Chapter 1
Electra
Dear Reader,
You will never believe what I’m about to tell you. Hell, I hardly believe it myself, and I’m living it. But you must indulge me. I promise I will make it worth your while.
But at twenty-nine, after everything you’ve been through, everything that you’ve overcome, all your hard work has finally paid off.
The world will read your stories, and the advance you got is enough that you can quit bartending and focus on writing full time.
Or even better, cut back your hours and pad your savings account.
Or put it all in savings because you never know what life has in store for you next.
What really matters is that your words will make someone’s day brighter or give someone hope that there’s someone out there meant just for them.
Sure, they’re only romance novels, but to you, they mean everything. And a team of people agreed.
And if they’re successful, who knows?! Maybe you’ll have finally earned the right to carve out some space in your life for a book boyfriend of your own. A girl can dream.
But most importantly, that little seed that lives inside you that demands you do your part to make the world a better place, to contribute something beautiful through your unique gifts, has found fertile ground.
Love is love, and what better way to show that than with smutty a.k.a.
downright filthy interspecies alien romance?
You’re on cloud nine. Flying high, soaring down the hill, soaking up the glorious sunshine.
It’s better than any first kiss, you’re sure of it.
Then—and make sure you’re sitting down for this part—you wake up naked as the day you were born.
Staring at you is the most aggressively handsome man you’ve ever seen.
Like, puts every A-list male celebrity to shame hot.
Wavy dirty blond hair, sharp jaw, piercing gold eyes that match his warm golden complexion.
He’s wearing a space commander-esque jumpsuit—all black.
Beside him are two other men—attractive, but not quite the masterpieces as the first. One has a bright orange afro, cool mid-tone brown skin, and glasses, but without the lenses—so, for fashion.
The other has crisp black hair cut neatly, pointy, delicate features dotted with several facial piercings, and a complexion so pale it’s almost translucent.
Both of them are wearing white lab coats.
They hold what look like tablets, but are clear like glass, flashing with bright multicolored lights.
Their eyes are trained on you, and it’s obvious that they’re assessing you.
At this point, you’re trying not to freak out, so you assess your surroundings.
You’re standing on what your bare feet recognize as a glass scale with cool metal plates in a nondescript room that looks like a holding cell out of a futuristic movie.
Gray walls, gray floor, bright glowing ceiling.
No furniture except a shiny metal table, which holds a dozen bottles of water lined up like obedient soldiers.
It’s antiseptic. And small enough that you think if you lay down and stretch your arms overhead, you might span the width.
There’s only enough space for the four of you to take a few steps each without colliding.
Then the man says to you, and I’m not shitting you when I say he actually, literally, turns to the orange-haired man and says, “Another excellent specimen, Lextr.” You’re trying to keep your mouth from falling open as he proceeds to rake his gaze up and down your naked body.
He’s not even subtle about it. Or suave or alpha, like you might guess—Reader, we both know the type.
It is a little awkward, despite how unfairly gorgeous the man is.
That only means one thing: he’s a serial killer.
If you haven’t figured it out yet, this is me we’re talking about. This shit actually happened to me today.
Naturally, I freak the fuck out. My heartbeat ricochets out of control and I’m pretty sure my palms sweat.
But here’s the catch. I can’t move, so I can’t be sure.
I’m completely paralyzed. Except that I discover I can talk.
So I say, “The fuck you are!” Then I’m pretty sure I screamed something at him about Who are you? And Let me go!
Now, here’s where it gets weird. Instead of getting aggressive or telling me to shut up, the man’s brows furrow in concern. As if my outburst somehow confuses him. Like I’m not supposed to be acting this way.
He says, “Please remain calm,” then runs a hand over his dark blond stubble. He seems to calculate something while the two lab coats jot things down in their tablets.
So I try again. “Hello?! Are you going to unfreeze me or what?” I’ve read way too many books to know that if I’m not a take-charge heroine, readers will think I’m whiny, annoying, or worse, self-involved.
