Ren

by Starr Huntress

  When their father lay on the sofa, too tired to do anything more than nap, Gemma planned. When the aliens dropped bombs, Gemma held her hand and whispered about the delicacies they would make. Such beautiful and astounding pastries that they had to be magic, sprinkled with stardust. They concocted fantastic recipes, unicorn cookies, and pixie cupcakes.

  The money paid to her as compensation for upending her life and shipping her off to a radioactive planet—even if her stay only lasted two days—was a windfall. While the bakery had always been Gemma’s dream, she was glad to bring unicorn cookies and pixie cupcakes to life.

  The Draft hung over Gemma, as it did every woman on Earth. Some of Emry’s alien cash went to a fixer who made Gemma’s name vanish from the Mahdfel database. That cost a pretty penny, but hey, problem solved. Money well spent.

  Illegal? Hella. Uncommon? Not really.

  Understandable? Very.

  Only those shady people now had dirt on Gemma and threatened to report her if she didn’t pay. The blackmail demands had been steadily increasing for the year, growing from something they could budget for into something that broke the bank.

  But then people who removed Gemma from the Draft blackmailed her. A payment here, some money there, and no one would suggest that the Feds look closely at Gemmarae LeBeaux.

  Why not blow the whistle on the greedy bastards? Because prison. Anyone caught manipulating the genetic tests—either via DNA, database hack, or plain old no-showing for testing—was sentenced to prison. The punishment far outweighed the crime, in Emry’s opinion. Policy left too many people vulnerable and afraid to call the authorities for help.

  “You know what I think we should do,” Emry said.

  “I’m not a snitch,” Gemma said.

  “It’s not snitching when you’re being blackmailed.”

  She knew they were codependent, and it wasn’t exactly a healthy coping mechanism. As kids, they survived an honest-to-goodness alien invasion after watching their father fade away from a cruel illness. But they survived and everything would be okay. And it was until one night, long after life had returned to normal, a drunk driver took their mother.

  Welcome to the new normal.

  It was just her and Gemma and their damn bakery against the world.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Gemma pleaded, dark eyes wide. “Come on, say, ‘Gemmy-bean, we’ll be okay.’”

  Emry couldn’t, though. They couldn’t bake enough cupcakes and croissants to keep from drowning. These people had their hooks in Gemma and Emry. Nothing about this was okay.

  “Change into something clean. The donuts aren’t going to make themselves,” she said.

  * * *

  Gemma worked the kitchen, and she worked the front. Usually, their roles were reversed. Emry was the better cook, and she didn’t need people gawking at her face. Gemma was better at schmoozing with the customers.

  Today, however, Gemma jumped every time the computer chimed when a new customer walked through the bakery doors. If the people she owed money to wanted to pay her a visit during working hours, a flimsy half-wall would not stop them.

  “Where’s your sister, darling? She’s always so amusing,” an older woman asked, her silvery gray hair in braids and twisted into an impressive updo.

  “Zits. Like, wow, you wouldn’t believe. Now she’s too vain to show her face.”

  Gemma shouted something rude from the back, and the woman chuckled.

  Charming even when she was in the wrong. Emry felt a quick stab of jealousy because no one chuckled when she had a bad day and let out a few choice words. People either politely ignored her, eyes sliding over her scar and, consequently, her whole damn person, or they blanched like she was some monster that escaped the basement.

  Fuck, she really hated working the front.

  When the rush died down, Emry used the lull to break up the giant iceberg in the ice machine. The machine had a bad habit of shutting down overnight, causing the ice to melt and refreeze in a massive lump. It made Emry’s life easier—and let her blow off some steam—to go at it with an ice pick during service lulls.

  The bakery wasn’t where Emry imagined herself when she entered culinary school with Michelin stars in her eyes, but it was a good enough place. Decent, at least.

  Being in debt to people who you shouldn’t be in debt to hadn’t been the plan.

  Thwack.

