Wingman: Alien Castaways (Intergalactic Dating Agency)

by Cara Bristol

  He lifted his injured wing into the tub, and she sluiced away the mud, char, and soot. She eyed the exposed blades. “Your med pod can fix this?” She remembered how his broken foot had healed, but this seemed so much worse.

  “No problem.”

  “Twice now, you got injured,” she said.

  “Not your fault—and it was worth it.” He flung the water off with a shake of his wing and then brought the other one into the tub.

  There was something so intimate about bathing together. This is what I’ve been missing in my life. This togetherness. Having a partner. She had adored Josh, and he had loved her, but theirs had been a young love, still growing, still maturing when he’d been taken from her.

  Wingman brought baggage. A great trauma. Loss. She lugged baggage, too. Josh’s death. Responsibility. But together, they lightened the other’s burden. Together they were stronger than they were apart. Together they were more.

  Bodies cleaned, they climbed out of the tub and dried off.

  She was a mother. She couldn’t play games. She couldn’t just date. A friend with benefits was no benefit. Her knees shook a little, but she drew up her courage. Wrapped in a towel, she sought his gaze. “Will you stay with me?”

  “I would like that. If I have a nightmare, I’ll be able to control it.”

  She shook her head. “No, I mean, not only tonight. Every night. I love you. I want to be with you. Forever.”

  His eyes crinkled with a slow grin, his entire being seeming to light up. He stepped close and cupped her face. “I love you to the depth of my being. You’re my genmate. We were meant for each other. I could no more exist without you and Izzy than I could cease to breathe.”

  A lump formed in her throat, and she flung herself into his arms. Towels fell away. Those amazing wings folded around her. No additional words were necessary. Because, yes, they were genmates.

  Epilogue

  Kevanne Girardi, the owner of Lavender Bliss Farm, poked her head into the bedroom. “Everyone is in place. Ready when you are!”

  Delia glanced at Izzy sitting on the bed. “We’re ready.”

  “I’ll tell the harpist. You look beautiful,” Kevanne said.

  “Thank you.” She smoothed nervous palms over the skirt of her off-the-shoulder white dress. “And I can’t thank you enough for letting us use the farm.” Kevanne, who was mated and married to Wingman’s friend Chameleon, had offered the lavender farm as a wedding and reception venue free of charge.

  Kevanne waved. “Any friend of a ’Topian is a friend of mine. Besides”—she winked—“it’s great for business. Half the town of Argent showed up for your wedding.” She ducked out.

  Delia picked up her bouquet of pink roses, baby’s breath, and white feathers, the color scheme selected by Izzy. “Let’s get married!”

  Delia handed her daughter a smaller bouquet. “You’re okay with spending the weekend at Molly’s?” After the reception, she and Wingman would leave on a short honeymoon. They’d rented a cabin on Lake Argent. Ramona had volunteered to babysit.

  “Yes! We’re going to ride horses and swim. Molly’s dad says we can go camping in the backyard.”

  “Just making sure.” They left the guest bedroom and proceeded to the front of the house. She opened the door.

  Kevanne had been right. Half of Argent had come to the wedding. She hadn’t found out until later, but hundreds of residents had joined the search for Izzy. Afterward, they’d delivered so many casseroles, she’d had to beg them to stop. She had never experienced such an outpouring of support in her entire life. Her boss and the other cocktail waitresses at the Whitetail had offered her whatever hours she desired, and several women, including Ramona, had offered babysitting. She’d accepted Ramona’s offer. Molly’s mom had been so concerned and supportive throughout the entire ordeal.

  Protesting her son’s innocence to the end, Trudy Beckman had left town. A couple of weeks after the incident, a moving van appeared outside her house. Feeling betrayed, unable to trust the woman again, Delia didn’t regret her leaving. Scott had been arrested for kidnapping, violating his parole, and several other charges. It would be a long time before he stepped outside prison walls. And when he did—Wingman would be watching.

  The harpist began to play. She took Izzy’s hand, and they stepped out onto the porch. A rose carpet stretched from the house to a pink floral and lavender arch.

