The Pleasure Contract (Princes of Xaavia #2)
1. Lois
Lois
Inever thought I’d ever get sick of ABBA – ‘Dancing Queen’ to be specific. It’s a classic. The pinnacle of ‘feel-good pop music’.
But when my personal floating comm orb suddenly lights up my gloriously dark and quiet room, that loud intro cascade of piano notes shaking me from my sleep as gently as a wrecking ball caresses a building, you tend to go off a song.
Well, I do, at least. Especially since it’s been my alarm noise every day ever since Vel set it up for me.
What’s worse is that the damn thing doesn’t shut off with a verbal command – oh, no, that would be too easy.
I have to actually fall out of this giant-ass-alien-bed to chase the floating orb around the room to catch it, turning the dulcet tones of Agnetha, Anni-Frid, Benny, and Bjorn off with the touch of my hand.
And I swear, this floating ball is getting better at escaping capture – like it wants to at least get to the second chorus before admitting defeat and letting me silence it.
But here I am; head still fogged up with the deepest of sleeps, nerves like a cat in a tambourine factory, and hair that looks like I’ve been fist-fighting it all night…
and lost. It’s when the glowing orb is going for a record fourth lap around the darkened room, blaring out that part where ABBA confidently informs me that I am having the time of my life – despite all available evidence to the contrary – that I realize I’ve been stomping around the room with half my sleep-shorts up my ass, and one tit hanging out of my camisole top.
“Come here, you Dancing-Queen-annoying-little-shit,” I bite out, launching for the singing ball of light as it whizzes past me again.
The comm orb flies to the other side of the giant, alien-sized bed, hovering in mid-air; and I swear, it’s like the comms unit is alive, watching me to see what I do next.
As I move left, it moves right. If I start going right, the damn thing goes left.
The whole scene reminds me of playing tag with the neighborhood kids when we were hopped up on sugar and Red Dye 40.
I make a dash for the orb again, only for it to evade me by launching higher into the air.
Standing there with my hands on my hips, I stare up at the misbehaving comm orb, only just managing not to shout up at it like a parent scolding a naughty child.
And I put my tit back away in my top.
“Alright, alright,” I say, admitting defeat.
“Come back down here, and we can listen to the whole song if you like it that much.” After a moment or two of the glowing ball seeming to be skeptical about my change of heart, I seat myself on the floor criss-cross-apple-sauce, as if that would put the thing’s mind at ease that I’m no longer in chase mode.
Tentatively, the orb starts to float downward.
“Come on,” I urge, “we can have a nice sit-down, and you can play the whole-”
As soon as the orb is within reach, I grab it with both hands, holding it to my chest, silencing the song with my touch.
I breathe a sigh of relief now that my nice, quiet room is exactly that again.
The tech inside the ball vibrates and whirs against my chest. Is that a sad kind of whirr?
Is there such a thing as a sad kind of whirr?
Great, now I’m just about cuckoo enough to feel guilty for tricking a little flying computer.
I let the thing go from my arms and watch it bob slowly on the spot, the warm-white light it emits moving across its surface like ripples of water.
Except, then the light turns red.
Shit.
That’s always what happens when the evil robots rise up and turn murderous in the movies.
Maybe I should have just let her listen to his ABBA.
“Look,” I start, thinking maybe I can reason with it.
“That song is great and all. It’s just not the best song to be woken up by,” I say, gesturing to my gigantic bed filled with mussed blankets and the softest pillows you ever laid your head on.
“I’m sure at Vel’s next meeting, we can ask her to source some more music from Earth, and you can explore so many different songs; you’ll be like my own personal DJ. ”
Blessedly, the angry red light vanishes.
I watch it for a moment or two as it floats gently beside me, bobbing like a buoy on calm waters.
Such a strange little thing. Niska and Jaya have one each, too.
But neither of theirs acts… like this. Almost too receptive to be mindless tech.
Theirs act like a souped-up, flying cell phone or something, but mine-
I eye the thing as it projects a running list of reminders it took the liberty to set up for me, all written out in green, glowing letters floating in the air. The list is long, and at the bottom it seems to type out, ‘Request full catalog of Earth Music, excluding John Plimpkinson’.
I squint at the new floating text. “John Plimpkinson? Who’s that?”
My extensive list of reminders disappears, and in its stead, there’s now a short excerpt that reads:
‘John Plimpkinson, 29, is an amateur singer-songwriter who has already amassed a large back catalog of original pieces featuring unusual melodies and lyrics, all entirely penned and performed in his mother’s basement.
His songs can be found across various online platforms and tend to center around the women he has encountered in his life.
With titles such as: ‘Why Did You Have To Do That, Amanda?’, ‘Rachel Stood Me Up’, ‘Loving Stephanie From Afar’, and his most recent piece, ‘But That’s How They Did It In Porn’.
John Plimpkinson is yet to receive any commercial interest or widespread public support.
