Chapter 7
Robin
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Healy is such an asshole.
Oh, he’s being perfectly friendly, perfectly nice, but he’s also having way too much fun with this whole “aliens are real” thing. He’s taking it in stride like he’s always taken everything in stride. I, on the other hand, have been freaking out for the last eighteen hours at the same time that I am absolutely ready to ride alien dick at the drop of a hat.
Wait—do they have dicks? That seems relevant. Tentacles? Oh my God, I need to get a grip.
I clear my throat, trying to cough away my visible embarrassment. Judging by the gleeful look on Healy’s face, I was unsuccessful. I power on anyway.
“Healy, this is Na’Ren. He and his people are, uh, new in town.”
Na’Ren lingers back by the door. His expression is...angry? Frightened? I’m not sure, but his body language is definitely antisocial at best.
Healy either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He presses forward, crossing the honey shack, and extending his hand. And I know Na’Ren understands the gesture because he explained it just fine when I tried to shake his friend’s hand. But now, instead of the calm ambassador or his people, he looks like a skittish alley cat.
“Healy’s my friend,” I explain, trying to soothe Na’Ren’s anxiety. Do aliens get anxiety? “I told him about your situation.”
Na’Ren flickers a glance at me, and the panic is clear on his face.
The three of us stand in the middle of the shack, jars of golden honey lining the walls, sunlight streaming in. It’s a standoff, and I don’t know why. Healy, of course, moves first.
He closes the distance on Na’Ren, braver than I can imagine, and to my surprise, Na’Ren doesn’t pull away.
“Man, Robin told me about the crash,” Healy says in his country-doctor voice, calm and reassuring. “He said your people are struggling to breathe.”
Na’Ren hesitates. Then the words push into my head again, an insistent fog.
Robin. Do you trust him?
My eyes sting. I don’t know where this surge of emotion has come from, but I could go to my knees with it.
Yes , I tell him, pushing the thought out of my head, willing it into his. He is my oldest friend .
Na’Ren’s eyes are glistening and black, the deepest part of a lake. He watches me, considering, and then he nods. His body sags, some of the tension leaving it, and I can feel the echo in my posture.
“Yes,” he says at last, his words directed at Healy, though his gaze is on me. “The atmosphere.”
“Sure,” Healy agrees, “that makes sense. I’m a doctor.”
“Nurse practitioner,” I correct him. It’s an old joke, a gentle humbling when my handsome, brilliant, confident friend gets a little too used to his gifts. He simply grins and rolls his eyes at me.
“Nurse practitioner,” he agrees with a shrug, “basically the same thing.”
Na’Ren watches the exchange, and I swear I see his upper lip curl in something close to a growl. I should be afraid. I know that. But heat rushes to my groin at the sight of it.
It doesn’t make any sense.
Healy ignores the open hostility. “If you would let me examine them, I might be able to help.”
Na’Ren narrows his eyes. “If I agree, does that mean you will leave?”
And, God, Healy laughs . “Sure, man,” he says, clapping a very bold hand on Na’Ren’s upper arm. “Whatever the patient wants.”
“I am not your patient.”
“Ooo kay ,” I say and sidle up beside Na’Ren. “Is your crew still in the barn?”
Na’Ren nods once.
“Great,” Healy says with only a slight twinge of sarcasm. He grabs his medical bag off the table as he heads for the door. “And here I thought the Galileans made bad patients.”
The door swings shut behind him, and then I’m alone in the honey shack with Na’Ren.
“Hey,” I start, “you didn’t have to—”
“He is your lover.”
My face scalds. And I’m not proud of it, but I splutter. “What? He’s not—why would you—”
Na’Ren closes the distance between us in one stride of his long, muscled legs. His body crowds in close, a cool, solid presence, and it only causes my blush to deepen. But I don’t back away.
“My kind,” Na’Ren says, gazing down at me, his eyes searching my face, “communicate silently through the use of chemicals that I believe your people call ‘pheromones.’ You have experienced this.”
I nod.
