Chapter 5 #2
Gara sits next to her on the chair. Ignoring me and Ellen, he takes Arabella’s wrist, fingers over her pulse.
Ellen beckons me out of the room. “Come on, she’s being well looked after.”
That she is. The level of dedication in Gara’s severe face sends relief spreading across my stomach.
As we move into the cramped corridor, I say, “Alright. Over the last few days, I’ve seen enough evidence that they aren’t going to hurt us.
While they’re not afraid to hit each other, Arabella was alone with them for forty freaking days, and they didn’t harm her.
The fact is, they haven’t shown an ounce of aggression toward us. ”
“Right. They're exiles, but they didn't do anything wrong. I'll explain more in the morning, though, because I’m absolutely shattered, and I bet you are too.”
I'm not, because I can survive on five hours of sleep a night. My brain’s buzzing too much to even think about sleep from everything I’ve learned about our new scaly friends.
Dom’s willingness to hurt his shipmate, maybe kill him, all on my say so.
The way Gara took it.
How Dom sought out pain in the machine shed, as if he needed it. Craved it.
His protectiveness toward me. Seeing what I needed before I even knew it.
His compassion.
I catch the quick glance Ellen shoots to Ilia lurking in the corridor, and the smile that spreads across my friend’s face can only be described as triumphant.
Aha, she's not thinking about sleep at all either.
“You two are an item? So we're really friendly with the aliens, I see.”
My oldest friend flushes at my teasing. “Yeah. But seriously, good night.”
I step back to let Ilia into Ellen's room. She's a big girl, she can keep her sex life private, the way I do. “I'll leave you be, then. Tell me everything in the morning, but it's brilliant you're home.”
“Thanks, Laura. See you bright and early tomorrow.”
I make it a few steps down the corridor before I hear big creaks from the wooden floor, the door closing with a click, and Ellen's muffled giggle.
Very, very interesting indeed.
With nothing to do with all this late-night energy—scratch that, a quick glance at the clock shows me 2:13am, so early morning energy—I start cleaning the kitchen, ready to move myself in.
One thing I need is good, strong coffee in the morning, and I have the right tools for the job.
Ellen tends to mainline instant coffee granules, ew.
I put up my umbrella to set off to retrieve my espresso machine and bean grinder out of my crimson BMW. As I crunch across the gravel, I spot the others settling back into the lean-to. Dom lifts his head and meets my eyes, and when I crook my finger at him he leaps to his feet.
“Thanks for helping,” I tell him, loading his strong arms up with the electricals.
“Of course, female.” He cradles my coffee making equipment like it’s a baby which, to be honest, is not that far off. “I asked our pilot, Arture, what he was doing, as you ordered. He responded this was a newer model than he’s used to.”
“Okay.” I mean, I don’t know what to say to that, it sounds reasonable.
Beaming happiness spreads across his stern, severe face, making my breath catch. He’s absolutely eager to please.
But then his brow furrows, and I cock my head. “What’s wrong?”
“Only that he’s a Pranastock, he should be able to pilot anything.
” He flexes his right hand, as if balling his fingers into tight fists is a relaxing thing for him.
When I was younger, I liked pressing my fingernails into the meat of my thumb, making little half-moons that would pulse with sharp pain for a second before dissolving immediately.
Ah. He’s looking for a technique to relax, now that I’ve taken pain away from him.
I lead the way back to the house, and he catches up immediately. I ask, “Why does being a Pranastock mean he should fly everything?”
He shoots me a puzzled look. “A Pranastock is raised flying all kinds of machines, and they have genetic capability in being calm under intense pressure. They are precise and quick to make decisions.”
“Aha, so it’s his job?”
“His… purpose. Why he was created.”
“Interesting.” Ellen mentioned the test tube thing, and it seems she really did mean it. “So, are you a Pranastock too?”
“Female, I am a Parthiastock.”
“And what do they do?”
His glittering purple eyes never waver as he declares, “We proudly serve females with devotion as we uphold and enforce their laws.”
Huh. I open the door and hold it for him, but he just stares at me. “Well, come on in. Don’t let my coffee maker get wet, I need that to live.”
He shoots forward, ducking into the stoop where Ellen stores her coats and boots. “Then it is a priority.”
The big purple guy stands on the doormat dripping for a while, and I have to squeeze next to him so I can put the umbrella down outside. He’s so wide he fills Ellen’s porch, shoulders brushing the oilskins stacked on the wall.
