WILLA

I worry about Gren.

Well, there are a lot of things to worry about, like how far we’re possibly going to get before the others come after us. I worry about poor Pashov, who we’ve left with a massive egg on his noggin. I worry that we’re wandering into dangerous lands that we both know nothing about.

But mostly, I worry about why Gren keeps hunching over and stopping. It happens far too often this day. I’m tired, but I can walk, and I have a spear to use to get me through the worst of the snow drifts. I knew this wouldn’t be easy—I expect “easy” got left behind on Planet Earth—but he won’t let me walk. He just hitches me against him and carries me like a toddler on his hip. Everything’s fine for a time, until he slides me off his side and hunches over in the snow, clearly in pain. After he recovers, he takes a deep, shuddering breath, picks me up, and then continues the relentless grind to get towards the hills. He’s pushing himself too hard, I know. It’s clear he’s in great pain, but he doesn’t want to stop.

Then he does it again. And again.

And me, I don’t know what to do. I keep trying to walk, but he ignores that. It’s almost as if he wants to carry me because he wants to touch me. In a way, I get that. He’s all I have now, and I’m all he’s got. If we cling to each other a little hard at the beginning, it’s understandable.

I’m still relieved when we get to the cliffs and he sets me down, studying them. I study them, too, my hand shielding my eyes from the light despite the milky, anemic sunlight of this place. The cliffs are a little more…forbidding than I anticipated. They’re almost completely sheer, and the striated rock is covered in ice and cuts high above us in what has to be at least fifty to a hundred feet tall. I’m reminded of the crazy plateaus in Arizona, except with a lot more snow and ice. Either way, we’re not crossing that tonight.

Or ever.

“Gren, let’s set up camp here,” I tell him, and surreptitiously check his health. He’s not breathing hard at the moment, which is good, and his eyes seem clear enough. But we’ve done enough travel for one day and hopefully I can convince him of that. I reach for the leather pack he has slung over his other shoulder. “Let’s stop here, all right?” I repeat the word “stop” a few times, then the word “camp,” and it isn’t until I pull out the roll of furs that he understands what I’m saying.

“Stop,” he says, agreeing, and drops to his haunches, studying the area…and me.

I look around. There are a few plants clinging to the bare rock, but other than that, there’s snow, snow, more snow, and an enormous cliff. None of this screams shelter, so I decide to make my own. I take Pashov’s spear, wander around until I find a spot at the base of the cliff that looks like it’s slightly protected, and start to set up camp. There’s no foliage we can use, but I have the spear, and I use it to prop up one side of the large leather blanket, wedge the other into the rocky cliff face, and then we more or less have the world’s ugliest lean-to. I crawl inside and the worst of the breeze is kept out, so this should do for tonight. Sure, I’m sitting on snow, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that. I dig through my bag, and I have fire-making supplies…but no wood, and no dung chips like I’ve seen Harlow and Liz burn. Whoops. This could be a problem. It’s not too bad out, though. There’s snow, but my new cootie is keeping me warm enough. I’ll probably be a little chilly tonight, but I tell myself it’ll be just like camping.

Outside of the lean-to, I see Gren crouch in the snow, watching me.

“Y’all come on in,” I tell him, and when he doesn’t move, I pat the ground next to me. I could swear a flicker of surprise crosses his face before he tentatively moves a bit closer. It’s like he’s not entirely sure he heard me correctly, so I repeat the motion until he joins me under the tent. “You’re breaking my heart,” I tell him as he tensely sits next to me, ready to bolt. “I’m your friend, Gren.”

“Friend,” he agrees, studying my face.

“We’re going to rough it tonight,” I tell him brightly. “And we’ll figure more stuff out tomorrow. I figure we can take this one day at a time, you know?” And I pull out the waterskin and offer him a sip. We’ve shared it throughout the day, and if I notice him licking the spot where I had my mouth before he did, I don’t say anything. Maybe it’s a custom of his people. “Who am I to judge, right? You have Southern folk, and country folk, and my mama was the worst of country folk. She put the red in redneck.” I shake my head sadly, thinking of how much I’d love to go back in time and punch a few people in the face, starting with Uncle Dick and Mama. “You can have bad manners around me,” I tell Gren. “Ain’t nobody to care but us.”

He sips the water and then hands the skin back to me.

As he does, I snag his hand, because I notice again the dried blood crusting his fur. “Wait,” I tell him softly. “You’re hurt. Oh, I’m such an idiot. Of course you hurt yourself. Here, let me doctor you up right,” I tell him, keeping my voice low and easy like honey so he won’t get freaked out. I take the last of the water out of the skin and wet down one corner of the spare tunic. He’s very still, and I pull his hand toward my breast so I can see the wounds. “You’ve gone and gouged yourself all over, sugar,” I murmur to him. I dab at the wounds, doing my best to extract sticky fur from them and wash them clean. I hate that he’s torn himself up, but I’m glad he’s free now. “Never again.”