“Yes. Then you will understand that, for reasons unknown to me, you and I are able to communicate in the same way.”
Slowly, he reaches one hand toward me. His fingers curve gently around my face. His thumb strokes over my cheekbone.
“I can read your thoughts, Robin, when you are not careful with them. When you feel strongly. And you often feel strongly.”
I swallow roughly, and his eyes track the movement.
“Healy is your lover. I saw it.”
I squeeze my eyes shut in embarrassment. “Oh, geez. Don’t say it like that.
Na’Ren tilts his head to the side. “Is that not the correct nomenclature? Lover?”
I sigh. “No. Or, yes. But it’s not like that. We were eighteen, nineteen, I don’t know. And we...messed around a little when we were figuring out who we were. It was never anything more than that. Healy wasn’t my...lover.”
Na’Ren frowns but nods. “I see.” Then he releases my face and looks around the small shack. “What is the purpose of this structure?”
I stare for a moment, dazed, and then I snort.
Na’Ren looks at me, quizzical.
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head, “it’s nothing. I just thought—” I stop myself.
God. Have some dignity.
Na’Ren lifts a small jar of honey from a shelf and holds it up to the light. “What did you think, Robin-like-the-bird?”
And, oh God . My face flushes again. I am so embarrassed and worried and aroused, and I am probably losing my mind. But so what? Na’Ren is an alien . He can’t understand human embarrassment.
I swallow my nerves. “I thought you were going to kiss me.”
The honey jar slips from his hands and thuds against the table. I lurch forward and catch it before it hits the ground, the glass cool and slippery against my hands. Cradling it to my chest,I return it to its shelf.
Na’Ren watches me. Once I have secured the jar, he asks, “What is in the jar? It must be precious to elicit such a reaction.”
Apparently we have moved on from kissing.
I lean back against the table, my hands curled over the worn wooden edge. “It’s honey,” I explain, “my dad keeps beehives and they produce honey. We harvest it every September and sell it at the farmers market the next summer.”
Na’Ren waits.
I nod slightly. “I guess it is precious, yeah. The bees don’t produce much at all, and the bees eat it too, so it’s important that we don’t take too much.”
“And,” Na’Ren asks, leaning in to admire another jar, “what is it for?”
“The honey?” I smile despite the embarrassment still warming my face. “We eat it.”
“What is it like?”
Grinning, I slide a jar from the shelf and retrieve a spoon from the work table. When I unscrew the canning lid, the warm, earthy, slightly spicy scent fills the air. Dad didn’t start the hives until he retired from teaching over in Baxter. I was a freshman in high school at the time, but I still feel like I grew up with fresh, raw honey. It’s so commonplace, so familiar, that I barely think about it.
But now, describing it to someone who has never experienced it...
I dip the spoon into the golden liquid, press into the resistance, and lift it back out. Honey drizzles from the end.
“I think it’s best if you try it for yourself,” I say, and I hold the spoon out.
Na’Ren eyes it suspiciously for a moment. Then his lips part and he leans forward. I tilt to meet him, sliding the spoon between his lips. His eyes widen, catch mine, and then they drift closed. A soft sound of pleasure spills up, out of his throat.
Lightning jolts through me again.
“Ren,” I whisper.
Slowly, he opens his eyes. Black whirlpools fix on my face, and he pulls back, the spoon sliding over his bottom lip, the honey gone.
“Kissing,” he says, his voice raspy. “Is that something you would like me to do?”
I blink. His mouth is so close.
“Your people know what kissing is?”
Na’Ren frowns slightly. “Yes. Although, our understanding may be different from yours.”
The scent of honey drifts up from Na’Ren’s lips.
“Uh huh,” I agree. “My friend Julian would say we have an anthropological imperative to find out.”
A breath shudders out of his mouth. “My ship is a designated research vessel.”
I can’t help it. I grin.
And, because electricity is caressing my balls, and I am a stupid creature at the best of times, I clamber onto a stool, drive my hands through his thick, black hair, and kiss him.