Being snug in this space with him, I smell ozone, fresh and clean, like ocean air. It’s heady, and… comfortable.
He peers inside the kitchen, looking down at my feet as if waiting for permission. He’s used to eating breakfast here, but to be fair, he’s on his own now, so it might feel intimidating to be separated from his clan.
“Come on in.” I wave him forward.
He surges in, arms cradling the machine as if it’s precious cargo. “Where do you wish me to set this device down?”
Right, I need to clear a space. As I sweep El-len’s mismatched crockery into my arms, I think of something to ask. I don’t want to cross-examining him, but I do want to know what makes this guy tick.
I settle for, “What does training for upholding your laws involve?”
He considers that for a moment, rocking back on his heels. “It’s a mixture of practical exercises and internal need. We want to serve females, we live for it. That’s not taught, it’s innate.”
“Ah.” Taking the espresso machine from him, I accidentally brush his chest scales. Like his chin, they’re surprisingly soft and warm.
The ones I tap change from purple to a deep, rich indigo in a ripple across his torso. It’s fascinating. “Oh, wow. Sorry, I didn’t mean to touch you.”
His jaw works as if he wants to say something, opening and closing, his scales still darkening over his body as if I set off a chain reaction. I seem to have sparked something off internally, too, as he struggles to speak.
“Don’t… apologize,” he manages at last, gaze dropping from mine to the tiles on the floor.
I replay what he’s told me about serving females, coupled with how I saw him in the machinery shed.
I try again, “You do know you have your freedom, right? You’re not enslaved here or whatever.”
He stares at me. Evidently, that doesn’t quite compute.
“Listen, I… I want to talk to you about… what I saw this evening.”
“Was it wrong? Did I break your laws?” His scales drain to pastel pink. “Should I be punished?”
“No, no, of course not.” I need to do something, I can’t just stand here confronting him about something so intensely personal.
I turn to the espresso machine, my hand stable as I fill up the tank with organic whole beans, adding a little hiss of white noise.
“No, it's not against our laws, so relax. But… it’s clear you need help of some kind. To help you feel okay.”
I bite my lip. Why can’t I string a sensible sentence together? I’m trying to help the guy!
But there's no denying, having him respond to me like that is pinging something off inside me.
For someone who loves knowing the exact term for everything, I find it hard to name my exact emotions, but whatever I think I'm feeling is new. Attraction, yes, there’s no denying that, and something darker. Nameless, and formless.
I have to sort this out.
Spinning around to face him, I blurt, “I'd like to meet you tomorrow sometime. To talk.”
He blinks. “Of course, female.”
“What about lunchtime?” Ellen will be busy, Arabella will take it easy for a few days, and I’ll have had time to meet Nicole for her advice. By then, I'll have worked out how I feel, and a plan of action to help Dom. It’s perfect.
“As you wish,” he says.
Ah, wait. “That’s not an order, that’s something you can say no to.”
His head cocks. “But I do not want to say no,” he says, voice a dark rumble.
Oh, boy. “1pm sharp, okay?”
“I’ll be there.” Dom promises, bowing his head and pressing a fist to his chest. “If that is all, I will return to the others outside.”
“Sure thing. Good night, and sleep well,” I tell him, before forcing myself to turn around to the counter as if I've got something critical that needs doing.
The door clicks shut. My eyes squeeze closed. That feeling stirs in me: uncomfortable, insistent. Did I like seeing him on his knees? My chest tightens. No… and if I’m honest, yes.
I like control. I need control. Without it, and coffee, I fall apart. But him? He seemed to need it too, to find clarity through surrender. And that… wow. What if I replaced his need for pain for something else?
How would he react if I touched him gently?
I grip the counter, knuckles whitening. If I explore this, it has to be with care.
With Dom, consent has to be absolutely clear.
These guys have been through something bad, I can feel it, and Nicole would be the perfect person to talk to.
She knows trauma, even if it’s horse-shaped.
Aliens are different, sure, but she can give me signs to watch for.
As long as I'm discreet. I don’t want my private life to interfere with anything else, but I have to help him. They’re good people. Aliens. Whatever, I’m tired. They’re helping Ellen and now Arabella. Maybe they all need help in return.
Dom most of all.
A twinge arcs through me as I text her, a mix between doing something naughty but also something important. When I’m done, I shove the phone aside and finish setting up the coffee pot for the morning. A ritual to settle me down, even though I know I won't get much sleep with all this in my head.
Especially the big purple guy with a slow but genuine smile.