Chameleon: Alien Castaways (Intergalactic Dating Agency)

by Cara Bristol

  She motioned to the tiny half-and-half containers and the packets of sweetener. “Doctor it up.”

  “That goes in the coffee?”

  “If you like it that way.” He acted like he’d never had coffee before.

  There were seven little half-and-half containers in the bowl; he used all of them and added four packets of sugar and two artificial sweeteners. He reached for another packet.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Are you sure you want all that?” She cringed out of habit. Questioning anything Dayton did would have been a sure way to get into trouble, but it didn’t faze the stranger.

  “Is this too much?”

  “A little,” she said.

  He’d put so much creamer in his coffee, the cup was filled to the brim. Carefully, he lifted the mug to his lips and took a big mouthful. His eyes bulged, and he spit it back into the cup, again.

  “What do you usually drink?” she asked.

  “Water.”

  “Millie can bring you water,” she suggested. It’s not my fault. I didn’t tell him to order what I ordered. She beat back the old habit of accepting responsibility for someone else’s decisions. It’s over. It’s over.

  “If we’re going to converse, perhaps we should introduce ourselves.” He smiled, and once again familiarity flashed. But if he was asking her name, then they hadn’t met. Unless…he kind of remembered her from somewhere but couldn’t place her, either.

  “Kevanne Girardi,” she said. “K-E-V-A-N-N-E. It’s pronounced Kevin, like the man’s name.” She liked her unusual name, but it had caused confusion her whole life—complicated by the fact she had a husky voice for a woman. When she introduced herself on the phone, people always assumed they were speaking to a man. She was used to the mix-up—so that was why she’d laughed when Dayton had been mistaken for a woman.

  “My name is Chameleon,” the stranger said.

  “Cam Leon—nice to meet you.” Since he had that unusual accent, she repeated back the name to ensure she heard it correctly and to better remember it.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His eyes crinkled like he really meant it.

  Her stomach fluttered. If she shifted a tad, her arm would brush his. Unexpected hyperawareness of his nearness hummed through her. She couldn’t recall the last time a man had stirred her curiosity—certainly well before her marriage. She’d thought those feelings had died with Dayton. Odd that she would find this stranger intriguing. She didn’t normally go for the befuddled clueless type. She glanced at him. Okay, the incredibly handsome, buff, befuddled, clueless type. She wasn’t ready to date, but she could window-shop, couldn’t she?

  She sipped her coffee. Where could he be from to never have tried coffee? Maybe he was Mormon or practiced another religion forbidding caffeine?

  I hope I didn’t get him to violate his religious practices. No, if he was Mormon, he would still know about coffee and wouldn’t have ordered it. Cam Leon had acted like he’d never heard of coffee.

  “Have we met before?” she asked.

  He hesitated. “No.”

  “You look familiar to me. What brings you to Argent?” she asked, still trying to place him.

  “Mechanical difficulties.”

  “Your car broke down?”

  “That’s as close as I can describe it.”

  “Two orders, burgers and fries!” With flourish, Millie set their plates in front of them. “Can I get you anything else?”

  The ketchup was already on the counter. “This is fine, Millie,” Kevanne said. She waited for Cam to say something, but he didn’t. “Would you like a glass of water?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, I would,” he said.

  Millie grabbed a glass, stuck it under a dispenser, filled it with ice and then water, and set it on the counter. She bustled away to take another order.

  “There aren’t any mechanics in Argent, but there are quite a few in Coeur d’Alene and even more in Spokane,” she said as she shook ketchup over her fries.

  “Mechanic?” He picked up a French fry and sniffed it before taking a bite.

  “For your car.”

  “Uh, thank you, but we’re taking care of it.”

  “We? You’re with somebody?” Was he married? Girlfriend? Why was he here eating alone? Instead of disappointment, she should feel relieved.

  “A group of…friends. Men from…from where I’m from.”

  “Where are you from?” She nudged a bottle toward him. “Ketchup?” She ate a potato then picked up her hamburger and peered at the American cheese melting down the sides. Perfect.

