Alien Mate

by Gloria Martin

  Shit, I think. I can’t fuck this up. Not now. I’ve come too far. I pick up my cell phone and dial Roger.

  “Oi,” he grumbles. “What the fuck does this nut job thing he’s doing? Got you doing figures eights, he does.”

  “I know that, Roger,” I say, turning left on from Fairfax onto Sunset. “What I need to know is what the hell we’re going to do now?”

  “We’re going to smash his fucking head in,” he laughs. I hear heavy metal music blaring on his radio. When he revs himself up for doing damage he goes all out.

  “Don’t forget that I need the painting, Roger,” I scream so that he hears me over the atrocious music.

  “I didn’t forget, mate,” he says. “I know how precious your artsy fartsy stuff is to you.”

  Nick makes another left on La Brea and picks up his speed, no longer caring for rules of the road or speed. He knows that I’m on to him, and he probably even knows that there’s someone else involved, as well. I can tell by the way he swerves around traffic that he has a destination in mind.

  Why do I feel like he’s guiding me to Carly’ gallery?

  *****

  Carly

  The first thing I do is put the money in a wall like Nick told me. I’ll take some of the cash and buy a safe soon enough, but for now I am anxious about the grocery store bag full of hundreds of thousands of dollars sitting in my cheap gallery space. In the storage room there is one panel in the wall that has always been loose. Behind the panel is a space just big enough to hide a towering stack of bills.

  It takes me about an hour to get all of the money from the Whole Foods bag neatly layered in the space between walls. I take out exactly five thousand dollars before plastering the space where the hole once was. I will leave the money there until I need it. I’d like to think that this five thousand would be enough to solve all my immediate financial worries.

  I thumb through the thousands in cash watching the plaster dry, the red glow from the storage room light reflecting brightly off its glossy white surface. Suddenly, I hear a loud knocking at the front door of the gallery. Getting to my feet, I rush out the storage room door and see Nick standing at the gallery door in his floral shirt and khakis. The aviators on his face are now cracked, and a stream of blood trickles down his face.

  What the hell did I get myself into? I wonder. I hesitate before going to the door to let Nick in. My emotions are in upheaval—with his desperate eyes staring at me through the glass door, he doesn’t even need to mouth words for me to know that he needs me. Should I let him in the gallery, dripping blood onto my clean floors? Or should I call the cops and erase this forever?

  Again, his eyes call to me like a snake charmer and I’m already slithering toward the door—but this time I’m like a python ready to strike. I unlatch the lock on the door, swing it open, grab him by the soaked collar of his floor shirt, and pull him inside, locking the door behind us.

  “What the hell happened to you, and why did you leave with saying good-bye after sleeping with me?” The questions come out in rapid succession, but my heart is really burning for the answer to the latter part.

  “I’ve got maniacs on my tail,” he says, that perfect smile burning white through the dried blood.

  “I knew you’d be trouble,” I say. Why do I suddenly feel like I’m in a B-Movie remake of Casablanca? “It’s about the money, isn’t it?”

  He laughs, combing his sweaty bangs back with his hand. “Surprisingly, no. But it has everything to do with Deviled Legs.”

  “What are you talking about, Nick?”

  “I’m talking about the fact that you somehow got your hands on a piece of art that many people want. And now it’s catching up with us.”

  “I don’t get it,” I say, taking him by the hand to guide him away from the front window. Now I feel like I’m on his side, like I’m protective of him. I ought to train myself not to get so attached after one night of intimacy.

  Outside I hear a car door shut, followed by a second, even louder one. I look out the window and am shocked when I see a familiar face.

  Amos Torrany. The man who tried to buy Deviled Legs on the night of the opening.

  This can’t be one big coincidence. “Nick!” I cry. “I’m scared!”

  He takes my chin in his fingertips and lifts my face upward to meet his gaze. “Don’t be, Carly,” he says, then puckers his rough lips to my soft ones. The kiss only lasts a second until Nick steps in front of me, guarding me from the coming danger.