  The ice pick stuck true, breaking off a large chunk. Gemma should have spent her ill-gotten loan on a better ice machine. Instead, she put a down payment on a larger shop with a huge kitchen, shiny new equipment, and mediocre parking. The tiny lot filled up fast during peak hours.

  She told her not to worry about foot traffic. They’d do more special orders and catering.

  Thwack.

  The bakery wasn’t a mistake. It had eked by at the smaller location. Now they could barely afford rent and the interest on the loans. She worked all hours. Gemma worked just as much as her. Up before dawn and a few hours after the shop closed, cleaning and prepping for the next day.

  Thwack. Thwack. Crack.

  She was just so thoughtless. It didn’t come from a bad place, just misguided enthusiasm.

  Maybe they should lose the bakery.

  The thought crept in, and it felt like a betrayal. Interstellar cruise ships were always hiring cooks. She liked working in a busy kitchen more than baking bread and technicolor cookies. The more she had to make complex pastries and tiered wedding cakes, the more she craved simplicity. Stuffing people full of her favorite stick-to-your-ribs comfort foods sounded appealing.

  Right out of culinary school, she and Gemma landed jobs on a cruise ship. It was busy work in a kitchen that never closed but satisfying. She worked until she felt she was chopping and prepping in her sleep, her hands jerking with the movement of an invisible blade. Gemma got to indulge herself in creating overly complex desserts that wowed the crowds.

  It was good until it wasn’t, and that was all Emry’s fault. Her mouth. Again. The thing about cruise ships they never tell you is that they’re small. Even if the ship is huge, it’s small. Everyone is a passenger. There’s nowhere to go to blow off steam. When you’re sitting on the observation deck, having a drink, watching the stars, and trying to enjoy some time off, you’re still on the clock when a passenger comes along and starts making demands.

  Some entitled passengers acted like the staff were personal servants, and Emry had enough. It wasn’t a huge deal, she thought, when she told the passenger she needed to ask someone else to take their food and drink order. What was a big deal, apparently, was telling off the manager who wrote her up for an adverse customer experience.

  The next stop was feeding the crew on a commercial cargo ship, as long as she didn’t make any of her “strange Terran food.” That was decent enough until Gemma’s temper clashed with the captain. The smallest mistakes turned into infractions, which were docked from her—and Emry’s—pay. Unfair, true, but there was nothing to do but grin and bear it until they reached a port.

  That had been a long two months, especially since Gemma couldn’t seem to keep her opinions to herself. Emry felt no remorse about walking away from that gig.

  Shortly after, she was matched to Ren, and that experience turned out so well.

  Then the shenanigans with the bakery. Cue two-and-a-half years later…

  “Did the ice behave inappropriately?” a male voice cut in, chuckling.

  Emry stabbed the ice prick into the frozen lump before turning her attention to the customer at the counter. An alien.

  “Yeah, it was talking smack about my momma,” she said.

  The man, violet complexion, and iron-gray horns picked up a laminated menu from the counter. “Anything I should avoid?”

  “Everything’s good, but if you’re asking about allergens, Earth food is safe for aliens.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “If you’ve got a grudge against your cardiovascular health, I’d suggest the sunrise c
roissant.” A poached egg smothered in three slices of cheese on a croissant. It was disgustingly delicious.

  “Terran food. How adventurous. Let’s do that and a coffee.” The man set down the menu with a flourish, and Emry rolled her eyes at the showboating.

  She poured coffee while the egg cooked in the microwave. Look, the sandwich was something anyone could make behind the counter in a limited space. It wasn’t fine cuisine.

  “Nice place you have here,” the alien said, perusing the treats in the display case. “What does your mate think about it?”

  “I’m not married,” she said without thinking. “I mean, he’s away and—”

  “Sent you to Earth. Yes. I read the file.” His fingers tapped along the glass case. “Very vague. Sent you to Earth. That could mean almost anything.”

  Emry clutched at the collar on her shirt, covering up the bite mark. The alien—not just an alien, a Mahdfel—made her feel exposed.

