Chosen by the Alien Above Part 3: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance Serial (2 page)

TING, TING, TING.

I was seriously going to reboot that thing.

In more time than it should ever take to get dressed, I got dressed. I wanted to hate the one-piece, but I couldn't. I liked it. The color was atrocious. There was no getting around that.
 

But the way it held me. The slightly stretchy material was smooth as silk. Like a puppy’s fur that begs to be petted. It held and comforted me like a hug. It made my curves firmer and more sensuous.

If I could get this in periwinkle or even mocha brown, I’d be all over it.

TING. TING.

“Yeah, I'm coming,” I said. “Knock off the Cujo crap!”

If that beast was coming for me, I wasn't going down like a rabbit.

A pair of boots were the only other thing in the closet. They were black. That was something. I'd never seen boots like them. I doubted anyone on earth had. There were no laces or velcro. They were like Martian Army boots. I didn't have any clean socks and none were on offer so I slipped my foot straight in. The plush leather-like material conformed to my foot. Filled in my arch. Supported the undersides of my toes. That gel stuff, like the bed. Restoration pod. Whatever.

Where did they make that stuff?

You'd make a killing on it at Bed, Bath and Beyond.

I slipped the other boot on and it did the same. I took a few experimental steps. It was like walking on a cushion of air, only better. Every step started with an embrace and ended with a lingering kiss.

On my feet.

I was
not
giving up these boots. Keep the unitard. I was taking the boots. Maybe the unitard too… if it came in other colors.

I did the most cursory check in the bathroom mirror. The wall surface had turned reflective and illuminated when I approached. The green in my eyes was complemented by a few thin veins of red. I whipped my hair into a bun and tied it off, knowing the hot pink suit wasn’t doing my dingy brown hair any favors. I cupped my hand under what looked like the only candidate to be a faucet. It was. I scrubbed my face with hot water. Washed out a few stubborn eye boogers.

My face tingled from the heat. Hot water. The single thing most important brick supporting human civilization!

Forget representative government, efficient food systems, or delicious Chinese takeout. Hot water was the single—

TING. TING. TING.

“Okay! Okay!” I shrieked. That thing was dancing the two-step on my last, taut nerve.
She
. Noah said it was a she.
She
was driving me crazy.

I'd risk a boot to her ass if I wasn't certain I’d get a metal splinter to show for it. No. I couldn't. Not even to a metal dog. Not even to hideous dog bot that had it in for me.

For absolutely no reason that made sense.
 

Could she be jealous? Did she think I had designs on her man? She had him all to herself for the last ten years, or however long. And I was the first female to show up and stomp on her man crush.

If she messed with me over Noah, I’d tear that bitch up. I'd rip those tubes out like guts in her belly.

I sounded crazy.

She was a robot dog. I was a woman. And I wasn't here to steal her mate. I was here to interview him and do my best to keep it professional.

Why was it so hard to keep it professional?

GRREAARRRAAHHH. TING
—

The door swished open and I clipped my key card to the fabric at my hip. It was odd how you could pinch away fabric, let go, and it melted smooth again.

“I’m here!” I shouted at Astro.

GRREAARRRAAHHH.

“GRRRRRRRRRRR”, I growled back.

She tottered back a few steps and shut her mouth. If you could call it a mouth.

“Take me to Mr. Sinclair,” I said.

She turned and hiked her rear at me before setting off down the hall.

What a little bitch. Not the whelping kind.

I didn’t like that I had to follow her, but I didn't have a choice. I’d have gotten lost in less than a minute as we wound our way through bulkheads and down long corridors. Orbital One packed serious complexity into its bicycle tire design.

We swished through a door and emerged into a larger room. A long sleek table grew out of the
 
floor in the middle. An equally long window stretched across one wall. Luminous orange veins ringed the walls near the ceiling. Like those tattoo tribal designs circled a bicep. A normally drunk, horny bicep from what evidence I’d gathered in college.
 

Patches of slightly darker spots coursed through the illuminated lines. The glow gave the room a soft sunset feel—the warm blur of a Hawaiian sunset.

So I’d heard.

Noah Sinclair stood at the other end of the table. That wasn’t quite right. He didn’t stand.