  “I doubt you’d know it.” He dripped a dollop of ketchup onto his plate, stuck a fry into it, and hesitantly ate it. Then he shook out more onto his fries.

  “Try me,” she said.

  “Utopia.”

  “Utopia?” Was this a joke?

  “Not Utopia—’Topia.”

  “Okay, you win. I haven’t heard of it.” She took a bite of her hamburger. Thick and juicy. Nobody could grill a burger like Millie’s.

  He watched her for a second then picked up his burger and tilted it sideways the way she had. She frowned. Was he mimicking her behavior?

  “Mmm,” he said, after tasting it. “This is good. I’ve never had anything like it.”

  “Millie’s does the best hamburgers.” She cocked her head. “Is this the best burger you’ve ever had or the only burger you’ve ever had?”

  “The only burger I’ve ever had.”

  How could he never have had a hamburger? Even if he wasn’t from the United States—and given his accent she was pretty sure he wasn’t—there were hamburger places all over the world. Everybody ate hamburgers…unless they were vegetarian. She had a moment of horrifying guilt for possibly luring a vegetarian into eating meat then shook it off. Again, like Mormons, a vegetarian would know to avoid something he couldn’t eat. And his decisions aren’t my responsibility. He is responsible for his actions. She channeled her therapist.

  Cam set his burger on his plate then swirled a fry in ketchup, drawing her attention to his hands. Given his suntanned, working man’s complexion, she would have guessed his hands would have shown some wear and tear. But while he had large, masculine hands with long fingers, he had smooth skin, no calluses, no smashed fingernails, just a few dabs of paint.

  A bright-blue quarter-size patch splattered across the back of his left hand. There were two more dime-size turquoise splotches on two fingers of the right. She recalled him holding the menu when she’d sat down but didn’t remember the color. Of course, it had to have been there.

  “Have you been painting?” she asked.

  “Painting?” A fry disappeared into his mouth.

  “You have paint on your hands.”

  He stopped chewing. His gaze dropped. For several seconds he went still. Then he swallowed. “Yes, paint. I uh, had a project.”

  “I have a few of those myself,” she said. If the weather held out, she might get the roof done this afternoon—which meant she shouldn’t be dillydallying.

  He must have gotten the same or similar idea because he wolfed down his burger and fries like he punched a clock and lunch break was over.

  Millie materialized. “Can I get you anything else? Dessert? The apple pie is homemade.” She winked. She baked the pies herself. They were legendary.

  “I’ll take a piece to go,” Kevanne said.

  “I’ll box your slice and have it waiting for you at the front.”

  “None for me.” Cam swallowed the last hamburger morsel. A few stray French fries remained on his plate.

  Millie placed their bills on the counter and looked at Cam. “You can pay at the register when you’re ready.”

  Apparently he was ready because he leaped up, downed the entire glass of water, and then grabbed his check. His wrist was splotched with paint now.

  “Uh, nice meeting you,” he said and raced to the register. Millie’s sole waitress—the diner was so tiny Millie only needed one—happened to be at th
e front. She rang him up as he fidgeted. Then he fished in his pockets and extracted a handful of brand-new crisp bills. She gave him back about three-quarters of it along with some change, and then he literally ran out the door.

  Kevanne’s jaw dropped. “He stiffed you on the tip.”

  “Ah well, he was pretty to look at. Reminds me of a rugged cowboy. If I was forty years younger…” Her raucous guffaw drew the glance of a couple of diners. “You two seemed to be gettin’ along.” She winked.

  “I’m not interested. Besides, he’s passing through.”

  Millie sighed. “The cute ones always are.”

  Kevanne chuckled. “He must be European or something.” Tipping customs in Europe differed from the United States. Gratuities were optional and/or included in the bill. The way he’d shoved a wad of cash at the waitress suggested he was unfamiliar with U.S. money. He probably didn’t realize he needed to leave a tip. He hadn’t seemed like the kind of jerk who’d stiff his server.

  Then again, what people seemed like when you first met them often wasn’t who they were.

  Millie emptied his coffee cup into a sink then stowed Cam Leon’s dirty dishes in the bin under the counter. Her brows drew together in a squint. “He remind you of anybody?”