  Delia’s happiness bubbled up into a wide smile, her heart full with love for her “genmate,” and the people of Argent, who stood as she and Izzy approached. She recognized Marty and the waitresses from the Whitetail, the owner of the antique shop, Argent’s mayor, Millie from the diner, and the camp counselors. Molly, seated with Ramona and Joe, waved from the audience. Her daughter waved her bouquet back. Perhaps it wasn’t traditional to have one’s daughter escort the bride down the aisle, but then this was no traditional wedding.

  If many guests were Argent residents, another large group were ’Topian extraterrestrials. Besides the castaways, Chameleon, Inferno, Psy, Tigre, and Shadow, Edwin Mysk was in attendance, as well as several other ’Topians who worked for his company.

  Wingman waited under the arch, his beautiful silver-and-white wings outstretched as if to embrace her. How had she never noticed when his wings were fully extended they formed a heart?

  She and Izzy reached the front. His eyes glowed with such devotion, her throat clogged up, and she could only stare at him.

  “Mom! You’re supposed to give me your bouquet.” Izzy nudged her.

  A few guests laughed. Delia passed the flowers. Wingman grasped her hands in his warm ones. She hadn’t realized her fingers had gotten chilled. Nerves. But standing here with him, all bridal jitters ceased to matter.

  Old Gus from the bait shop stepped forward. Turned out, he was licensed to perform marriage ceremonies. He spoke of togetherness, commitment, fealty, and friendship—appropriate words, but they were a formality.

  With their eyes and touch, she and Wingman spoke what was in their hearts.

  I love you. You lift me up and fill me with peace and joy, she said.

  I will always be there for you and Izzy. I love you, my genmate, his mesmerizing gaze seemed to reply.

  Old Gus’s voice droned on. Izzy nudged her.

  Delia blinked. “Excuse me, what?”

  “Do you, Delia Grace Mason, promise to take this man as your lawfully wedded husband?”

  “She does!” Izzy chimed in.

  The guests tittered.

  “I do!” she said quickly, her face heating.

  “Do you, Wynn, promise to take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife?”

  Wynn? Ah! She remembered that was his legal name, an alias to protect him from the Xeno Consortium. To her, he would always be her Wingman and Izzy’s Angel.

  “Yes, he does!” Leaving nothing to chance, her daughter answered to the laughter of the guests.

  “I do,” he replied.

  “By the power vested in me by the state of Idaho, I pronounce you husband and wife, genmates for life.”

  Wingman wrapped those wonderful wings around her, laid a toe-curling kiss on her mouth. They both bent and kissed Izzy, and then he scooped Delia into his arms, and they flew happily down the aisle.

  * * * *

  I hope you enjoyed Wingman and will consider leaving a review. Read on for an excerpt from the next book in the Alien Castaways series.

  Psy: Alien Castaways 3 (Intergalactic Dating Agency)

  Chapter One

  “Did you do anything exciting this weekend?” Verna peered over her shoulder as she flipped the window sign from CLOSED to OPEN.

  For once she had. Cassie smiled and scribbled in her notebook. Picked huckleberries. Mom and I made jam. She showed the note to her boss when she returned to the counter.

  “Huckleberry pie is the best. I always look forward to Huckleberry Days at Millie’s Diner. Huckleberry ice cream, cobbler…it’s all good. I never met a huckleberry I didn’t like
.”

  You could pick your own berries. Bake a pie yourself.

  “Unfortunately, I eat ’em as fast as I pick ’em.” Her loud guffaw was open and honest, like Verna herself. Cassie had an ear for voices. She discerned a lot about a person’s character by their tonal variations. Verna’s raucous laugh had made quite an impression the day she and her mother had stopped into Timeless Treasures Antiques to window-shop. A HELP WANTED sign had advertised for a clerk.

  That laugh had bolstered her courage to defy her protective mother’s wishes and submit an application.

  “Honey, I don’t want you to be hurt,” her mother had argued. “The lady at the store can’t hire you. A clerk has to communicate with customers. You can’t speak.”

  I can write!