  I knew there was something that initially disturbed me about Amos. But how is it that both of these men knew about the Lora Zombie piece? The tension here feels like it is beyond me, even though Nick said it was all about Deviled Legs. These guys must have some fierce, deadly rivalry going on.

  ***

  Amos

  The fact that Nick brought Roger and me to Carly’s gallery is a sign that there is something cosmic going on here. I’m not really a spiritual man, but I’m also not dumb enough to ignore the signs in front of me. Hell, at this point I wouldn’t be surprised if Lora Zombie herself showed up with wings like an angel to inform us that the apocalypse has already passed us by.

  “Listen, Roger,” I say, holding my arm out to prevent him from bashing the gallery windows in, “the stakes have just changed. Old Nick Caras here has pulled another fast one, and now there is something on the line more important than the painting.”

  “More important than the painting?” Roger asks, taking off his sunglasses to make sure he heard me right. “You must be having an existential crisis, mate.”

  Coming from Roger that sounds like a prophecy for disaster.

  “I think you’re right,” I answer. “Keep your phone close by. I need to handle this one by myself for now.”

  “Copy that,” he says. “Don’t fall too hard on your face.” He smacks my back like we just won a football game and climbs inside his Hummer again. I wait until he reverses back onto the main road before I approach the gallery door waving my white flag.

  Nick’s white van is parked crooked in the street, irresponsibly askew. I’m almost tempted to get the keys from him and park it proper just to protect the damn art inside. How could he be so thoughtless with Deviled Legs begging to be stolen out of a crappy white van in Midtown LA?

  Standing in front of the gallery door, I go to open it but I can already tell that it’s locked from the inside. I put my face to the glass and see Nick standing in front of Carly.

  Why is his face bloody? I ask myself. I didn’t do that, and as far as I know, Roger didn’t, either. So what’s the gimmick here?

  I hold up both palms over my head as a signal to both of them that I come in peace. One thing that I must admit is that my adrenaline urges my body to beat the pulp out of Nick. I can’t get the thought of this man ghosting me for years. He’s been after my life, and now he has put his hands on the one woman I’ve felt anything for in nearly a decade.

  My skin crawls at the thought of Nick having slept with Carly. How is it that a scumbag who came from nothing can acquire so effortlessly what I could not? Why am I never good enough?

  For all I know they could already have police on the way, and here I am standing around waiting for them to cuff me. I try to look past Nick and only see Carly. Behind them both I see the empty space where Deviled Legs hung only two nights before. If only I could communicate with Carly telepathically she would know that I’m not the shallow, calloused individual that she thinks I am. Since the moment she spoke to me I’ve wanted to have her.

  The instant I finish my thought she steps out behind Nick and walks toward the door, her gait steady, already determined to unlatch it and let me in. Or so I hope.

  Once the door is ajar she peers into me with her brows furrowed. “What are you doing here, Amos?” she asks.

  “What am I doing here?” I retort. “What is Nick Caras doing here? Do you realize you currently are harboring one of the biggest scam artists in the country within your gallery walls?�
��

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Amos,” Carly says. I want to beg her to come with me. To leave the gallery behind and let me start a new life for her.

  “Don’t listen to him, Carly,” Nick calls out from inside. “This man is a master manipulator. He’ll tell you everything you want to hear to get you to do what he wants.”

  Carly double takes Nick from over her shoulder then glances back to me. “Come in,” she demands. “Right now.” She takes a step back and pulls the door all the way open so that there is no mistaking her.

  “Has anyone called the police?” I ask.

  “Great question,” Nick answers.

  “As far as I know, nobody has called the police,” Carly adds.

  “Who was that spunky punk you were with?” Nick asks.

  “A friend of a friend,” I say. “No need to worry about him. Unless you think there’s something to worry about.”

  “Nothing to worry about, Amos, my pal,” Nick says.

  “You two know each other?” Carly asks.

  “You could say that,” I suggest. “You could also say that Nick, here, has tried to kill me before, not to mention steal my identity and all my assets.”

