A clip from chapter 1 of the November Dare novel:

We caught our first ride with a free-lance transporter who could get us two jumps Z+ before he had to head X-. Solo jumps were a drag, he assured us. Right, Jorah’s smooth, cappuccino-coloured hard body had nothing to do with it. And when he heard of our destination, you could hear the salivating reflex kick in as his sluggish mind groped after the image of Jorah frolicking in Crew Chaeb’s ubiquitous waves.

His name was Shank. He ran feed bales so if we ever needed a jump between Earth and anywhere two hops out, he was our man. He drank prune juice and cola the entire trip—yes, that means combined—from a sticky red plastic tumbler. The cans and tetra-pacs littered the back of the cabpit. Every other tooth in his mouth was metal, variants on the gold and silver theme. To say his checkerboard smile was appalling would be an understatement. Every time he grinned, my gaze jerked to his teeth. Shank had an active social life what with being such a free-spirit, and (to gauge from his anecdotes) he must have slept with every eligible platform counter lady this end of the galaxy—and some that weren’t so eligible. He knew them all by name and at least one thing about their private lives. Most of it went well beyond the realm of too-much-information, but being the gracious passenger I was, I nodded, asked questions and chuckled when I was supposed to. I just hoped I never met someone named Nanette at Orbital-11; there was no way I’d be able to look her directly in the eye without flinching. Sometimes an accurate visual imagination is a serious disadvantage.