“Can’t we work something out? I’ll make up the time.” Rosemary tilted down her chin and made her eyes wide, willing herself to cry on command. She’d escalate the situation with a wobbly bottom lip if her boss was immune to her weepy eyes.
The manager folded his arms, decision made.
Immune. Damn it.
“Look, finish up your shift, and I’ll figure you into the day’s tips.”
Wow, he’d let her have a portion of the money she helped earn. It wasn’t like the tips were that great to begin with. How generous. The bar was on the fringe of an up -and -coming trendy neighborhood and had a menu to reflect gentrification. Locals who were seriously dedicated to day drinking didn’t have the credit to splurge on their overpriced, locally-sourced organic menu and the types who imbibed on a business lunch didn’t stray out this far. Tips were never great. If he thought Rosemary was going to grovel, he had another thing coming.
“On second thought, I’ll take my pay now,” she said. The stickler-for-time wasn’t exactly thrilled about coughing up her wages, but Rosemary refused to leave without it. Cash was cash. Meager wages in hand, she called a private auto-transport. Yes, public was cheaper, but she didn’t want to break down and cry in front of strangers. If she had to cry, she’d rather do it in private.
Alone, she slumped down in the seat.
Fudge.
Inwardly, she moaned. Today was bad enough to curse like an adult.
“Shit,” she mumbled. Her skin pricked at the illicit word. If Michael were there, he’d point his finger and crow in triumph, demanding that she feed another dollar into the swear jar.
“Shit,” she repeated. “Fuck fuck, fucking damn fuck!”
Her heart fluttered at the naughty words, and she smiled. Six dollars well spent.
She needed that job. Her problems—Vince—weren’t cheap. Back when she still had money, she should have moved far, far away. Started fresh. New phone. New town. New everything, just her and Michael, starting over far away from Vince and his bottomless greed.
Maybe she should call his bluff. Vince didn’t really want to be a dad. He never expressed any interest in Michael, other than what Rosemary could afford to pay him to go away. Vince never called on birthdays or holidays. He never wanted to spend time with Michael and get to know his son. If Rosemary suddenly gave in and shared custody, Vince wouldn’t know what to do. He’d panic. Fear of actual adult responsibility might keep him away for good.
Michael wouldn’t understand all that. His face went pale when he saw Vince waiting for them on the front steps. Even if she explained her plan, that it was all fake, he wouldn’t believe her. He’d think he did something wrong to make her not want him anymore.
No. She couldn’t do that to her little man.
She’d find another job and manage to get by, like always.
An incoming call broke the silence of the cabin. Before she could swipe to ignore on her phone, the vehicle automatically answered.
“Hazel?” Her absent sister’s image appeared on the embedded screen in the cabin wall.
“Oh good, you finally answered.” Hazel leaned into the screen, all smiles. “Is that a private cab?”
“Well, I thought I’d treat myself since I got fired.”
“What! Why?”
“Late. Public transport was late again.”
“What happened to that new car?” The unspoken question hung heavy, What happened to all that money I gave you?
Rosemary scratched her nose, buying time to think of a distraction. “Isn’t this too expensive to waste time worrying about that?”
“Probably. I ask Seeran about credits, and he acts like I’ve insulted his manhood.”
Typical backwards alien attitude. Don’t let the little female worry about money.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” Hazel said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
Distraction successful. “Did you really call me from space to argue?”
Hazel’s smile returned. “I have a surprise!”
“You’re pregnant,” Rosemary said. Of course Hazel was knocked up. That was the alien’s prime directive. Acquire female. Make babies. Make more babies.
“I was going to invite you to visit us, sourpuss.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You were thinking it.” Hazel’s voice remained cheerful.
“I can’t exactly afford an off-planet vacation right now.”
“I’ll pay.”
“Really? Wow.”
“There’s this winter holiday that Seeran’s family celebrates. It’s basically Christmas.”
“Alien Christmas.”