  The microwave dinged, and she slapped together the sandwich. With no pride in her work, she shoved it in a paper bag. As an afterthought, she grabbed a plastic lid for the disposable coffee cup. “I recommend that you take your order to go.”

  “Does it taste better if it’s to go?” His eyes sparkled, clearly enjoying toying with her, dangling bits of information about her that no one knew besides Gemma.

  “It tastes better than my foot in your ass. Leave.”

  The alien grinned, as if he had some clever comeback, but he left.

  That one was trouble.

  * * *

  Another end to a long-ass day.

  Gemma sat on the wooden steps that led to the apartment above the shop. She held a worn photograph. Evening sunlight pooled around her, catching the blond highlights in her hair.

  She looked up at the sound of the back door opening, hastily stuffing the photo into a pocket.

  “Let me see,” Emry said, heaving the garbage bag into the dumpster before reaching for the photo.

  “Gross. Hands.” Gemma moved the photo out of reach.

  She rolled her eyes but wiped her hands down her jeans, like that would help.

  The photo paper felt fragile to the touch, like it would crumble under the weight of time and memories. A tall man stood smiling in front of the original LeBeaux Bakery, carrying one gap-tooth kid on his hip. The other kid clutched his legs, face turned away.

  Emry had memorized every inch of this photo. She did not remember when it was taken—hell, she barely remembered her father or the bakery—but she could feel the sunlight and smell the sugar mixed with yeast that always clung to her father. That she remembered.

  She handed it back to her sister.

  “We should sell,” Gemma said.

  “You don’t want to sell.”

  “But you don’t love the bakery the way I do. You’re stuck with it. With me.”

  “Gemmy-bean, I’m not stuck.” As soon as she uttered the words, she knew they were true. She could leave anytime. Only obligation and a sense of duty tied her to the bakery. “If I wanted to leave, I’d leave.”

  “Wow, you didn’t even hesitate. That’s cold, sis. Real cold.”

  Emry nudged their feet together. “I might not love the bakery the way you do, but I don’t hate it. And I’d quit before I started hating it.”

  She sighed, hanging her head forward. “I wish I still smoked. This feels like the moment for a cigarette.”

  “No, you don’t, and gross.”

  “I messed up, and I know you’re mad. I don’t want you to be mad anymore,” Gemma said, tucking the photo back into her wallet.

  Unsaid between them was the tangible need she had to recreate something good, something from before everything went to hell. She clung to that dream, and Emry didn’t blame her. That dream gave them hope in their darkest days. She did the wrong thing for the right reason. How could she be upset?

  “We’ll figure it out.” They always did.

  * * *

  The alien came back the next day. He waited in the back, lounging on the steps like a sleepy cat enjoying the sun.

  Scratch that. Not a sleepy cat. Lounging like an alley cat sizing up a mouse.

  Emry didn’t have the energy to play whatever game he thought he was playing.

  “What do you want?” she asked, heaving the trash bag into the dumpster.

  “I seek to insult my cardiovascular system. The morsel you prepared yesterday was exceptional.” He licked his lips. Ugh. That was just gross and unnecessary.

  “This back here,” Emry gestured to the narrow alley and back lot, “is private property. You need to leave.”

  He seemed unimpressed. “I know about you, Ivon Emry LeBeaux.”

  “Who the hell is Ivan Emry?” she asked, knowing full well that the alien was talking about her. He had an accent, but it wasn’t that thick.

  “Ivon Ren is your mate.”

  “And?” Emry resisted the urge to fold her arms over her chest because she once read that was a defensive gesture and made you look vulnerable. She leaned against the cinderblock wall. “Is this blackmail? Buddy, you are barking up the wrong tree. I am fed up with blackmailers.”

  “Terran idioms. No one is barking.”

  “But you are lurking and skulking. Scram.” She turned to leave.

  A hand on her arm stopped her.

  She glared at the purple hand holding her. His grip was loose, but he could easily tighten it into a crushing grasp.

  “Not until you hear my offer, female.”

