Chapter Six

The former Princess had done as her mother-in-law requested and used the cream, even though it was unpleasant and burned like a hot pepper sauce pressed against her most sensitive areas. This procedure took some time, and when Leia re-entered the bedroom she saw Isolder lying on his back, naked and uncovered. He was already aroused and waiting. But the Queen hadn't been lying about the 'rule' applying to both men and women about the private hair business.

Isolder glanced over at his bride. "Why are you still dressed? Take it off and get into bed."

Although Leia complied she couldn't stop herself from thinking, Han always loved to undress me. Then, immediately, I shouldn't be thinking about Han. Stop it. Without further fanfare her new husband rolled on top of Leia and immediately commenced entering her. "You're hurting me," Leia objected, biting her lip and writhing in pain. "Stop!"

Without pausing, Isolder replied, "I do not believe for one moment you are a virgin."

"I never claimed to be," Leia shot back, trying unsuccessfully to push him away. "I'm not... ready."

"You should have used lubricant," Isolder shot back hotly. "Quit complaining for once in your life."

Leia was flabbergasted. When had she ever complained to the Queen Mother or Isolder? She lay still, enduring the pain until he was finished, and did not say a word when he rose from the bed, got dressed and headed toward the door. He turned to look at her before exiting.

"When you require my services again, please inform my secretary and schedule an appointment," Isolder told his wife as he bowed his head in sudden deference to her position as his 'de facto' Queen. "I'm sure the faster you conceive, the faster we can both get on with our lives. And next time, remember to use the lubricant."

She remained in bed, shocked and still hurting. Again, she thought about Han. This encounter was so completely opposite from her times of intimacy with him that her mind reeled. Han had always taken his time with long, drawn-out foreplay, making sure she was ready both in mind and body to receive him. Sometimes he took so long she wanted to scream in frustration, just DO it already, Flyboy!

Instead of being with Han on her wedding night, she was alone and thought in grinding despair, I wish you'd been Force-strong, Han. I wish there was some way I could reach out to you...communicate with you... some way I could tell you how much I love you, how much I miss you. I wish I could tell you how sorry I am for what I did, for what I said to you. I love you, Han Solo. I will love you until my last breath.

Coruscant

I love you, Han Solo...Han awoke with a start, the sensation of actually being with Leia so intense he thought, for a brief moment, she was actually lying next to him and had whispered those words of love into his ear. Then he remembered where he was, and who he had spent the night with - a woman whose name he still didn't know, while the woman he still loved was now happily married to the Prince of her dreams. Did she whisper his name while they lay joined, promise him they'd always be together, like she'd done with him? The image of Leia with another man brought a harsh, stabbing pain to Solo's chest. Then the Corellian rolled over, noting the empty space in the bed next to him.

Han quickly jumped up and pulled on his shorts before inspecting the refresher, the only place in the hotel room the girl could be hiding. She wasn't there, and a sudden, horrifying thought occurred to him. Quickly he rushed to his pants and felt inside the pockets. The remaining credits from Doctor Nik and the prize credits from his foray into the singing competition were both gone.

Reaching under the bed, he pulled out his boots, and twisted the heel off one. The forged ID chip was there and in the heel of the other boot was a hundred piece credit chip.

It was all he had left. One hundred credits. It would last, maybe, three days if he was very careful and only ate inexpensive street vendor food and took free public transportation to wherever he needed to travel. The hotel rooms he used would have to take a serious downgrade, as well.

Disgusted with himself for falling for the oldest trick in the book, he took a fast shower, then struggled to get the complimentary toothbrush out from its hermetically sealed package. Looking in the mirror, he saw bloodshot eyes staring back. He also noted he needed a shave, but there wasn't a complimentary razor in the hotel's supply box. I'm gonna point that out when I leave a review for this place, he mused.

A loud knock sounded on the door. "HOUSEKEEPING!" a mechanical voice yelled through the doorway.

"Go 'way. I'm still in here," Han shouted back, annoyed at the interruption. He was going to be sleeping in the streets soon enough, why rush things?

"You are required by contract to be out in fifteen minutes, or you will have to pay for another night," the droid replied back, unfazed by Han's rudeness.

"Alright! I'm leaving!" Han yelled, yanking on his pants. A small card chit fell out of his pocket on the floor and he frowned, confused as to what it was as he stopped to retrieve the item.

Coruscanti Labels

Marvis Pruitt, Producer

15698 Naboo Tower Suite 485

What? Oh.. Han started to toss it down, but something stopped him. He had gone from really needing a job to desperately needing a job in a few short hours. Maybe this Pruitt character would take pity on him and point him to a job hauling freight for his company. Surely they must use shippers, Han thought, knowing his odds of finding honest work with absolutely no references would be slim to none. It was still worth the chance, he decided, shoving the business card in his pocket and heading out to locate the address.

Han paused at the fancy doorway, before gathering up his courage and entering the plush lobby. A pretty young secretary looked up from her computer terminal and smiled at him. "May I help you?

"Um, yeah, I think so," Han muttered, pushing the business card in her direction. "This guy asked me to come see him, and I thought, maybe, he might give me a job."