“Christmas. And I want to hug my nephew.”
“Michael has school—”
“Sign him out. People do it for vacations all the time.”
Did they? Rosemary never really had a vacation to know. “Will I be able to eat the food? I don’t want to eat that weird alien stuff.”
“We have Earth food, you know. You won’t starve.” Hazel rolled her eyes in an amazing feat of sisterly attitude from the other side of the galaxy.
“I don’t know,” Rosemary said, searching for a reason to decline. The idea of being off Earth seemed wrong. The idea of facing all those aliens, with their alien food and speaking a language she couldn’t understand overwhelmed her. “I should be looking for a job.”
Hazel pinched the bridge of her nose, frustrated. “It’s an all-expenses-paid trip to Sangrin. His family owns a vineyard. It’s scenic. How can you pass that up?”
True. Her schedule suddenly had a lot of availability. Plus, getting away from Vince for a time would be good, if only for her peace of mind. If he ever found out that she took an off-planet vacation, he’d hound her mercilessly for cash she didn’t have. Only the ultra-rich—or Mahdfel brides—went off-planet.
She missed Hazel. It had only been the two of them for so long, and her sister was her best friend. After Hazel’s divorce, she had to leave town and Rosemary missed her companion. Phone calls were not enough.
“Please, Rosemary. I miss you—”
Shit. She couldn’t say no now without breaking her pregnant sister’s heart. This could be good. No, this would be good. “When do we leave?” Rosemary asked.
Mene
Council meetings were insufferable at the best of times, but the Elder refused to stop flapping his mouth, pleased with the sound of his own voice.
Mene sent a brief message to his brother. Father will not stop talking.
Too busy to greet our guests? Lorran responded.
Mene frowned at the screen. The two Terrans were not his guests but Seeran’s, his other brother. Or rather, the sister of his brother’s mate. His mother had insisted that Mene be the one to meet them when they arrived on Sangrin. Tani claimed it was to welcome them after a long journey and make them feel welcome, rather than let an impersonal auto-transport deliver them.
He knew the true reason. Tani played at matchmaking. The sister of Seeran’s mate—Hazel, he recalled her name—would likely have a high degree of compatibility with one of Seeran’s brothers. His unmated brothers.
Tani wanted grandsons more than she respected the autonomy of her sons. Mene was not interested in being matched to a mate, and he was not interested in claiming the passed -over sibling of Seeran’s mate.
Good. Mother already sent me to spaceport, Lorran typed.
Mene growled low in the back of his throat. He did not want his charming and personable younger brother to greet the female.
I will be there. Mene’s fingers stabbed at the screen as he entered the words.
Afraid the female will prefer my company?
No.
He did worry that the Terran female would prefer Lorran to himself. He didn’t want her, but the idea of her wanting Lorran sat uncomfortably with him.
I don’t care, Mene wrote. Just fetch the Terrans.
So gracious. So
inspiring. Truly, a leader of warriors.
Mene chuffed at the screen.
“Something amusing you, Warrior Rhew?” The Elder’s dry voice rustled across the expanse of the council chamber.
Mene shifted his stance, standing at his attention behind his father’s chair. “No, sir. I followed up on a previous mission.”
The elder turned to Oran. “Monitoring these sessions is his only mission. Our security’s focus should not be split. We are far too important to leave vulnerable and exposed because this young one is...is flirting.”
Flirting? Mene bit his tongue. Elders demanded respect, even the pompous, self-important windbags.
Oran choked back a laugh. Though his hair was white with age, he remained in peak physical form. If an attack happened, Oran was not so far advanced in his years to be helpless. “The hour grows late. I believe our families are anxious to celebrate Golau.”
The Elders of the Council murmured agreement before breaking for the evening. A mix of Mahdfel warriors and Sangrin politicians populated the council that oversaw Mahdfel activity on Sangrin. The council members fancied that they directed the clan warlords but Mene saw the truth: the warlords listened to the Council out of respect for experience and wisdom. If they disagreed and defied the Council’s will, there was little recourse.
