Love Galaxy (The Intergalactic Dating Show #1)

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Briar

H e growls suddenly, low and deep in his throat. The sound seems to rumble through the broad expanse of his chest. And he’s staring at me with renewed intensity, his eyes narrowed, his head bowed.

Then again, I might be mistaken. My vision’s getting blurrier by the second, and I think my knees are preparing to give up the fight of keeping me upright.

Through the pounding of my headache, I try to remember the greeting painted on the revolving doors to IKEA. “Hej,” I think it was, but when he doesn’t answer I’m no closer to knowing if he didn’t respond because he doesn’t speak Swedish or because my pronunciation was so shit he didn't realize I was attempting Swedish. If he’s from literally any other non-English speaking country, I’m screwed, because English is the only language I ever learned. I don’t even remember any of my junior school French, which all went in one ear and straight out the other.

My grip on the windowsill slips, my hands shaky and sweaty. But before I faceplant onto the ground, he catches me around my waist. He might be nerd enough to be dressed like a lizard alien, but boy he’s got muscles under that skin-tight jumpsuit. He picks me up like he’s failed to notice I’m heavy, a hand at my back and another under the crooks of my knees.

Or, actually, is that two hands he’s got at my back? One under my knees and an entire spare arm free?

What special effects are needed to animate an extra set of arms? Up close, I’m surer than ever that there aren’t wires involved. There’s no green screen. So is it some sort of optical illusion? Or am I so concussed that I’m seeing double?

Carefully, he settles me closer to his chest and starts walking. Possibly, he’s planning on carrying me inside to where Mr. Smith and his deranged secretary are still arguing with the two other lizard men, and I still haven’t found a cellphone. I should protest, and part of my brain is urging me to struggle out of his hold. But the other part, the part that’s currently thumping with the worst headache of my entire life, doesn’t care where he takes me so long as I don’t have to keep trying to stand on my own.

Maybe if I close my eyes for a few minutes I’ll start to feel better. Maybe if I take a quick nap…

Wind assaults my face, hitting me with the force of a slap. For a second I seriously think I’m going to be swept straight out of his arms, but then his hold tightens, and I bury my face against his chest, selfishly trying to use him as a shield.

Warmth radiates off him. He must be hot under that jumpsuit.

It’s not that the wind is cold, just violent, and the warmth radiating from his chest is absurdly comforting, to the point that my bottom lip quivers. I only keep from crying this time because I realize crying would probably make my head hurt even worse, and I’ve got no intention of fainting from pain.

With his fourth arm, he presses a button beside the front door, and it slides open, revealing a wide staircase. As the door automatically closes behind us and as he starts down the stairs, the wind disappears as quickly as it had arrived.

A moment later I find myself in what’s clearly a kitchen. The major difference between this kitchen and every other kitchen I’ve seen is that this one’s underground, and there are no windows or natural light.

Maybe there’s a cellphone down here. Or a landline.

A large table with five chairs dominates the space. Cupboards line the farthest wall, under which has been set a long counter. It’s completely empty, no bowls of fresh fruit, no microwave or toaster or any of that other clutter you expect to find in a kitchen—paper towels or that one granola bar everyone always means to eat but keeps forgetting about.

In fact, the kitchen’s so clean it doesn’t look like it’s ever been used. So perhaps this house is actually a set, built specifically for filming, kind of like the Big Brother house.

It suddenly occurs to me that maybe he’s not speaking a genuine language at all; maybe he’s acting, pretending to speak some made-up language, as if he really is from outer space.

“Put me down,” I demand, still not struggling. Partly because I don’t think I’ve currently got the hand-eye coordination to struggle effectively and partly because he’s got to be close to eight feet tall, and I don’t really fancy falling out of his arms. The floor’s a long way away.

“Du brenover lakenjerd.”

“If you’re being an ass and pretending you can’t speak English, I’ll… I’ll… ” I stare around at the empty kitchen again, searching for ideas, but all I really want to do is lay my head on his warm shoulder and close my eyes.

Unless… wasn’t the medical advice of every hospital drama I’ve ever watched to not sleep when concussed? But the more I try to force myself to open my eyes the more I seem to sink into the warmth of his hold, until I’m using one insanely defined pec as a pillow.

Honestly, it's been an embarrassingly long time since someone hugged me. I haven’t seen my friends in months. And it’s not like real estate agents, landlords or bank managers offer hugs to clients they’re preparing to evict.

Probably that’s why Mr. Smith wanted me on his show. He could see how much of a desperate fucking loser I am—jobless, soon-to-be homeless, touch starved. I bet filming losers makes for some hilariously humiliating reality TV.

With four arms, this guy gives one hell of a good hug, and I find myself hoping there aren’t any hidden cameras in the kitchen because I don’t want to risk anyone seeing me like this—cradled against his chest and not even putting up a symbolic fight.

Presumably, he’s one of the male contestants, but what makes him such a deadbeat that he qualified? Other than he agreed to dress in a skin-tight jumpsuit and pretend he’s covered in scales.

“Hey, come on. I asked you to put me down.” I grab hold of his shoulders to keep from falling and finally try wriggling free. Of course, that’s when he steps through a door leading out of the kitchen and into?—

What the actual fuck?!

In this room there’s a single alcove set into one wall, and in that alcove is another of those upright pallet things, like what I woke up in. This one doesn’t have a machine attached to the side, and I can’t see any tubes or needles, but there’s still no way I’m getting into it. Not in a million years.

Abandoning the idea of being set down, I wrap my arms and legs around his neck and waist, clinging to him like a monkey. Even using all four of his arms, he can’t detach me, fear giving me strength as my head swims and bile rises up my throat.