  Ah, there it was. A squeeze, light, but just enough to let her know he had raw muscle and superior size on his side to make her do what he wanted.

  “I am so fucking sick of you aliens!” She jerked away, giving herself a bruise. “You think just because you’re so big and mighty, that you can do whatever you want. Well, fuck off! You can fuck right off. I have a mate, and I got rights.” The words poured out of her, her frustration venting in a blue cloud of swears and threats. “So what if Ren’s not here? You can’t touch another male’s mate. I’ll report you to the FBIA and your warlord.”

  The Feds, the Federal Bureau of Interstellar Affairs.

  A slow grin spread across his face, the alley cat readying to pounce on the poor mouse.

  She really hated being the mouse in this scenario.

  The back door swung open.

  “This guy causing problems?” Gemma emerged from the back, wiping her hands on a towel. Tossing it over her shoulder, she glared at the lilac alien. The bruising on her face gave her a certain air of badassery, like she was the foul-tempered pastry chef your momma warned you about.

  Okay, no one’s momma warned them about foul-tempered pastry chefs, but they should have. Pastry chefs slung around huge sacks of flour like they were nothing, and dough was tough to work. They had serious upper-body strength.

  Emry groaned. She felt safer just having Gemma at her side, but that safety was an illusion. Fronting to an alien warrior like she was a badass was the fastest way for Gemma to get herself hurt.

  “No problems. I merely convey a message from her long-lost mate,” the alien said, continuing to lounge casually on the steps.

  A message? Damn her for being curious.

  Gemma put the pieces together faster than Emry did. “Is that the guy? Tell me that’s the guy.”

  She tried to push past Emry. A hand on her chest kept her in place.

  “That’s not him.”

  Gemma narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying that to avoid a scene?”

  “The guy,” she said, stressing the words with sarcasm, “was red like a devil with a tail. Does he look red to you?”

  “He’s got horns.”

  “Wrong alien.”

  “Bet he’s got a pitchfork too.”

  A laugh burst out of Emry. When she returned to Earth, she gave Gemma a quick and dirty rundown on what happened. Her skimpy details did paint Ren to be a cartoon devil. “That’s not Ren.”

  Gemma searched her face, then nodded. �
��Well, I don’t like that one. You can’t trust him.”

  She nodded in agreement. “Do you really have a message, or are you screwing with us?”

  “I have a proposition.”

  Right, now it was a proposition. Emry did not appreciate the way his story kept changing. Nailing down hard facts with this guy was probably as easy as catching a greased pig.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “Enough money to pay off your blackmailers and then some.”

  “Yeah, right.” Money did not fall from the sky, and blackmailers did not go away once they caught the scent of cash.

  “I have a friend. Pashaal. Good head for business, but not much else. She likes novelties. Toys. And she recently expressed an interest in a Terran chef.”

  “You want me to be some sort of pet trotted out for dinner parties?” Emry had worked in worse conditions.

  “Consider the credits to pay off your… associates as a signing bonus.”

  Gemma cocked an eyebrow. “When you say enough to pay off our associates, how much is enough?”

  The alien quotes a figure large enough to make her gasp.

  More than enough.

  “What’s the catch?” Emry said, because there was always a catch.

  A slow smile spread across his face. Emry shivered. “A small favor. Minuscule,” he said, pinching two fingers together to demonstrate. “You work in her kitchen and tell me who attends her parties.”

  “That’s it? You want the guest list?” There had to be more. He didn’t need a plant to get a guest list.

  Emry opened her mouth to tell the guy to get lost when Gemma snagged her attention.

  “Can we talk?” She jerked her head to the door.

  Emry followed her inside. She didn’t need to see her face to know what she was thinking. Call it a twin thing. “You want me to do it, don’t you?”

  “That’s a lot of money, Em.”

  “Come on! Five minutes ago, you were all, ‘You can’t trust him,’” she dropped her voice in a terrible parody of Gemma. “And now you’re ready to take the money.”