Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
The camera zooms in on City Single Briar. She is in Farmer Sorin’s kitchen, standing over an old-fashioned manual stove.
CITY SINGLE brIAR
Fucking, fucking hell. How am I supposed to know what the fuck to do with this shit? Is this even edible?
Gingerly, City Single Briar licks the very edge of the spoon. She scrunches up her face, groping blindly at the table. Finally finding her cup, she takes a large swig. She swishes the water around her mouth before swallowing with a shudder.
CITY SINGLE brIAR
Nope, not at all.
Sorin
I glance at the mech droid following along beside me. It appeared around an hour ago. Hovering a foot off the ground and no larger than the size of my hand, it has its camera directed toward my face, filming me as I work.
John Smith must have sent it here to record my cowardice. He will want everyone to know how I am hiding from Briar. She who is so much smaller than me, so much physically weaker than me but whose presence in my house was enough to send me running for the horizon.
I work all afternoon, checking the turbines, which convert wind into energy. At least out here I can breathe properly. At least out here I can pretend everything is back to normal, before LOVE GALAXY. Before Briar. Before I knew what kissing was and how sensitive my scales can be to her touch.
When the sun is sinking toward the horizon, I have no choice but to return or risk becoming lost outside in the utter darkness that is Ril II night.
A thick layer of dust covers the droid’s lens, and the wind is starting to tear it apart, finding weaknesses in its joints, attacking the intricate and delicate control mechanisms. No camera could survive outside for long. The turbines, the only tech my family built on the planet’s surface, need constant repair, and they were designed specifically to withstand the harsh environment of Ril II.
Stepping inside the ground-floor room, I close the door before the droid can follow. It drops to the ground, spinning useless circles before being dragged away by the wind. I bet John Smith never sees it again.
Climbing down the ladder, I am greeted by the sight of my destroyed kitchen. Briar is leaning over the hot stove, her back to me, apparently unaware of my presence.
Her hairs hang in limp strands around her shoulders, while water stains mark the sides of her dress where she has clearly wiped her hands many times. She is stirring the contents of my large cooking pot, muttering curses under her breath and sending glances toward the closest of the cameras.
She is beautiful, and my body’s reaction to her closeness is instantaneous. I can suddenly feel my heart racing in my chest. My breath seems to catch in my throat, and my cock is pressing painfully at my slit, desperate for release, desperate for attention. Desperate for Briar.
I step forward, using the table as a barrier between us, hiding my insistent bulge from Briar’s gaze, were she to turn around and see me. I do not remember how adults on Ril I dealt with such situations, when their bodies were determined to announce their desires to an unwelcome recipient. I was too young when we left to have been interested in the ways of Females and mating. And my parents have always been sparse in their physical affection for each other whenever my brothers or I are in their presence, too focused on their work and the success of their business.
Wearing cloth coverings has never been part of Ril’os culture. We do not need them to protect our scales. But I am rapidly coming to understand their desirability in keeping certain parts of the body hidden from others.
Mayhaps finally hearing my strangled breathing, Briar spins around to face me.
“I would have cooked for you.” I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“You weren’t here.”
I have no reply to that. Guilt sours my stomach.
“It doesn’t matter, Sorin, really.” She brushes damp hairs away from her face. “I wanted to cook for you. That is, it was our first task, and I thought I could manage on my own.” And she gestures at the datapad and a message addressed to the both of us from LOVE GALAXY.
I step forward, wanting to help but not able to see any rhythm to her method. None of the ingredients she has chosen pair with each other. And they are all piled into the one pot along with a considerable amount of water to create… I do not know what.
“I should not have left, but—” But what? But I want more than you are willing to offer . It sounds selfish, even when I speak the words silently in my head. Besides, we talked about this in the cart ride to my cottage. Returning to the subject now will only prove to everybody, myself included, exactly how desperate I am for Briar.
Creases mar her expressive brow, and I am nearly overcome with the urge to press Human kisses to each one, exploring the shape of her face with my lips and tongue.
Instead I ask, “What does it mean when you have lines along your forehead?” I am not surprised by the hoarseness of my voice.
“My forehead?” The lines deepen as she glances from her cooking to me.
“Like those.” I point.
“Oh, er.” Clasping a hand over her forehead, she clears her throat. “I guess that mainly happens when I’m thinking about something.”
Thinking about dinner? Thinking about our kiss? Thinking about how to escape?
“Or if I’m confused,” she adds. “Oh, and when I’m upset, too, especially if I’m frowning. Or when I’m angry.”
Frowning I understand; that is one of the few expressions we have in common. “The creases have more than one meaning?”
“Yep.” She lowers her hands to reveal her mouth, the corners of which are now turned upwards. “Sometimes those wrinkles might mean one thing, or they might mean multiple things all at once.”
“So how do I know which one you are feeling? Or ones?” I add.
