CHAPTER 14

 

TARA

 

I slide my glasses on just in time to watch as the annoyance melts off the alien guy’s face—right before a look somewhere in the territory between irritation and determination replaces it.

This alien is strange.

Almost defiantly, he had dropped this blanket on me—not even bothering to unfold it first, just plop and I’d let out a quiet oof.  It’s heavier than someone would expect, even heavier than a wool blanket.

And it smells incredible.

I twist to snatch it up, bringing it to my nose to inhale with an appreciative moan.  What is this?  Someone needs to get Snuggle and Downy on this scent, stat.  I’ve never found a fabric softener that could make my mouth water, egads!

I glance up to see that I’ve managed to shock the big alien.  I bite my lip and smother a laugh as I, with considerable effort, force the hand clutching the blanket away from my nostrils and into my lap instead.

The only warning I get is in the form of a grunt right before something is thrust at my face.  I reel back a little, readjusting my glasses.  At this distance (shoved in my darn face), I can see the details well enough I don’t need them: I just feel more comfortable, more confident with my glasses on.  It also allows me to read his expressions a little clearer.  As much as I can, anyway, being that he’s, oh, an alien.

Tentatively, I reach a hand out to accept it from him: a sort of squeeze bottle, I see now—but he snatches it back at the last minute.  Not like he’s being a jerk, but like he changed his mind about something.

“Oookay,” I say finally.  “You want me to have it but not touch it.  Do you see the problem with your plan here?”

He seems to be trying to work through this little hitch himself.  Every time he inhales, he sucks the air in past a mouthful of sharp, sharp, sharp teeth.

I can’t tell if he doesn’t know that he looks extremely scary, or if he just doesn’t care.

Unlike the Kentaur with his chirping cackle-calls, this one is making bass clicking noises under his breath.  He crosses the room, making such a big sweep around me that I don’t even feel threatened, even with how big and tall he is.  It’s nice that he’s so thoughtful, really.

Even if his face doesn’t look like he’s trying to be thoughtful at all.  In fact, he’s sort of glaring at me as he slams his butt on the bed, motioning at me with his hand.

When I don’t move, when I don’t immediately know how he wants me to move, he holds the bottle up, wiggling it back and forth like I’m supposed to feel enticed.

I feel my mouth tug sideways.  He could have just given it to me over here.  I’m not sure what he’s playing at.  I’m even less sure that I like it.  I cross my arms.

Smoke comes out of his nose.

He wiggles it harder and there is a loud CRACK!

Instinctively, my spine snaps straight.

I look, and see that the noise was created by him clicking his fingers at me.  My eyes narrow.

Did he just… smile?

I squint at him—not because I need to bring him into focus, but because I can't figure him out.

There is another CRACK! before he seems to give up, heaving an aggravated sounding breath before he’s reaching out, plucking my sleeve—he has a long reach!—and like it’s nothing at all, he hauls me closer despite my bare, cold heels trying to catch some traction.  They catch nothing; he basically figure-skates my rear end across the tiled floor.  He releases me when I’ve come to rest between his knees.  Deftly, he adjusts the half-falling blanket until it’s poncho style around my shoulders.

Reaching back to grab the lone pillow on the bed, he tosses it between his feet.  That would be right in front of my folded legs for anyone not taking notes.

I look back at the door, wondering where the Kentaur is, why he left me alone, and why he is letting this one boss me around like I’m a dang dog.  At least, I hope it’s a dog.  I’d rather him treat me like a dog, I think than a—

A shudder of apprehension runs through me.

Another grunt from him has me slowly turning back, taking a deep breath to calm my thoughts.  I think that’s exactly what he wants: me to calm down.  Because this grunt of his is sort of a long, extended ‘Hey now.  Chilll out.’

I mean, I think.

I eye him.  He isn’t acting like this is sexual at all.  So far, there isn’t anything he’s done that’s given me that impression in any way, which is a relief, but still, do I really have to kneel between his—

With another snap of his fingers and a downward stab of his order-happy claw, he lets me know unequivocally that yes, yes in fact he does intend for me to kneel between his knees.

“Well, if YOU insist,” I say somewhat snidely as I shove my hair out of my face.  I wipe the salt crusts from my eyes and sniff, feeling galled as I unfold and lift first one knee onto the pillow, then the other, then heavily, obstinately, plop my derriere onto my heels as a tiny (but totally not insignificant) show of protest.

A not-insignificant show of protest that has him lifting a brow.

I cross my arms again.

He shakes his head.  He utters one word in warning that, even in alien, suspiciously sounds like, ‘Behave.’

No way.

No way he did not just order me to behave in alien.

Temperamentally, I slap my hands over his knees, completely, utterly enjoying, relishing his flinch of surprise—

And then I wonder just what in the heck I’m doing.  I jerk my hands down.  This alien could do worse than kill me: he could HURT me.  He could hurt me BAD.