The little recourse was him, the Council’s enforcer, but Mene rarely had to act in that capacity. The times he had done so had left vivid reminders on his body.
Currently, the Council argued about a power struggle between two warlords. A young, ambitious warlord had designs on a larger clan. Tradition demanded that the warlords resolve it among themselves. The clans self-governed, mostly, and the most powerful and cunning warrior rose to the rank of warlord. The trouble in this situation was the older warlord with the larger clan was deeply unpopular with the Council. The younger warlord was reckless and let the Suhlik, their sworn enemy, gain an advantage.
Mene had the feeling that if the warlords did not resolve this soon, he would have to mediate. His form of mediation did not involve sitting around a large table and flapping his maw. His mediation was violent and direct.
For the most part, the council directed the Mahdfel clans of Sangrin, spent money building stations and equipment, funded research, and oversaw the testing of the Sangrin female population for genetic compatibility, in accordance with the Mahdfel-Sangrin treaty. The Mahdfel had defended Sangrin against invasion for several generations. There remained little for the Council to do at this point but squabble about taxes and perceived insults to their honor.
Mene’s father, Oran, left active duty for this. Worse, Oran expected Mene to follow in a political career.
He hated politics. Almost as much as he hated politicians.
A small female, hair white as the snow on the ground, motioned for Mene. “Elder Deron,” he said, nodding his head.
“I want you to meet my daughter, Charin,” Elder Deron said. He tapped the shoulder of a younger female standing next to him. She turned around, a pleasant smile on her face, and visibly flinched when she saw Mene. Not unattractive, the female was slight in stature, and her small horns curled delicately from her brow. Her color drained away, but her smile remained fixed in place. A true politician’s daughter, hiding her disgust at his scars.
Mene gave a short nod, ignoring her revulsion. He should be used to it, but it still stung. Regardless, it did not matter. Her scent did not appeal to him. Recently invented, the genetic compatibility test replaced the traditional method of hunting a mate via scent. According to mated males, though, the aroma of their female was the most luscious, delectable fragrance they had ever experienced.
Mene wanted that. He wanted to find his female, to detect her unique essence and let it overwhelm his senses. He wanted her taste to explode on his tongue as he licked the salt from her skin and the cream from her quim. He wanted her to genuinely smile when she saw him because he was a vain creature, and he never wanted to see the shadow of fear in her eyes. He wanted to hold her, protect her and make a family with her. It was a deep-seated need, one embedded in his genetic code by the Mahdfel’s former masters, he knew, but that did not diminish the need.
He refused to settle for anything less, and he felt no such pull with this female. Charin was not his.
She murmured a greeting, eyes demurely downcast. Even if her scent had intrigued him, that alone would have been enough to turn him away. Mene had no patience for a shy and tender female.
“She is a Mahdfel widow,” Elder Deron said, as if that revelation would magically make them compatible. She was simply not his.
“I wish you a festive Golau,” Mene said blandly. “My mother has made many promises of my time, and I must deliver my father safely home. Please forgive my departure.”
First, his mother played matchmaker and now Elder Deron. Was there no escape from meddlers?
Chapter Two
Rosemary
Hazel missed her calling as a travel agent. The proof arrived the next day. The small package contained paper tickets, an itinerary, and two in-ear translation devices, which she was glad to see. Rosemary had worried about the language barrier but didn’t have the cash for an implanted translation chip. Michael was too young to have something like that in his still-developing brain. The itinerary had them take a shuttle to the military base on the moon and from there a shuttle to a series of teleportation gates. The entire trip would take twenty hours.
The idea of teleportation didn’t sit well with Rosemary, but the alternative was weeks in a slow-moving shuttle. She could barely imagine being cooped up in a shuttle, let alone Michael trying to stay in his seat and sit quietly for days on end. No thanks. She would take her chances with the teleportation gates.