  “That works for you and me, but in a business setting…”

  I’m 23. Not a child. I want to try, she’d insisted.

  Her mother, her legal guardian, had veto power. Fortunately, although she disapproved, she hadn’t stopped Cassie from applying. And Verna had hired her! She had been over-the-moon thrilled. Her mother had been less enthusiastic, still concerned she would lose the job and get hurt.

  That hadn’t happened, and, as of yesterday, she had been employed at Timeless Treasures for three months. The residents of Argent learned of her disability and waited patiently for her to scribble a greeting or write out an answer to their questions. For out-of-towners, she kept a preprinted message in her notebook. Hello, I’m Cassie. I can’t speak, but I can hear, and I can write. How can I help you today?

  She loved her job and would be forever grateful to Verna for giving her a chance. On a fresh page in her notebook, she wrote, Find anything good at the estate auction?

  “Yes! I picked up several furniture pieces, which will be delivered later in the week. I brought home the small items and priced them last night. They’re on carts in the back—if you’d put them out and arrange them, so they look nice? You know—work your usual magic.”

  It made her feel good that her efforts were appreciated. She smiled, nodded, and headed for the storage area.

  An astute businesswoman, Verna had a good eye for furniture and collectibles that would appeal to her customers, but Cassie had a flair for merchandising. She didn’t randomly shelve items but arranged them in vignettes and tablescapes. Little by little, she’d reconfigured the store to resemble a home so customers could envision the items in their house.

  I’m creating what I’d like, she realized with a stab of guilt. She had a home—with her loving mother who’d devoted her life to caring for her and protecting her from anyone who might seek to take advantage of her naiveté and disability.

  She’d attended regular public school—although she’d started late with the goal the added year of maturity would compensate for her handicap. Academically, it seemed to have worked—she’d earned As and Bs—although she’d felt awkward being so much taller than the other kids. By high school, they’d caught up in height, so she’d blended in better, and she’d even had a boyfriend for several blissful weeks until he unexpectedly dumped her.

  She never, ever would wish to hurt her mother who had the best intentions, but the overprotectiveness smothered her sometimes. Getting the job represented one giant leap toward cutting the apron strings. She had cautioned herself to take it one step at a time—let her mother get comfortable with the idea of her working before attempting another bold move.

  She couldn’t define her yearning exactly, although she was certain she’d recognize it when she saw it—like the job at Timeless Treasures. The instant she’d entered the store and heard Verna laugh, she’d wanted the job more than she’d ever desired anything.

  Two utility carts were loaded with the weekend’s finds. Verna had taught her a lot in a few short months, the first lesson being the difference between antique and vintage. To be classified antique, an item had to be at least one hundred years old, so the wooden rolling pins, the butter churn, a brass coal bucket, a pine tabletop desk, an old iron—literally made of iron— lavender mason jars, and an equestrian picture fell into that category. Vintage meant the object hailed from an earlier generation, like the brass swivel arm lamp, the art deco clock, the transistor radio, the black rotary dial telephone, and a manual typewriter. As she examined the latter two items, an office-setting tableau took shape in her mind. She could pull from existing inventory to complete the scene.

  The other cart held an assortment of popular kitchen items—vintage casserole dishes, discontinued Fiesta ware, two crystal liquor decanters, and a kitschy ceramic cookie jar in the shape of a bear.

  She picked up the jar carefully so the hat, which served as the lid, didn’t fall off. Her heart raced, and she broke out in a cold sweat as a wave of dizziness swept over her. She saw the cookie jar sitting on a white-tiled kitchen counter under an oak cabinet. Squeezing her eyelids tight, she tried to hold onto the image but the mirage evaporated like they all did.

  It wouldn’t be back. She never had the same hallucination twice. A tree. A brief clip of a TV show she’d never seen. A headrest viewed from the backseat of a car. A stuffed animal with a missing ear. The mundane visions were never anything disturbing or scary—with one exception.

  Once, as a child, she and her mother had been in a grocery store when a shopper’s perfume had caused a wave of sadness so strong and sudden, she had burst into tears.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” Her mystified mother had comforted her.