  “Yes! But I couldn’t place him.” If Millie recognized him from somewhere, then he couldn’t be somebody she’d met through Dayton. “Who does he remind you of?”

  “I dunno. But somebody. Maybe an actor. Maybe we had a famous celebrity pass through. I should have gotten an autographed photo for the wall. Elvis ate here.” She laughed.

  “He said his name was Cam Leon—at first I thought he was saying chameleon like the lizard that changes color to match its environment.” She recalled the paint on his hands—which reminded her of the big project awaiting her.

  With a sigh, she slid off the stool. “The burger was great as usual. I’d better get going. My roof sprang a leak. Hey—if you hear of anyone who does handyman work—I posted a flyer at the bait shop.”

  “I’ll keep my ear to the ground,” Millie promised. “Let me get you that pie.”

  Kevanne grabbed her jacket from the hook, paid for her meal and then left a tip to cover her lunch and Cam’s.

  There were patches of blue in the sky, but far off to the east dark-gray clouds gathered, ready to thunder. If she didn’t get the roof done today, she might not get another chance for several more days or even a week or two. Spring weather was so temperamental.

  Back in her car, she headed out of town. The light was green at the main highway, so she turned right and then checked her rearview mirrors—and nearly crashed into the speed limit sign. She pulled onto the shoulder, put the car in park, and twisted around to gawk at the billboard.

  Cam’s Leon’s face stared at her from fourteen feet over the highway. No wonder he’d seemed so familiar!

  Chapter Six

  Chameleon’s hands and arms had turned blue to the elbows, and he suspected his face was, too. Had he lingered in the eatery ten minutes longer, he would have lost the personification completely.

  Checking that no one was around, he dug the solar-powered hover scooter out of the bushes. Thank Xeno technology, the power core could hold a charge for a long time because with this rainy, cloudy climate, the scooter wouldn’t have enough juice to putt. He hopped on and activated the light refractor, which would render the vehicle—and anything on it—virtually invisible. Once hidden, with a sigh of relief, he relaxed into his normal self, letting his spine reform ridges, his tail extend, and his skin revert to its normal blue.

  He zipped among the slower Earth automobiles on the main thoroughfare. No one would be able to see the craft or him on it; if they detected anything, the shimmer would be mistaken for a mirage. He zoomed by a white vehicle and recognized Kevanne Girardi inside it. He couldn’t believe it when the woman from the woods had come into the eatery and sat next to him.

  She was part of the reason he’d lost control of the personification. Her proximity had flooded his nervous system with sensation. She’d breezed in on a scent of rain and flowers. In the woods, he’d been farther away from her and hadn’t been able to get a good look at her face because it had been half hidden by the hood of her yellow coat. In the eatery, he’d lost himself in big brown eyes, shiny shoulder-length hair a couple of shades darker, and full lips that curved into the most engaging smile. Her husky voice and her rich laugh had done the most to undermine his control, distracting him by sending tendrils of heat straight to his cock.

  She’d asked a lot of questions, and he’d carefully fashioned his responses. He’d shared the name ’Topia with her, figuring she would assume it was a locality on Earth and not another planet in a different arm of the galaxy. He should have studied up on geopolitics and come up with an Earth province, but she’d caught him unawares. His accent betrayed him as a foreigner anyway. His universal translator was still updating. The more he listened to and spoke the local tongue, the more he’d understand and the better he’d speak. The ability to read the language would take a while longer.

  Kevanne hadn’t been the only distraction though. The barrage of alien sounds, smells, tastes hammered at the concentration he needed to maintain the human form. It was easy to personify a being like himself. He could impersonate another Xeno without any effort at all.

  But to squish himself down to a human’s size, realign his spine, eliminate his tail, change his skin color, and mimic subtle differences in jaw shape, ears, and nose required intense focus and discipline. Get the nose a little wrong, the eye shape off, the mouth misaligned, and the face would be totally wrong. He hadn’t expected the man on the highway sign to be so difficult to mimic. He’d chosen him because the billboard had provided a clear, sharp, detailed, full-body image. Mimicking someone on such prominent display wasn’t optimal, but it was safer than imitating a living person from town. The fact Kevanne had asked if they’d met indicated she’d recognized him but hadn’t placed him yet.