They left three days later, which was enough time for Rosemary to explain Michael’s prolonged absence from school and pack. She wasn’t sure what to bring for a two-week trip or how to dress for the weather. Hazel said it was a winter holiday, so Rosemary packed for a winter ski trip, not that she ever went on one. She packed coats, hat, gloves, and scarves. That was obvious. Snow boots and heavy socks. Casual clothes and a formal outfit, just in case she needed to attend a fancy party or dinner. Toiletries, of course.
She packed books and activities to keep Michael busy. He insisted on bringing his soccer ball. It wouldn’t fit in the suitcase, so he would have to carry it in his backpack. She didn’t fight him on it. A busy child was a well-behaved child. If Michael found himself bored or restless, he could wear himself out chasing a ball.
She loaded up her tablet computer with books.
Finally, a gift for the host. Rosemary heard on television that the Mahdfel liked coffee. Okay, it was a soap opera but truth in fiction, right? She grabbed a bag of her favorite roast and a box of chocolate. If even the gift was a flop, it was the thought that counted.
That was how Rosemary found herself with two very heavy suitcases and one overly-excited seven-year-old chasing a soccer ball down the airport concourse. “Michael, stop!”
Of course, he didn’t stop. Why would he stop like a sane person?
“Don’t worry; I’ll get it, Mom.”
Every set of eyes in the airport watched her. Judged her.
“Mom of the year,” she mumbled under her breath as security approached her. The tall man had a black and white ball tucked under his arm and Michael’s shirt collar in his other hand. The guard did not look happy.
“Ma’am? You need to come with me.”
“I’m so sorry about that,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears. The trip just started, and already she was exhausted. No more off-planet vacations. “He has so much energy. I’ll put the ball away. It won’t happen again.”
“Follow me, ma’am.”
The guard deposited her at a boarding gate, rather than wherever it was troublesome passengers went. True to her word, the ball went into the backpack to stay. Before she knew it, they were on the moon.
The rest of the jour
ney went smoothly. The second shuttle had more legroom than the first commuter shuttle, but it was little more than a glorified bus with aisle seats. Michael played games or watched movies on his tablet and kept quiet, mostly.
The lights dimmed, and the overhead speakers announced in several languages that they were approaching the first gate. Rosemary’s grip tightened on the armrests.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Michael said with a smile. “There’s less nausea on large craft teleportation. If you do get barfy, peppermint or ginger helps.”
“Where did you hear that?”
He pointed to the safety pamphlet in the pocket of the seat in front of him.
The lights flickered, and Rosemary felt a terrible tug on her stomach. She grabbed Michael’s hand and squeezed tight. The sensation of being disassembled on the molecular level wasn’t the worst thing she ever experienced, but it wasn’t awesome either. It felt a bit like eating too much and needing to burp to relieve the pressure.
“Mom? You can let go now. Do you want a mint?” The slot in the seatback dispensed a small red and white mint.
As the candy dissolved, she felt better. “How did you get so good at this?”
Michael shrugged, turning back to his game as space travel and teleportation proved a complete bore.
***
Ten hours later, Rosemary found herself on an alien planet. From her vantage point on the concourse, the spaceport was similar enough to the average airport that she understood the basics, like picking up luggage, but different enough that she felt disoriented. The translucent walls glowed softly with light. Designed to move people, the space was efficient but not sparse. The tight weave of the carpet covering the floor reminded her of the jute rug in her dining room. Rows of uncomfortable plastic seats crowded the area surrounding the boarding gate.
Vendors offered services that had no human equivalent, like horn polishing. They passed a stand of very pretty ornaments and delicate chains to decorate horns. The most amazing aromas wafted from the food stalls. Her stomach rumbled. Tiredness and hunger made everything smell so darn appetizing, but when she got a good look at the strange cuts of meat and unknown vegetable, she resisted. She couldn’t risk getting sick from eating something weird.
Alien Warlord's Passion (Warlord Brides Index Book 2) Page 2