Hell, I’ve written those books. And right now, I’m playing a starring role in my own misadventure.
Or having a really messed-up dream. Either way, might as well make it count and hope the heroine doesn’t die in this one.
He gives me his attention. Thick brows furrow over his intense gold eyes. Then he asks me a question that rumbles the foundation of my existence. “What year do you think it is?”
I know what you’re thinking. What the ever-loving fuck?
Me too. I mean, this suggests I’m in the future, right?
“2027,” I answer, even though I’m already guessing it is not 2027 anymore.
Why else would he ask? He lets out an exasperated sigh, as if this is somehow my fault.
Indignant, I ask, “What year is it now?”
In my head, I formulate a plausible story.
I was in an accident, went into a coma, and now it’s ten years later.
I’ve woken up, and this man is my strange miracle doctor.
But my body feels strong, and I don’t feel older.
A quantum time jump then? Oh, he’s an alien in human form.
And I’ve not only jumped time, I’ve jumped space too.
Or, again, this is a really weird dream.
What did I eat last? That’s right. I ordered my ramen extra spicy, so that must be it.
The most boring option, a dream. Does it make me strange, this pang of regret that hits me as I stare at the handsome man my mind has created, wishing that perhaps it wasn’t a dream?
What a shame that my life didn’t just get more interesting.
Like when a character discovers they have magic or their grandmother’s locket is a powerful relic.
“2390,” he says to me. Then to himself, “Damn it. I knew this could happen. So fucking stupid. We should have just taken them out of the program, but I had to . . .”
The orange-haired lab coat says, “We knew this was a calculated risk. She’s easily decommissioned, and at least now we understand the volatility of samples—”
I stop listening as my mind whirls, failing to connect to the word decommission, which I see clearly now.
I’m busy thinking about the implications of year 2390.
Three hundred and sixty-three years in the future.
No way. This can’t be a dream. I’m completely lucid and it feels too real.
I scan the space for a hidden camera like in one of those prank reality shows.
I refuse to be one of those idiots who don’t realize the joke until they’ve already made a fool of themselves.
But the walls appear smooth except for a single metal door.
And why would I need to be naked for a prank show?
I’m not sure why, but that single glaring fact makes me suspect he might not be lying.
Crazier things have happened. Well, not to me.
Or anyone I’ve ever known. Just fictional characters.
Scratch all that. I’ve definitely read too many books. That’s what my problem is.
Before I know what’s happening, the lab coat men are slowly creeping forward as if not to alarm me.
One has something in his hand that I can’t see.
Oh God, it’s a needle. Probably a drug to put me to sleep or kill me?
My blood runs cold. I’ve had the realization too late.
Now the word decommission shines in my mind as blinding as fog light at close range.
But I can’t move. I feel a sharp prick on my wrist. The world goes fuzzy for a moment before it fades away completely.
The next time I wake up—and thank God, I wake up—I’m standing on the same glass scale thing, still unable to move, but my surroundings have changed.
This new space is also stark, with concrete walls and floors, but less science lab aesthetic and more contemporary living room.
Within my field of vision, I can see an ultramodern couch, three shiny round tables, and one large geometric area rug.
The lab coat men are gone, and the gorgeous serial killer man is standing with his back to me, facing a huge floor-to-ceiling window which looks out on the most beautiful beach I’ve ever seen.
Crystal clear water washes up onto white sand a dozen yards outside of the window.
My first thought is how remote we are. What does he do that affords such a beautiful beach view?
Do neighboring structures sit adjacent to this one?
Is this the Caribbean or South Pacific? I see no people or foliage to suggest a location.
And what about climate change? Considering the pristine scenery, I guess the climate deniers were right.
The thought makes my stomach turn, though I think, yay Earth!
The tense set of the man’s shoulders has my nerves firing. Still, I clear my throat. He turns around slowly, as if he’s reluctant to.
“What was all that?” I demand. “Where am I? And who were those men?”
He doesn’t answer. He only stares at me, reinforcing the murder-y vibes. I wish he would speak.