  He’d gone into Argent because Tigre had asked him to. The Saberian had become the unofficial leader of the group, and he’d tagged Chameleon and Psy for reconnaissance. They had the best chance of blending in. Psy pretty much resembled a human, and Chameleon could mimic one. But the others? Wingman couldn’t hide his wings. Tigre’s pigmented stripes would stand out. Shadow could pass muster for a short period of time, but stress caused evaporation episodes.

  Inferno looked like a human with a bad sunburn, not problematic in and of itself, but his horns changed everything. After studying Earth culture, Psy had expressed concern the combination of red epidermis and prominent horns could cause superstitious natives to mistake him for a devil, one of the mythological creatures they feared.

  It made the most sense for Chameleon and Psy to scope out the local population centers. He’d headed to Argent. Psy had gone to a town called Coeur d’Alene.

  “Try not to get yourself doused with any mucosal irritants, this time.” Wingman had smirked. “Psy won’t be with you to save your ass.”

  “Why don’t you make yourself useful instead of lounging on the ship?” he lost his temper and snapped.

  Wingman swore and stomped away. He could dish it out, but he couldn’t take it. Chameleon didn’t need the Avian’s digs to remind him of his personal shame. While it appeared he’d done too little, too late, the reality was he’d done too much. He’d have to live with that on his conscience for the rest of life.

  He forced away the darkness by focusing on something more cheerful and uplifting. Kevanne. He’d never met anyone like her. Of course, he’d seen humans and had exchanged a few words with Millie, but Kevanne was the first one he’d gotten to know personally and with whom he’d had a real conversation. He’d enjoyed her company so much, he’d forgotten his mission! He should have asked more questions, felt her out on the subject of extraterrestrial visitation and the Intergalactic Dating Agency. He wondered if she had a marriage partner. He hadn’t thought to ask that, either.
r />   But, probably just as well. He wasn’t interested in copulating with a human, no matter how much she’d intrigued him. He had responsibilities to fulfill—assisting in getting the Castaway repaired, getting everyone off the planet, and lending aid to the refugees wandering in space.

  The Castaway’s coordinates had been programmed into the scooter so the vehicle automatically veered off the main thoroughfare and flew over a less-trafficked asphalted road for a mile before turning again to follow a hard-packed dirt roadway. He recognized a fallen, half-decayed tree, at which point the scooter cut through the woods. Safe from view, he switched off the invisibility screen so the crew of the Castaway could see him.

  The hatch lifted, and the scooter slipped into the belly of the ship.

  He found the entire group assembled on the bridge. Waiting for him. “We’ve got a bit of a problem,” Tigre said.

  Only a bit of one? The situation had improved, then. He kept his facetious comment to himself because everyone looked pretty grim. “How bad is it?”

  “Psy almost got arrested by Earth authorities.”

  “Actually, I was detained, but after I did a mind wipe on the officer, he released me.”

  “How did he react?” The effect of a mind wipe on the human brain and psyche had been one of their concerns.

  “He’s fine. I didn’t have to force my way into his head; his mind was wide open, so I only needed to do a recent memory cleanse. He lost about ten minutes. He was a little confused, wondering how he ended up at the police station when he thought he was at the doughnut shop, but he’ll be okay.”

  “Why did he arrest you?”

  “That’s the crux of our problem,” Tigre said.

  “It’s a law on this planet that only the government can print currency,” Psy explained. “I had decided to try the local cuisine, so I stopped at a doughnut shop. I paid for an apple fritter with a hundred dollar bill we replicated. They ran a special pen over it and pronounced it counterfeit. An officer of the law happened to be in the shop. There were too many witnesses to wipe his mind there—I would have had to cleanse all their memories—so I let him snap metal bracelets around my wrists and shove me into his vehicle. A metal cage separated us, preventing me from touching him. I had to wait until he stopped driving and let me out.”