He has 2 dedicated fans, both named Kyle. ’
I cringe at the orb. “Agreed. No John Plimpkinson.” Standing, I dust off imaginary dirt from my butt. The orb rises to my head height with me. “But how do you even know about him?”
A new message appears in projected form, the text appearing letter-by-letter like I was watching someone type.
‘Your personal comm has been granted restricted access to digitized information from your home planet. This is currently limited to text and images from the data sphere humans name as the ‘World Wide Web’.’
“You can get on the internet? Could I use that to contact home?”
The previous text vanishes from the space between me and my little orb before it is replaced by more.
‘Negative. Communications with planets protected by the Intergalactic Peacetime Authorities are strictly prohibited, and will incur penalties dependent on method, frequency, and contents of said communications. Your personal comm’s ability to perform such an act has been disabled.’
My shoulders sag at that. So, no contacting Mom. It makes me sick to think how she must be feeling right now, not knowing where I am or if I’m okay. How many of our Sunday phone calls have we missed now?
My orb writes me a new message.
‘Would you like me to instruct the cook to provide morning nutrition?’
“No,” I snap, reaching for a silk robe I’d left strewn across the ridiculously ornate, Xaviann-sized couch I have here in my rooms. “I’ll make my own breakfast.”
I’ve just about learned how to work the nutrition replicators to rustle up some buttered toast. Except the butter is definitely not butter and leaves an odd but not unpleasant aftertaste.
Making my way down one side of the huge-ass twin staircase, my bare feet touch the cool stone-flagged flooring of the house’s foyer.
I’ve never lived in a place with a foyer before.
Hell, I’ve never lived in a place with a porch.
One place had a stoop that everyone in the neighborhood seemed to think was a public bench, though, so that’s… something.
It was nothing like this, obviously. In the center of the entrance hallway is a circular table – a table made of the deepest, richest shade of wood and polished within an inch of its life.
Honestly, I think you could use its surface as a mirror.
The table is crowned with a huge vase of flowers every day.
And each day, the flowers seem to change.
I don’t know who changes them. One of the three staff members, I’m guessing.
I wish they wouldn’t bother. What a waste of money.
Particularly today. Today, the arrangement includes the type of alien flower that moves.
The first time I’d seen it, I’d screamed.
I’m still unnerved by it now. I would feel better if the stems of tulip-like blooms just moved with each other, kind of like they were having a party in that very expensive-looking vase of theirs.
But they don’t. They move with anyone in the room.
As in – they follow you – their petals reaching out and chasing your movements as much as they can while shuffling around in their vase.
I try not to look at them as I walk past the table. But from the corner of my vision, I see them stir and sweep past their normal, non-moving housemates as they try to keep up with me.
I haven’t had enough alien ‘caffeinated beverage’ for this shit today, I swear.
Just as I turn my back on the creepy tulips, a chime sounds, signaling that there’s someone at the door.
Turning, I’m about to go to answer, but I stop when my eye catches the Little Shop of Horrors over here desperately trying to follow the swift movements of Zek, one of the staff of the house.
He beats me to the door. With one hand on the door handle, Zek offers me a pointed look like he knew I was going to do the task myself, knowing that he’s told me countless times not to.
I roll my eyes and fold my arms, waiting for him to just hurry up and open the damn door instead of making such a fuss.
I hope it’s Vel. I could ask her what other Earth music she can upload into my little sassy, spherical personal DJ.
Zek opens the door and, seeing who is on the other side, bows low. Oh God, is it Lady Zalora? She’s been threatening to come over to teach Jaya and I a game called duos. Which I wouldn’t mind, but she is not the most patient of teachers.
I watch as there’s murmured conversation. Zek then closes the door and… steps aside. The chime goes off again.
Zek does nothing.
“Aren’t you going to?…” I say, my words trailing off as I gesture to the sizable pink double doors.
“I have been instructed that it is you who should answer this time, Lady Lois.”
“I-” I glance down at myself. I’m still in my PJs and a robe. My hair still looks like it has a personal vendetta against gravity. I pat my chest. Thankfully, both tits are where they should be. “Now?” I ask Zek.
He only answers with a smile and raised brows.
The door chimes again.
“Fine,” I mutter, walking briskly past The Day of the Triffids as I clutch my flimsy robe to my chest.
I fling open the double doors, but where I’m used to Xaviann head-height to be, there’s no face to be seen.
A set of double horns interrupts my view, and I adjust my sights to directly in front of me.
It’s Az.
Of course it’s Az.
“What do you want-”
It’s then that I notice why he’s shorter than usual. He’s kneeling. But specifically, he’s kneeling on one knee.
And he’s holding out a pink velvet box toward me. Inside that box is a ring with a sparkly rock practically the size of a chicken egg.
“You will marry me!” he states, with a big, beaming, confident smile on his stupid, handsome face.
It takes me a moment or two for my mind to actually catch up with what I’m seeing – and hearing – but when it does… I slam both pink double doors shut, and go to get my damn breakfast.