  “That’s putting it lightly,” he laughs.

  “I don’t know what the hell is going on here,” Carly says, “but I don’t think I want to be a part of it anymore.”

  The fact that Carly’s seems more distrustful of me than ever makes me want to go to drastic measures to get her back. “Disregard him, Carly,” I say, extending my hand out for her to take it. “Come with me right now and your wish is my command. We need to get as far away from him as soon as possible.”

  Carly’s eyes go vacant, her mouth agape. “Where is the painting?” I continue. “Where is Deviled Legs?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Nick says, turning his back to us both as he closes the bathroom door behind him.

  “He has the painting, Amos,” she says. “That guy you were with a second ago came and picked it up from the gallery this morning. Nick gave me cash for it last night before we…”

  “Before you, what?” I ask. Please, don’t say it, Carly, I think.

  “Never mind,” she says. “I don’t know what to do. My instincts are telling me to run. I don’t know if I can trust you or him or anyone in this city, for that matter.”

  “Can you trust yourself?” I ask, staring into her shiny jade eyes.

  I hear Nick flush the toilet and run the sink inside the bathroom, but Carly doesn’t take her eyes off me.

  “Yes,” she says. “Of course I can trust myself.”

  “So what are you going to do?” I ask.

  Nick steps out of the bathroom and I break my gaze from Carly to make sure he’s not up to anything sketchy. His face is washed of all the blood and he’s shirtless, revealing his ripped, beefy physique. He’s got about thirty pounds on me, but I’ve been trained in martial arts. If he’s trying to fight me hand to hand, he’s got another thing coming.

  “Well, Carly?” I say.

  *****

  Nick

  Sometimes you’ve got to get a little creative to get things moving in your favor. For example, bashing my face against the van’s steering wheel to make me look helpless got me inside Carly’s studio again. Showing up at The Getty before they opened got me on camera for some poor British chump to show Amos. And a couple million bought off his muscle man, Roger.

  As for Carly, well, I originally thought that I could use her as bait to get to Amos, and I was right about that. But the crazy thing is that Amos actually has feelings for this woman, and that annoys the shit out of me for some reason. Annoys the shit out of me big time.

  “She already answered that question last night, pal,” I say.

  “Shut up,” Amos spits, and turns to Carly. “Oh, he’s a smooth talker. He’s got all the moves. But he doesn’t love art! Not like you and me!”

  “You have to make a choice, Carly. Right now. Him or me. This man is a fake. A phony. He’ll take your life down corners you couldn’t even imagine. If you choose me, I can make you the artist you want to be.”

  I step toward Carly, ready to punch Amos in his teeth. “The reason men like me exist is because monsters like you exist,” I say.

  “Be quiet, Nick,” Carly says, keeping her eyes shut as if to ignore Amos and me.

  “Excellent choice, Carly,” Amos says. “You can come with me right now. Forget the gallery.”

  “I need you to shut up, too, Amos,” she says. “And to hell with you for assuming that I’d already made a choice. If I had to trust anyone here, it would be myself. As far as I’m concerned, Nick, you are both monsters.”

  Ouch. I hate it when my own words come back to bite me.

  ***

  Amos

  “I don’t understand, Carly,” I say. “How could you choose a lowlife like this over me? All I desire is to have you, love you, make love to you. How could you give that to a scumbag like Nick Caran?

  Carly only shakes her head, keeping her face pointed at the floor. Now that Nick has stepped closer to the inner circle, I feel like my guard should be up. Don’t think I don’t see your fists clenched, Nick, I think.

  “What you want is a fantasy, Amos,” Carly says. I try to find the very spot on the floor where her eyes are pointed at, and upon searching I see a teardrop splash against the linoleum. “You both are on a downward path to destruction. You think I don’t want love, Amos?”

  “I didn’t say that,” I say. I now realize that all of my responses and reactions to this woman are counterintuitive to her nature. It is like I’m hardwired against her. Is it even possible for me to connect with her?

  “It doesn’t matter what you say, Amos,” she continues. “What matters is what you do. What you’ve done.”