Just as the possibilities begin to fill my head, bouncing around like cheaply shot shaky-cam horror flicks, he clicks his tongue and grabs my chin with the tips of his claws.

Surprisingly, he isn’t digging in.  He isn’t touching me anywhere except for those very sharp points that, somehow, he’s able to keep from actually piercing my skin.  It’s like being hugged by a pin brush.  Not painful, but you’re aware of the potential.

His nose bumps mine.

I jerk my head out of his grip, the wild notion that he’s about to kiss me at the forefront of my brain.  But after a beat it’s clear a nosebump was all he wanted.

He watches me, not ordering me to do anything now—for the moment.  Just giving me time to think his action through, I think.

I guess… he did it to get my attention off of being afraid?  I stare into his eyes, and he stares back, not aggressively, just…

It’s weird, but the bump was kind of reassuring.  He could have snapped me like a snow pea for slapping his knees… but he didn’t.

I breathe a sigh of relief and feel stupidly, ridiculously pleased when he pats one of my hands.  Well, the fingernails.  He’s very carefully only tapping his skin against my fingernails.

Huh.

A glance down has me forgetting about his weird way of reassurance, and instead seeing how his hand dwarfs mine.  It’s huge.  I quickly run my eyes up a strong wrist, a beautifully thick arm, to a meaty, muscle-covered shoulder, over to the other equally body-builder proportioned limb and down.  He is huge.  Even under the spacesuit-pants he’s wearing, it’s clear he is built.

I look up at him, grateful again that so far… odd or not, at least he’s been sort of nice.  Mostly nice.  Basically.  I mean, he seems a little rude and bossy, but at least he’s been super careful.

Because at his size, it wouldn’t take him much effort to pulverize me.

He wiggles the squeeze bottle enticingly while I give a very, very loud, very long sigh, and I definitely see him smile this time.  I try to reach for the bottle to steady the end of it, but he pulls it back with a frown.

“Oh YOU want to do it.  Of course you do.  You control freak,” I accuse.

I of course, get nothing for my comment—not a flicker of recognition.  It’s kind of unsettling, not to have the ability to communicate with someone right in front of you.

A tap on my lips has me doing a full-body twitch—the bottle spout just poked me—he just poked me!  With this bottle!  Curling my fingers into fists, I part my lips with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

Gently, he eases the nozzle on my bottom lip and absurdly, I think of a penis.  I imagine his penis.  Eeek!  Why did my mind go there?  He’s not making this sexual, so why did I have to?  I squeeze my eyes shut, preparing to pull back—

When the bottle’s contents drip onto my tongue.

Whoaaa.  What is that proverb?  Something about honey being loathed on a full belly but loved on an empty one?  Well this belly is completely empty, and this stuff tastes like the sweetest, most incredible substance to ever hit my tastebuds.

My palms heat and it only takes me a second to realize why: they’re back on his knees, with me stretched up like some poor starved animal being patiently bottlefed and nursed back to health by a good Samaritan.

The stuff backs up in my mouth when my throat spasms with a silent laugh.  This guy, a ‘good Samaritan?’

But… he didn’t have to come in here and give me food.  Or a blanket.  A super-nice smelling blanket.  I could be in a cold cell right now, with nothing at all to comfort me.  He could simply have left me, starving and ignored, just like the other one had instead of feeding me right now.

I dare to lift my eyes to his, something I’ve been actively avoiding as I suck on the thing he’s got pushed into my mouth—it’s just too weird otherwise—and I’m caught in fascination as I watch his pupils spread, making his irises look like they’re slowly filling with cephalopod ink.

And I don’t know if I catch movement, or what, but I’m suddenly peering straight up above my hairline—where his hand is hovering.  Sort of like he wants to pet me.

Without any conscious thought on my part, my neck arches just the tiniest bit.  I think I can sense some of my hair brushing his hand.

If it really happened it was the lightest of feather-lite brushes, but it doesn’t last long enough to register because suddenly he’s snatched his hand back, clutching—strangling—the life out of the mattress he’s sitting on.

Annnd if there are two choices, touchy-feeling alien vs. thoughtful-but-afraid-to-be-touched-by-me alien, I’d take this one.  If he’s afraid to touch me, that’s just fine because I’d rather have it this way, whatever we’re doing right here, than try to fight to keep him off of me.

Because there’s no way in heck I’d win.

I don’t know what benefit he could possibly get from being nice to me—when he so clearly seems to not want to be too nice to me.  I don’t know why he’s gone through the trouble of taking care of me, but whatever his reason is, I am grateful.  I squeeze his knees in silent thanks, and then I close my eyes so that I don’t have to see his reaction.

Oddly, I don’t want to see it if he gets grossed out and pulls away.