  Too young to write yet, she’d been unable to explain—could only shake her head and cry. On occasion, when she passed a department store fragrance counter, she would sniff the samples in search of that scent, although she doubted she’d recognize it after all those years.

  The elusive nature of her visions drove her crazy. Why did she have them? What did they mean? Until today, she’d never had an actual physical item of something she’d seen.

  Clutching the cookie jar to her chest, she returned to the sales floor.

  A customer looked up from the vintage jewelry case. “Hello, how are you?” she shouted.

  “She’s not deaf! She can hear just fine!” Verna snapped.

  “Sorry. How are you?” the customer repeated in a lower volume.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d been treated like she was hard of hearing. People sometimes spoke too loudly, too slowly, or both. It got annoying, but what could she do? She pasted on a smile.

  The customer wandered off to browse, and Cassie set the cookie jar in front of Verna. She jotted, I would like to buy this.

  Verna waved at her. “You don’t need to buy it—take it. A bonus for your hard work.”

  She eyed the $59 price tag. Are you sure? It’s expensive.

  Verna glanced at the customer now at the opposite end of the store before whispering, “I got a good deal. I didn’t pay anything close to that. Take it.”

  She grinned. All right. Thank you.

  After stowing her treasure in the backroom cabinet, she began arranging the new inventory.

  Emboldened by Verna’s earlier praise of her merchandising skills, she made an executive decision to swap out the dining scene in the window overlooking Main Street. After removing the china, crystal, silver, and candelabra, she turned the claw-footed oak table into a desk by adding the swivel arm lap, black rotary dial telephone, and the typewriter. She loaded a cherry sliding book rack with old hardbacks, including yellowed copies of the Gregg Shorthand Manual and the Complete Secretary’s Handbook.

  Verna rang up the customer’s purchase, a set of silver-plated flatware.

  “Bye, Cassie!” the woman shouted as she left the store.

  Verna rolled her eyes and muttered, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

  She laughed and dragged an antique shelving unit to the front then stocked it with miscellaneous eye-catching bric-a-brac. A vintage standing globe completed the office scene.

  “Looks good!” Verna flashed a thumbs-up.

  How it looks
from the outside is what matters, she wanted to say, but of course, she couldn’t. Casual moments like these frustrated her the most—to communicate, she’d have to stop working to write a note. Saying nothing was easier but left her feeling disconnected, disabled, and showed that no matter how hard she tried, she wasn’t normal. She was something other.

  She envied free-and-easy communication. People could toss a comment over their shoulder, yell from another room, call on the telephone, and whisper a comment at the movies. She couldn’t do any of those things. There’s nothing I can do about it. I have to accept what is, she thought.

  Shaking off the bout of self-pity, she returned her attention to the display and let out a squeak of alarm, surprised to see a man peering into the window. He seemed to be staring at her, although she couldn’t be sure because of his sunglasses. On the shorter side of six feet, he had a wiry physique and was dressed for summer in gray cargo shorts, a tan T-shirt, and flip-flops. Thick near-black hair swept back from a widow’s peak, making her aware of the straggles from her French braid clinging to her perspiring cheeks. She brushed at them, certain she looked a mess.

  He removed his sunglasses to reveal brown irises so large and dark, his eyes resembled two solid orbs. Her heart sped up, and her head swam with dizziness but, instead of experiencing that odd familiarity of a vision, she was pulled into his gaze as if she’d plunged into a fathomless pool. A whirlpool of emotions churned. He’s…beautiful. Not just handsome, beautiful.

  He stepped away, vanishing from sight. Her knees wobbled, and she felt like crying for no good reason. And then the bell over the door jangled, and he entered.

  “What’s your name?” His voice hit about mid-range, masculine, yet melodious. Smooth, so smooth. And those eyes! Piercing and gentle. Mysterious, yet calm.

  “Gaaah, gaaaah.” A rusty, metal-on-metal grunt erupted from her mouth. Horror and humiliation burned from neck to hairline, and her throat felt like it would close up. How could she have forgotten she couldn’t speak?