Gren is very still, and when I finish one wrist, he automatically hands me the other. I flash him a smile, and as I do, I find myself blushing even as I look down. He’s watching me with intense scrutiny, and we’re so close that I can feel the warmth emanating off his big body. He’s as tall as any of the other aliens—who aren’t exactly shrinking violets—but with his hunched shoulders, I suspect that if he stood completely erect, he’d be taller. Maybe he can’t, though; maybe he’s as erect as his people get. He’s definitely a different kind of alien, though his tail looks similar and I feel like I’ve seen his big, dark claws somewhere before. The soft fur is less on his hands and feet, I notice, and thicker on his lower arms and thighs. The pelt of him is thick on his head and shoulders, thins out over his biceps and through his waist, and thickens again in vulnerable spots like his groin. It’s interesting in that it looks less like a full body coat and more like adornments to his already impressive body. His fur is the same shade as his skin, or at least I think it is, but when I clean his wounds I notice that his skin is an even deeper shade underneath, and the bare parts are soft and supple. I run my fingers over his knuckles, because he’s got four fingers and a thumb, like me. The other aliens have three fingers and a thumb, but he’s got a tail like they do.

I look up, feeling shy, and we lock eyes. A jolt flutters through me, and I press my thighs together tightly. There’s something about his face that calls to me. It’s not the beauty of it, not by traditional standards. He’s not like anyone or anything I’ve seen before. His hair cascades around his head in a dark ruff, and he’s got a large nose that is not quite a snout, not quite human. It’s some bizarre cross, and if I had to compare it to anything, I suppose it would be to a cat. He’s got sharp cheekbones and deep-set eyes, and his fangs are so big that they distort his mouth. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they weren’t natural to him or his people, but why would anyone adjust that sort of thing? There’s nothing pretty about his face, no, but his eyes are sharp and intelligent, and I remember the way he carried me all day, even as he collapsed with exhaustion.

“Friend,” I say very softly. “I’m glad we’ve got each other here.”

In response to that, he gets up and bolts from the tent. I catch a glimpse of a dark erection before his twisting body moves out of my vision, and I feel terrible. I’ve made him embarrassed, somehow. All that touching made him react, and he’s probably leaving because he finds me unattractive and pushy. I don’t know his culture and I’ve probably violated a lot of alien courtesy laws.

“I’m real sorry,” I call out. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

I feel just terrible.

It’s silent. I hear nothing but the wind whistling. I’ve tried so hard to be his friend and here I’m making it worse. I don’t feel unsafe around him, strangely enough. Maybe I should, considering that it’s just him and me, alone in the snow, but I know instinctively he won’t hurt me. Hasn’t he had a dozen chances to do so already? Instead, he’s held me carefully even as his wrists and ankles bled and he staggered in the snow.

And here I’m making him uncomfortable.

Guilty, I get to work in the lean-to, making things comfortable. There are really no blankets, so I set out a few leathers to lie on as best I can, and find a (hopefully) clean patch of snow and fill the waterskin, then put it inside my tunic so the contents will melt. I get out the food Angie sent, and I wait, hoping for my friend to return. “Gren?”

He returns a few moments later, his fur damp all over, as if he took a bath. I feel even worse at the sight of that, because I worry that he's trying to wash off my touch—or the fact that he was aroused by me. "I just want us to be friends, all right? I would never ask for more. I promise." Even if I wanted to.

Gren watches me guardedly, then says something in his strange language that sounds like coughs and growls.

"Why don't we just eat?" I hold out the pouch of food, offering it to him.

His stomach growls.

For a moment, I think it's his weird language again. When I realize what it is, I push the bag toward him. "Please, eat." I take a small handful of food for myself, then offer him the bag.

He very carefully takes a handful as well, then begins to eat. It's quiet, the only sound that of us chewing our food. His stomach continues to growl, and I remember how much he ate back at the camp, and how he practically snatched at the food in his haste to eat. Trying to be discreet, I study his stomach. His abs are washboard underneath the slim line of fur—like an over-enthusiastic happy trail—that goes down his belly, but I wonder if he's too thin, muscles too defined. We finish our food and I offer him the bag again.

Gren doesn't take it.

Frustrated, I pour another serving into my hand and then offer it to him. "Seriously, I want you to eat."

He hesitates, watching me, and then leans in and carefully lowers his mouth to my hand.

I freeze, startled. Did he think I was trying to feed him like I did back at camp? I'm embarrassed, because all I wanted to do was make sure that he had enough to eat. We need to figure out how to communicate with each other if we're going to be each other's only company. For now, though, I remain where I am, letting him eat because it seems impolite to snatch my hand away.