“Hopefully you can make a guess based on the context. But you can always ask me if you’re not sure. In fact, it’s better if you ask instead of making assumptions.”
“And when your mouth goes up, akh, like this.” I point between her mouth and my mouth, as I attempt to curve my own lips up. It feels uncomfortable, and I am not sure I am doing it right.
“That’s a smile. It usually means I’m happy.”
“So you are happy now?” I am almost not brave enough to ask.
“Yeah, kind of. I mean, I’m glad you’re back.”
Only when she looks away from me do I realize I have been staring.
“Actually,” She picks up her bag from where I left it by the trapdoor, glancing between the five doors leading off the kitchen. “Dinner needs to simmer for a while, so I’m going to get changed out of these dirty clothes.”
“There is a spare bedroom,” I say, with a nod in the right direction. “Through there.”
“Coolll…” She drags the word out. “Cool, cool, cool.”
“You are cold?” But before I have finished asking, she has already stepped into the room I indicated and closed the door.
Alone again, I rest my elbows on the bench. Then I bow my head so I can hide my face in my hands. I suddenly do not care that I am being filmed. At least Briar is not seeing me like this: desperate for her company yet embarrassed by my own desperation.
The door opens again, and I hurry to straighten, pretending I am cleaning.
She has exchanged her clothes for a similar dress, this one with laces up the front of the bodice. She has left her legs and feet bare.
Her feet are not so very different from my own, but without the scales. I wonder what her skin feels like on her legs, where I can see soft, pale hairs, almost invisible. And how would she feel with her legs wrapped around my waist and my cock deep inside?—
Scudding fek. The more time we spend together, the more vivid my imagination gets.
“I thought I’d make an effort with my clothes,” she says into the strained silence that is me not being able to think of anything to say out loud other than I want to rut with you . “You know, because of the task.”
When I do not answer, she looks down at herself, as though searching for whatever has captured my attention. Pink colors her face and seeps down her throat to paint her collarbone and the upper curves of her breasts, just visible over the collar of her dress.
“You don’t like it?” she asks. “You don’t really wear clothes, do you?”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I clear my throat and try again. “No.”
“No you don’t like it? Or no you never wear clothes? Or maybe you meant both.” Her lips curve in what I now know is a smile. She is happy? Because of the answer I gave? Because Ril’os do not wear clothes? Because I am struggling to remember how to speak?
“I meant—” I step toward her and promptly trip over my own feet. “Fek!”
She laughs, then laughs again when I glare. “Sorry, you’re adorable when you get flustered.” Briar moves to the stove and serves some of her food into a bowl.
“I am not flustered!”
“No? Then what would you call what just happened?”
I hunt for an explanation and find none. “That question does not translate,” I lie instead.
“Oh, really?” She sets the bowl at the center of the table, then presses her hands to her hips, surveying her work.
“You invented this dish? Or maybe it is a common meal of your species.” I step toward the stove to peek closer at what is left of the watery food in the cooking pot.
“It’s soup.”
“Soo-p.” I test the word. “Soup.”
“ That doesn’t translate?”
I shake my head.
“Huh. Then you won’t know how it’s supposed to taste.”
I eye the soup suspiciously.
“Sit down,” she insists. “Eat. It’s been a long day, after everything that’s happened, and I’m sure you’re hungry?” Her voice rises at the end of her statement, making it sound more like a question.
I am indeed hungry. “There is only one bowl,” I observe. “You are not eating with me?”
“What do you mean? This is your kitchen. There’s only one of everything.” And she gestures at the single chair.
“No—” I look where she indicated. There is only one chair. There should be three. My brothers do not visit often, but a few times each year they come to the southernmost border of our farm to help me with major repairs and upgrades I cannot complete by myself. “That is not right. Somebody has taken my chairs.” My spare bowls. My spare cutlery. My spare everything.
Was I so distracted by Briar that I failed to notice my missing furniture?
“So the bedroom you said I could get changed in isn’t supposed to be an empty room?” she asks, eyebrows raised in… anger? No, examining the evidence of her voice and the fact she had been smiling a moment ago, I think this frown is one of confusion.
“It is not— What?” It is as though my translator takes a moment to understand her words, but when I finally realize what she has said, I stride to the spare room and open the door. Aside from Briar’s bag, it is completely empty. “There should be two beds. A table. A washstand.” I hurry to my room. Thankfully, my bed is still there, so too is my table and washstand. Also the missing table from the spare room as well as two cameras. “This is John Smith’s doing.”
“You don’t say.”
“But I did say.” I frown.
Another one of her beautiful laughs. It fills the kitchen, making the room feel somehow smaller, more welcoming.
“Sorry, I was being sarcastic. I’ve got a strong feeling that we can shout at Mr. Smith all we want, but he won’t be giving us your missing furniture back until filming ends.” She sighs. “Come on, let’s eat before the soup gets cold. We can take turns sharing the bowl and the spoon. And the chair.”