He radiated.

The gray second skin accentuated his every carved line. His face glowed from the orange hues suffusing through the room. He might have glowed even without their help.

He was too gorgeous. Greedy gorgeous. When God handed out good looks, he stayed in line all day. His wavy, brown hair brought out the dancing embers in his eyes.

“Cora, may I call you Cora? I hope you don't mind me saying, but you look ravishing.”

My skin warmed and I'm sure it would've been pink were it not for the ambient hues.

“You were doing better with Ms. Gabarro,” I said.

“Would you care for something to eat, Ms. Gabarro?” he asked pointedly.

At least the guy could take a hint. Watch and learn, Cosmo.

I could've devoured a dolphin. So yeah, I was hungry. Not that I was going to pig out in front of him.

“I am feeling peckish, Mr. Sinclair.”

“I hope you brought more than a peckish appetite,” he said. “Because I don't often get to have a beautiful woman for dinner.” The upward curve of his lip made the meaning clear.

My skin heated up. The familiar warmth between my legs sparked to life.

Lord help me. He was a gorgeous hunk of man candy and my sweet tooth ached a hole in my head.

He gestured toward the two seats facing each other at his end of the table. Two flutes with barely a drink of a bubbling liquid awaited.

“Are you cheaping out on the good stuff, Mr. Sinclair?” I asked.

He laughed, picked one up, and offered it to me. “Would you join me for a toast? I know it's not much more than that, but inebriates have a much stronger effect at this altitude. Trust me.”

I joined him and accepted the flute. He raised his own and tinked our glasses together.
 

“To beauty,” he said.

The space between my legs felt like A Brazilian jungle.
 

“To answers,” I said.

“For whatever they may be,” he said.

“For getting them sooner than later,” I said.

“Are you always on the job, Ms. Gabarro?”

“Are you always on the prowl, Mr. Sinclair?”

He chuckled. “Please forgive any indecency. My seclusion has likely buried a few burrs in my once-smooth pelt. Would you mind stroking it? To clean them out.”

“I’d sooner slice my hand petting your dog bot than stroke it for you, Mr. Sinclair.”

He feigned injury. The arrow aimed at his heart.

“To the moment,” he said and raised his glass again. “Can we agree on that?”

“To the truth,” I said and tinked my glass to his. We both took a sip.

Likely with different toasts in mind.

“I didn't bring you here to lie to you, Ms. Gabbaro,” Noah said. “But I hope you'll humor me with dinner and conversation first.”

Was he trying to throw me off the scent? It didn't feel like it. He had been effectively alone in space for ten years. I'd be jonesing like crazy for company too. It was a surprise he didn’t have a Wilson volleyball friend sitting at the table. A friendly dinner wouldn't hurt. I could give him that much.

“This isn’t a date, Mr. Sinclair.”

Ugh. Why did I find it so hard to give in to him? I wondered if it was because I didn’t know where it would stop. Say yes to a nice dinner. Ten seconds later you’re begging to squeeze your legs around his hips like an anaconda in heat.

“But I think dinner would be great.”

The building tension in his shoulders melted away.

“Was that so hard?”

“What?” I asked.

“Giving me what I want. The more you do, the more you may like it.”

“Don’t make me change my mind, Mr. Sinclair,” I said.

He looked at me for a moment. His eyes narrowed. Jeez! They looked so sexy like that. His eyes were like a magnifying glass under noonday sun. They ignited fire in me.

“I’d never make you do anything you didn’t want to do, unless you wanted me to,” he said with an arched brow.

“You’ll know I’ve gotten what I want when your voice is tired from talking and my list of questions have accompanying answers.”

He shrugged. “Dinner then?”

“I think you understand me, Mr. Sinclair.”

He sat his flute on the table and pulled my seat out. It didn't roll or scrape across the floor. It was attached to the floor by a smooth bond. It moved like you move your arm. Like the two were articulated by underlying structure and connected like a single organism.

This station was strange. 1988 DeLorean, Back to the Weird Future strange.

“If you'll take a seat, Ms. Gabarro.”

