Inara makes a hollow thrumming noise beside me that has my eyes peeling from the road and fixing on her nose. What the…?
Inara’s ears tip forward then fold back and tighten against her head as she eyes me back. “Why are you looking at me this way?”
“Because what the hell was that noise?”
“This?” She hums again, and it’s a hollow thumping whirr.
“Yeah! That. Fucking weird.”
She ducks.
“No—shit, sorry—just…” I face the road again and drag in a deep growling breath. “You’re not weird. I didn’t mean to say—that’s not how I meant it. I’m an insensitive prick. I apologize.”
I glance over in time to watch her brows jump together, see her eyes studying me for a beat before she relaxes and she huffs a little laugh.
At this time of night, traffic isn’t bad. It’s easy to slide into mindless tour guide mode when Inara asks me to clarify what Printers Row is when I mention it while trying to explain the Loop. My apartment complex is in a building that used to be a book printer, and it’s a nicely updated spot that I’ve always thought looked sleek and modern until I try seeing it through an alien’s eyes.
We park my car in a garage that I might as well start buying shares in. It would be significantly less hassle if I gave up trying to commute and just made use of Chicago’s perfectly accessible public transit—but besides the benefits of bypassing lengthy bus rides or the L, I love my car. I don’t have a cat or a wife or children to spoil; I have my car. For me, the astronomical parking fees are necessary evils.
Once at my place, it’s not my hardwood floors, my quartz countertops, or my floor-to-ceiling windows that get appreciation. Inara oohs and ahhs over my CD player—
(Yes, I still have one. I was born in the ‘80s and I will die with my CDs and no iPod, do you hear me?)
—and my Super Nintendo—
(I don’t tell her it’s a relic; she finds ‘human tech’ “quaint” no matter how old or new it is.)
—and my fish tank.
She loves my fish, for some reason. Which is cool, really. I can’t say the ladies go nuts for my fish very often. Or ever.
Hand on the glass, peering at my dragon-faced pipefish, Inara asks, “What do they taste like?”
Well, that answers that. “Like nothing you’ll ever have. Leave my friggin’ fish alone.” Dammit, I’ve seen Jungle 2 Jungle. That was with mere African dwarf cichlids and a modern day Mowgli. (Or… was he supposed to be Tarzan? Whatever.) That kid in that movie was human and he cooked the inhabitants of a supporting character’s cichlid tank, most of them beloved pets. (Hey, fish can have personalities. It’d amaze you how friendly some can be.)
I’m greatly attached to my marine fish. (Which may as well be another way of saying they’re seriously expensive.) They’re rare, diver-caught specimens and captive-bred saltwater beauties; they’re colorful, showy, eye-catching, and worth thousands.
With a deep sense of foreboding, I experience concern that my new alien roommate will eat my fish if I don’t watch her.
Meeting her eye with a steely stare of warning, I step in front of the tank, forcing her back. “Stay away from my fish, Inara.”
Inara’s gaze is bewildered at first, but then her eyes turn… almost amused, if I’m not mistaken.
She smiles, flashing canines as long as my thumbs. “All riiiight,” she says slowly, like now I’m the crazy one.
“My bed,” I tell her, voice gruff, “is in there.” I point past her to the darkened doorway of my room.
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “I’ll take the couch.”
Inara’s face seems to fall. The ears that I knew looked too damn real still look too damned real even as they look too alien to be believed. They sink until the tips are brushing her shoulders. “Oh.”
I frown at her. “What?”
“We could share the bed,” Inara offers with what I’d swear is excitement gleaming in her eyes.
“Yeah, no can do, sweetheart,” I tell her, watching her, trying to figure her out. “You may be an alien, but my dick says that’s not a problem, if I can be frank. You’re an employee though, and the fact that I’ll be making paychecks out to you wouldn’t sit right with me. This here, you being here in my place?” I spread my hands. “This is strictly me making sure you aren’t in the woods at night. Soon, we’ll figure out something. Maybe we can rent you a spot somewhere that’s got a yard big enough you can park your ship and shut a gate around it at night. Just for my peace of mind. Got it?”
When she dips her chin, I let out a breath and check my watch. “Okay, good. Why don’t you settle in? I’ve got to tinker with my car for a bit before I can call it a night, but it shouldn’t take me more than—”
“May I join you?”
I glance up at her. “You want to hang out with me while I work on my car?”
Her eyes are large and luminous and sincere. “I want to work on your car with you.”
CHAPTER 8
“This is a creeper,” I tell Inara, indicating the red rolling cart as I set it on the ground. “Have a seat.”
She lowers herself onto it, and I’m glad her horns sweep back and not forward, otherwise we could run a danger of her hooking something damageable along the undercarriage. Once she’s positioned herself comfortably, she looks up at me. “Where is yours?”
From under my arm, I procure my circa 1950s Sears and Roebuck Craftsman special. It’s a creeper made from wood, and it’s uncomfortable as hell, but it was my grandpa’s. I’ll use it for this car until the day I die. I set it down on the concrete with care. “This one’s mine.”
“It looks well loved,” Inara observes.
Touched, I shoot her a smile. “Yeah. You could say it is.” I drop to my back on it and roll under the car, stopping at the center section (also called the pumpkin by gearheads), where we’ll be working.
Inara appears beside me. “What are we about to do?”
“We,” I tell her, “are about to change the fluid for the rear differential. Fair warning,” I share, “it’s going to smell like ass.”
Inara’s frown is fierce. “‘Ass?’” She glances at me. “As in, this is about to smell like a barnyard animal?”
I bark a laugh. “Actually? Pretty much. It’s going to smell like a donkey crawled up and died in here.” I plunk a knuckle on the diff cover. “It’s going to smell like it died and rotted in here.” Along with a herd of a thousand pissing cats. (Random factoid for the day: a group of cats is called a clowder. There’s been absolutely no situation in my life, ever, where I’ve had proper opportunity to whip that term out, so I should probably apologize that I’m force-feeding it to you here.) I reach for my toolbox, which I’d slid under the right back tire earlier for easy access. The tires are locked in a custom ramp my grandpa created and welded himself. Jacks and lifts are great, but when you’ve seen cars fall off of both, you lose faith in them. These ramps guarantee this car isn’t going anywhere on either of us as we cram together under here.