Muttering under his breath, he backs out of the torture room, but it’s not until he has closed and locked the door and set me on the kitchen table that I release my hold. My whole body’s shaking with sudden cold.

“Va shedd enhen lomatt?” he says, pointing toward… My face? Something behind me?

“I don’t understand.” I glance over my shoulder, but it’s a blank wall, not even decorated with a band poster or a family photo.

This time, he touches a hand to my chin, gently tipping my head to one side, indicating he’s seen the dried blood in my hair.

“Oh, yeah. That secretary hits like a boss.” I wrap my arms around my stomach, trying to keep from shivering. In comparison, his hand is warm, and it takes everything in me not to rest the full weight of my head in his fingers. “Don’t get on her bad side.” I avert my unsteady gaze, but almost immediately I’m back to looking at him.

He’s got rows and rows of sharp teeth, almost like a shark—or else my vision is deceiving me. And then there are decorative markings across his lips. White scales I think, probably designed to look like even more teeth.

The most striking thing about him, though, are his horns. He has six, varying in size, and the way they curve back over his head and frame his face reminds me of a crown. His brow has ridges that taper down to the bridge of his nose. His eyes are insanely green, with slit pupils. He’s got to be wearing contact lenses.

There’s something about the intense way he’s inspecting me that gives the impression he’s angry. Really pissed. Because I’ve been hurt? The air catches in my throat, and I swear I miss a breath.

“Head wounds tend to bleed a lot,” I hear myself saying, like I’m trying to reassure him. “Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.” Although the pounding headache that’s determined to take up as much space inside my skull as it possibly can begs to differ.

He doesn’t reply. Rather, he releases my chin, moves to the kitchen counter and presses a couple of buttons on a touch screen mounted onto the backsplash.

I need to persuade him that what’s happening here is fucked up and that we need to find professional help. Police. Ambulance. Maybe even the fire brigade. And then years of therapy (which I absolutely won’t be able to afford, not even with a government rebate).

“My name’s Briar,” I say, thinking introductions are as good a place as any to begin getting him on side.

He glances at me over his shoulder, and I point to my chest. “Briar.”

“Br-eye— Br-eye-yar.” My name sounds almost like it’s uncomfortable on his tongue, like he really isn’t used to speaking English and not like he’s just pretending. Then he indicates himself. “Sorin.”

“Sor-in,” I attempt. “Nice to meet you, Sorin.” I keep my voice friendly. If he really can’t understand what I’m saying, maybe he can at least understand that he can trust me. And that he should continue helping me. “Are you sure you don’t have a cellphone I could borrow? I need to make one call. Real quick.” I try climbing down from the table, but my knees don’t cooperate, leaving me clinging to the table’s edge, trying not to fall.

With two arms, he easily picks me back up and deposits me gently on the table again, holding me in place. With another hand, he passes me a cup of water.

I’m suddenly gasping for a drink, and I swallow large mouthfuls.

After wiping my mouth clean on the back of one shaking hand, I force myself to smile. “Cell? Phone? Mobile? Landline?” Putting the cup down, I mime making a phone call.

He stares at me blankly.

“Laptop?” I mime typing.

“Briar.” He gently tips my head to one side again and starts dabbing at the dry blood with a damp cloth. It smells strongly of disinfectant, and pain prickles my skin as he slowly detangles my hair, separating the individual strands from the mat of clotted blood.

I’ve got to suck my bottom lip to stop myself from crying out. With Mr. Smith and Chloe upstairs in the back room, I don’t want to risk them hearing me.

Trying to distract myself, I hold on to the thick biceps of two of Sorin’s arms.

His jumpsuit doesn’t feel fabric-y. Rather, it feels like—I stroke his arms—scales. I blink, trying to focus my eyes on the finer details. Each one is a soft green and circular, and when I tap my nail lightly against one, there’s a satisfying click, click, click sound.

But that would be impossible, right?

Nobody actually has scales.

Nobody actually has four arms.

If I weren’t concussed, I’d probably be freaking the fuck out. Because if the scales are real— If his four arms are real?—

I really, really, REALLY want to believe this is some sick hoax, that I’ve somehow ended up on the film set of a reality joke show, but there are too many coincidences I can’t explain away as being mere set props or special effects.

A sharp pain pinpricks my arm, and I flinch away from him.

“Hey!” But before I can interject more, a numbness races through my body. My shaking stops. My vision clears. “Wow. That’s the good stuff.” I run my hands through my hair, gingerly probing the cut I know is back there, but there isn’t any more pain, and when I examine my fingers, there’s no fresh blood.

My headache’s gone too, and I tip my head from side to side, testing if the side effects are temporary or if the painkiller is going to continue doing its job.

“I theel—” I clasp my hands over my mouth. That wasn’t what I’d been going to say. “I theel— F- F- Feel!” I open and close my mouth, but everything seems to still be working. “I feel like there’s suddenly so much more room in my brain for my thoughts.”

Thoughts like: fucking hell, I’m on an actual alien planet with actual aliens.

And: who the hell do I call for help now?

Last time I checked, the Australian police didn’t have an intergalactic taskforce. While NASA can barely get its astronauts to the international space station and back, let alone have legitimate proof that intelligent life exists on other planets.

And what planet is this even? Hardly Mars or Venus. Does that mean we’ve travelled to another solar system?

LOVE GALAXY is what Mr. Smith had accidentally called the show before he’d corrected himself. What if that’s the real title? What if I’m really in a whole other galaxy?