Then, his tongue grazes over my palm, and I feel that hot shiver move through my thighs again. My pulse heats up, and I can feel my nipples prick in response as he carefully tongues every crumb off of my skin. I……oh.

I wasn't expecting that.

I swallow hard, slowly pulling my hand back when Gren is finished. I imagine he's still hungry—it's not enough to feed a full-sized person, much less one of his stature. I should offer him the bag, let him eat to his fill. That's what a normal person would do, right?

But instead, I find myself reaching into the bag and getting out another handful, then offering it to him. I watch his tongue flick out as he dines, eating them with enthusiasm. His tongue flicks and rasps against my skin, and I'm fascinated by it. I don't even realize I'm trembling until he captures my wrist and holds my hand steady so he can finish lapping up every crumb.

"I'm an awful person," I whisper to him, because right now I'm imagining pouring handfuls of trail mix all over my body to see if he'll tongue me everywhere.

Good lord, what is wrong with me? I barely know the man and here I am wanting to do all sorts of naughty things with him, when it's clear he's not interested in me. It's not like me. I've never been particularly interested in sex, not after I watched Mama taking all kinds of men in her room so she could get her crack fix. That was so repulsive that I never even dated, not once. I didn't want to turn into her. I figured my hand (and imagination) would work just fine if I was getting lonely.

Now, of course, I'm acting like some sort of wintry jezebel the moment a guy's tongue touches my skin.

I put a hand between my breasts. Is it my cootie? I remember Veronica and Ashtar, and the sound that they made. It was impossible to ignore, like the drone of a thousand angry bees. But my chest is silent, even as my pussy throbs with heat.

This is all very strange.

Gren studies me, and I offer him the bag, blushing. "Sorry. I'm a poor sort of host, aren't I?"

"Friend," he says gruffly.

"Absolutely. Friend." And that's all that we are, even if I'm reacting strangely.

I try not to notice that Gren continues to eat until nearly the entire bag is gone. He's starving, so we'll need to figure out how to hunt for some fresh food. The blue aliens—the sa-khui—made it look pretty easy, so I'm sure we can manage something. That's for tomorrow, though. Yawning, I curl up on the spread-out leathers and tell Gren, "Sleep now. Tomorrow's going to be a new adventure."

He lies down across from me, his body stiff and clearly uneasy. He watches me.

I touch one of the leathers I'm lying on. "You want some of these? I didn't even think about making you a bed. I'm a terrible hostess."

Gren shakes his head and closes his eyes, pretending to sleep.

All right, then. I close my eyes as well, hoping I'm tired enough to drift off.

I do sleep, but it's fitful. Every few minutes, I wake up, shivering. It's cold now that we're not moving around, and the temperature has dropped in the night. Every bit of exposed skin feels chilled, and I keep adjusting the leathers, trying to cover myself, but it's no good. I should have brought more blankets, but the one I did bring is currently serving as our tent. I'm already failing at this survival thing.

"Willa." Gren reaches out and touches me when I wake for the dozenth time.

"Sorry," I whisper to him between chattering teeth. "Guess I didn't plan this through very well."

He growls low, and then when he makes the same, dissonant growl, I realize he's trying to tell me something. I struggle to sit up, groggy, and to my surprise, he pulls me across the snowy floor of the lean-to and against his body. I go stiff, but he only tucks my head against his chest and wraps an arm around me, holding me close.

I can't help the little moan that escapes my throat, because he's so warm. I burrow against him, lacing my fingers in the thick pelt that covers his upper chest and tuck myself against his side. "Thank you."

"Friend," he says again, and pats my head like a child.

I fall asleep easily that time, and I don't even mind that his fur's in my face. There's a faint scent of sweat to him, and fur, but I find it comforting and it fills my mind.

I sleep so good. In fact, I sleep so good that my head fills up with all kinds of naughty dreams, dreams of Gren kissing me carefully despite those big teeth, pulling my leggings off and then pushing my knees apart as he comes over me…

I jolt awake, feeling hollow and needy and frustrated. My hand is between my thighs, and I can feel the slick heat pouring off of me from there. Gren sleeps, his breathing even, and for a moment, I want to reach over and caress him between his legs so he can take care of this intense need. I want it so badly that I practically shake with it.

But then I remember how he raced out of the tent when I simply touched his knuckles, and I'm confused. I pull my hand from my leggings and roll away, then do my best to go back to sleep and ignore Gren's presence. That's best for both of us, I think.

I don't know why I'm acting like this. I put my hand to my chest, but it's still silent. Huh.

Maybe all this time I’ve just secretly been a big ol’ horndog and never knew until now.