She looked a bit confused. "A job? Are you certain you have the right place? Mr. Pruitt is a music producer, and this isn't an employment agency. I can give you directions to the correct address, if you need it."

"I know," Han replied impatiently. "He heard me singin' last night, and said I should come see him. But I really can't sing, and I just thought, maybe, you guys might use a shipping company and I could get a job flyin' your merchandise. Not that I have a ship right now, but I could be a co-pilot for a while, until I can afford my own ship. You do need to ship stuff, right? All companies have stuff they need to ship around." When she looked at him silently, he added lamely to his rather winded request, "I'm a good pilot. Not a singer."

She looked down at her computer screen. "Your name?"

"Evin Daysun."

"I don't see that you have an appointment."

"He didn't say I needed one."

"Well," she finally said, after a bit of consideration, "Mr. Pruitt is very busy man, but he does happen to be in his office. I'll comm him and ask him to come out."

Han gave her a wide grin, and winked at her for good measure while she spoke into the comlink. A few seconds later, Mr. Pruitt appeared.

"You came!" he said, appearing pleased. "Evin Daysun, correct? I wasn't sure you'd even remember our encounter yesterday, since you seemed more than a bit inebriated."

"Yeah, um, I was," Han admitted as he shook the producer's hand. "I was tellin' your secretary here I was looking for work as a pilot. Or co-pilot, since I currently don't have a ship."

"A pilot?" Pruitt repeated, perplexed. "I don't hire the shippers."

"But maybe you could put in a comm for me? Set me up with the right person?" Han realized he sounded like he was begging, but he was a beggar at this point and he couldn't afford to have pride.

"How about, instead, you come into a recording studio and put down a couple of tracks and see how you sound?"

"I'm not a singer," Han said, feeling like he probably should get those for words printed up on a business flimsi since he seemed to be repeating them quite often lately. Maybe it would be easier just to hand everyone a card, instead.

"If you record a song, and the studio heads like it, you'll be offered a contract," Pruitt stated. "And a monetary advance just for signing. It can't hurt to try, can it?"

"What is the usual advance fee?"

"For a new singer? Around five thousand credits. For an established singer or act, it's between twenty thousand and a hundred thousand credits, depending on how popular they are."

Han was staggered by the amounts Marvis Pruitt was so casually tossing around. Even five thousand credits would get him over this immediate financial crisis, and then he could take his time finding a job with a good, independent freight crew. It would be a springboard for buying his own ship again, and getting a new start on this second chance at life. Whatever this Corsucanti Labels company did with any song he recorded was their problem. They'd probably end up with a warehouse full of unsold holo-cubes with the name of a really bad singer glued on the front.

"How long before I'd know if the head honchos like it enough to give me a credit advance?"

Pruitt glanced down at Solo's wrinkled clothing and back up at his unshaven face, summing up his desperation. "I could have them take a listen and you could come back in two days. I'd have an answer for you by then."

"Okay," Han said, biting his lip thoughtfully. He had enough credits to survive two days, anyway. "What the hell. I'll try."

Pruitt turned to his secretary. "Tell the Mustafar Lava Boys to meet me at studio fourteen, pronto."

Han didn't bother to ask what 'Mustafar Lava Boys' were, since he figured he find out soon enough. He followed the well-dressed business man down several levels and into a dark corridor. The darkness made Han's natural suspicious nature scream in warning, and without thinking he put his hand over his blaster. It wasn't necessary, as Pruitt eventually lead Han into a room filled with computerized instrument panels, separated by a wall of duraglass behind which was a brightly lit area where six humans, a gungan and bith stood around, holding various instruments. They already looked bored.

"Meet the studio band," Pruitt said with a wave toward the large room. "They'll pretty much know any song you want them to play, so go make some music, Evin." He handed Han a small, ball shaped object. "Plug this into the bottom of the microphone before you start singing."

Solo took the orb, looking at it in puzzlement. "What's this thing?"

The older man grinned. "You really don't know much about the music industry, do you?"

"I keep telling you..."

"You're not a singer," Pruitt finished for him. "That thing is a voicorr."

"A what?"

"It fixes your singing, and makes it sound like you can hit all the notes. It's short for Voice Correct."

"Why do you think I need fixin' before I even try one song?"

"Everyone uses it. Every single artist in the galaxy."

Han was actually flabbergasted at this information. It was like discovering your favorite actress had been born ugly but made beautiful by surgery and implants. "All this time I thought certain people could actually sing, they really couldn't sing? They were fooling me? Fooling everyone in the galaxy?"

"Well, they can sing a little bit," Pruitt told him. "You have to realize that no one's perfect."

"If I can't sing without a computer fixing my voice, then I don't want to sing at all."

"Great," Pruitt groused, grabbing the device out of Han's hand. "The one being in the galaxy that would rather stick to his principles than become rich and famous. Fine, go try and sing without the voicorr and we'll decide if we need to fix your pitch afterwards."

Over my dead body, Han thought sullenly as he headed into the studio. And if you think I have principles, just watch how fast I disappear after you hand me five thousand credits.