I slid into the offered seat and was instantly cupped just like the bed and the boots. Whoever designed this station sure loved the gel stuff.
 

I agreed.

“I’ll be back in a moment with our meal,” he said.

Noah disappeared through the far doorway with a quiet swish. Astro sat by the door we entered. Her red eyes aimed in my direction.
 

Was it okay to be alone with her? I scanned the smooth table for a fork or a knife. Any implement that might improve my chances for survival. Besides two intricately folded napkins that looked like clamshells on their sides, the table was empty. Maybe I could crack this flute on the edge of the table and gouge her devil–red eyes out.

She sat motionless. Abnormally still. She looked just real enough that the absence of subtle breathing and moving startled me.

Maybe I could use the napkin as a tourniquet. Staunch my blood if she got passed the jagged glass.

The other door swished open and Noah returned carrying a large circular tray with a lid. Puffs of steam escaped from the top. What did he chose for dinner? How did you come up with what to serve a guest in space? Was it exactly the same as back home? Or were there other protocols to observe? Like maybe Martians were hyper sensitive to garlic and so Spaghetti Aglio was out.

I could never be friends with a Martian if that was the case.

Noah sat the tray on the table. He grasped the handle on the lid.

“I hope you like it,” he said. “It came a long way to impress you.”

He lifted the lid and the most succulent, sultry smell swept over my senses. Heavenly, red juices swam across the top. Flaky crust circled round and held the wonder together.

Deep dish pizza.

Chicago style.

I breathed deep and my stomach grumbled at an embarrassing volume. My mouth ached as saliva glands kicked into gear. I was famished. Hold up. This wasn’t just any deep dish pizza. I recognized the unique scent. The perfect combination of dough, marinara, and cheese.

My mouth dropped. Not out of hunger. Out of surprise.

“Is this—“

“Yes,” he said. “Deep dish cheese from Lou Malnati's. I'm not technically inside their delivery zone. But the owner owes me a favor or two.”

My favorite pizza. In the world.

Technically out of the world at the moment.

Of course he knew. He'd probably hacked my media accounts.

I’d been to Chicago a few times and deep dish pizza became my favorite food on the first day. By the end of the first trip, Lou Malnati's was my favorite pizza place in the world. Chicago was worth visiting for that place alone.

Did I say peckish?

The sweet, floral smell from the flute wafted up. “Champagne with pizza?”

Noah laughed. “I know, I know,” he said. “Not the most appropriate pairing, but beer wasn't fancy enough for this occasion.”

I laughed in turn.

I raised my glass and smiled. “I salute your sense of propriety. I'm happy to finally see you have one.”

He grinned and took a sip. He licked the wetness from his lower lip and speared me with bedroom eyes. “I have much for you to uncover, Ms. Gabarro.”

“A rather weak, underdeveloped sense of propriety,” I said, “but you can work on it.”

“I enjoy the effort. In the end, my reach is strong and sure.”

I so wanted him to reach for me. To take me. Here on the table. Pizza be damned.

We could scoot the tray over. No reason to waste it.

“Perhaps you've never reached for sufficiently lofty goals, Mr. Sinclair.”

He raised his arms to the room. “Look around, Ms. Gabarro. You’ve come for me beyond the stars.”

I didn’t like how much I liked how he said that. The too familiar warmth flowered between my legs. My nipples ached in the smooth suit. Was it pinching them? A swirling agony spiraled in my belly.

“I’ve done no such thing!”

It came out too panicky and desperate.
 

“And yet here you are.”

He had a point. That wasn't the point he was originally making. But I wasn't going to point that out because then he’d know he made it.
 

I shook my head, a little too drunk on the tall drink of water in front of me. I coughed because I didn't know what to say.

“Let's eat,” he said. “I haven’t had deep dish in years.” He cut off a big slice and handed it over.

I accepted it and looked for something to put it on, like a plate, from Earth. “No plates?”

“No plates are necessary.” He tore off a crumb and dropped it on the table. The surface wavered and the crumb sank. The table shimmered again and it was like it never happened.

What the hell?

I rapped the spot where the crumb disappeared with my knuckle. The dull thud told me the surface was solid. It couldn't have been solid because it just swallowed a crumb.