  “You’re choosing a man who has tried to kill another man,” I laugh. “How much money did he pay you to sleep with him?”

  Before I know it Carly takes two strides toward me and plants her swinging palm against my face, leaving the echo of a loud Clap throughout the gallery.

  “Get out, Amos,” she says. “Get out right now.”

  “You’d better listen to her,” Nick says, cracking his knuckles. “We wouldn’t want this to get ugly. Now would we, Amos?”

  I have half a mind to pick up my cell and dial Roger; he’d love to storm over here and bash the place to bits.

  “So this is your choice, then?” I ask, the burn from her smack still searing across my cheek.

  Silence from both Nick and Carly. “I understand,” I say. “I hope you look back on this moment in regret for the rest of your life, Carly. You’ll mourn the death of this opportunity.”

  I take one last look at her—the only woman who can speak to my soul—and turn toward the gallery door. I unlock it, open the door, and let it swing shut behind me.

  I instantly hear the door latch shut again behind me. I don’t need to turn around; I’ve already detached from Carly forever.

  But I don’t have to detach from Lora Zombie.

  I walk to the Mercedes, start her up, and drive away from the gallery, but I only go a few blocks up the road before parking on a side street. I plan to wait a few minutes and sneak back to the gallery. If I’m correct in assuming what Carly and Nick are about to do, I should have approximately 15 minutes to get inside the van and find Deviled Legs.

  ***

  Carly

  When I turn around from the door, my face is soaked with tears. Nick rushes over to me and takes me into his arms.

  “Take everything that lunatic just said and throw it out the window of your mind,” he says, stroking my hair. “You can’t listen to people like that.”

  “I don’t know who to listen to anymore,” I say, my mouth sobbing against his thin floral shirt. “You, him, Los Angeles. I just want to go home.”

  “Look at me,” Nick says, pressing away and trying to make his way into my eyes. “Tell me why you moved to this cit
y. Tell me why you educated yourself in art.”

  “I moved here because I wanted to make something of myself,” I whimper. “I studied art because I didn’t think I was good enough to be an artist. I love art, but I just never thought I was good enough.”

  He takes my chin into his fingers and kisses me on my forehead. “You’re good enough,” he smiles. “Carly, I promise you that you’re good enough.”

  In the heat of Nick’s arms, I take a glance at the stool sitting in front of where Deviled Legs hung. With the curtains of the gallery closed, I feel safe enough to lead him over to it.

  “Where are we going?” he asks.

  “Just follow me,” I say, more as an order than a request.

  “I can do that,” he answers.

  I set my rear on the wooden stool, opening my legs so that I can hug him with my entire body. I wrap my arms and legs around him, pressing my face to his firm chest. I smell sweat and lavender on his skin. The light peering in through the curtains gives the room a radiant blue glow, more relaxed that the red bulb inside the storage room.

  This time taking Nick feels cleaner, as if I have truly acquired him. “You make me feel many things,” he says.

  “You sound silly when you open your mouth,” I say. “Do you know that you sound silly? Is that who you really are? Just a silly man?”

  Even the cadence of his laughter is seductive—he plays with my hair, coiling it in his fingers and massaging my shoulder. My breasts are pressed against his hips, and I feel the bulge of his erection growing against me. I loosen the button of his khakis and pull the zipper down to expose the soft gray cotton of his briefs. Digging my fingers into the elastic band, I hear Nick moaning softly. I’m not stupid, Nick, I think. I know that you’re trying to guide my head closer to your cock.

  I like the fact that he wants me, and I know that he’s currently indulging in the fact that I chose him. I slowly ride the elastic down his waist, unveiling his groin centimeters as a time. Sliding down from the wooden seat, I rotate Nick by his hips so that he can take my place. I want him sitting down for this. With my knees on the linoleum for, I finally release Nick’s hard dick and hold it before my face with both hands. I take a deep breath because once I insert him into my mouth I’m going to need to hold my oxygen. There has never been a time I’ve anticipated something into my throat like this.