark glanced over his shoulder again and watched as Ric climbed onto the top bunk he’d claimed. The bottom bed remained empty.

  “He's been like that with everybody, if it makes you feel any better.” The man chuckled. “Oskar Block.”

  Trying to place the slight accent of Oskar’s speech, Mark shook the man's hand again. “Good to meet you.”

  Oskar leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He kept his voice low, though his tone was calm and friendly. “I think you handled that remarkably well. He laid it on awfully thick with you. Probably because you're the last to arrive, and he wanted to make a show for his audience.”

  Mark replied with a noncommittal “mmm.” He wasn’t sure if Oskar was speaking of the other men in the room or Mars Ho’s viewing audience. He didn’t think it made much difference.

  “I hope he's not going to be a dick the whole time.” Oskar’s shoulders slumped as he watched Ric slowly stretching out his legs and arms in an ostentatious display of strength and flexibility.

  Mark went about his business. He refolded the few clothing items that had been provided by the production company, taking pains to smooth out the wrinkles in his dun-gray t-shirts and boxer briefs and the burnt orange coveralls. Corporate logos covered everything. There’d be no missing who was sponsoring the first human colony on Mars.

  He neatly rolled up the half-dozen pairs of socks before stowing it all away. Personal items like the branded toothbrush, toothpaste, and razor that had been issued to him, he also slipped into the drawer. He wasn’t sure whether there would be assigned cubbies in the bathroom. He didn't relish the idea of having to argue with Ric over shelf space for toiletries. If he was going to pick his battles inside the dome, he didn't want where he got to put his toothbrush to be one of them.
>
  He secured his empty bag and spare pair of boots beneath the bed frame, then rose to find a lanky man in his late twenties standing beside him. With thick, blond hair sticking out at every conceivable angle, the kid looked like he’d barely outgrown his youthful awkwardness. His expression was eager as he held out his hand to Mark.

  “Trent Jennings, at your service,” the kid said too quickly, nearly tripping himself up.

  Mark shook the kid’s hand but didn’t get a chance to introduce himself before Trent launched into a rapid-fire series of questions and complaints.

  “Do you know what the meal schedule is around here? Did they tell you? I’m super hungry.” Trent rubbed his palms over his thighs as if he was wiping off sweat. “You know, that whole strip search and airlock entry thing took forever. I mean, I was one of the first ones through, so I’ve just been sitting around here the whole time, and I just barely ate breakfast, you know, because I was, well, I was kind of nervous about everything.”

  Trent touched the bridge of his nose. Mark guessed it was an old habit of pushing up a pair of glasses the kid would never again wear. He felt the healing scar from his own appendectomy start to itch.

  “Well, maybe not nervous, exactly. Excited?” Trent grinned. “Yeah. Excited. It must have been that. And, you know, since there’s not like some kind of guide or host or whatever, I didn’t know if we have free access to the kitchen or what. Or is it a galley? Galley?” Trent shrugged. “If I could even find the kitchen. You know? So, do you?”

  Mark blinked hard, waiting for his brain to catch up with Trent’s stream-of-consciousness outburst. “Do I what?”

  Trent’s face split into a silly grin. “Do you know what the meal schedule is? I’m super hungry. You know I’ve been waiting around in here for hours—”