Tattooed Tryst

by Cynthia Sax

  None of them will remember me. Trake scanned the store and sniffed the air, listening to the whispered conversations and the whirl of the air conditioning unit. He sensed no off-worlders and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Here?” Raff repeated, standing beside him. “I doubt your brother is hiding between the boxes of granola bars.”

  “Speak English,” Trake growled at his friend, his temper frayed.

  “The humans won’t remember what language we speak,” Raff protested, following him as he stalked up and down the narrow aisles.

  “It’s protocol.” Trake stopped in front of a handwritten sign and swept his hand over the empty shelves. Spilled grains of sugar stuck to his fingertips. “The shelves are empty.”

  A stock boy wearing a green smock wheeled a pallet jack stacked high with bags of white sugar into the aisle. “That’s a lot of sugar you have there.” Trake offered the boy his friendliest smile, the human expression feeling strained and unnatural.

  “Yep. I mean, yes, sir.” He gulped. “Sirs.” He glanced from Trake to Raff and back to Trake. “We can’t keep it on the shelves.”

  “Who’d buy so much sugar?” Trake leveled an imperious gaze on the human, compelling him to answer.

  “W…w…we don’t know, sir.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “The customers pay in cash and none of the cashiers remember seeing them. It’s strange.” He wiped his forehead.

  “Very strange,” Raff added dryly. “Almost alien.”

  “Protocol,” Trake reminded the young warrior. “That will be all,” he dismissed the stock boy.

  “Council showed one off-worlder in this region,” his friend pointed out as the young human walked away. “One off-worlder wouldn’t go through this much sugar.”

  “I know.” Trake frowned, annoyed with himself for believing the Council tracked all of the off-worlders on Earth. “So now.” He leaned against a pillar and crossed his arms, fighting the pain in his chest. “We wait.”

  * * * * *

  Seven hours later, Trake slumped against the grocery store pillar, sharp shards of anguish piercing his human body and torturing his splitting souls. His vision blurred. His muscles spasmed.

  “You don’t look so good, Commander.” Raff sucked on his fourth Popsicle of the day, his ass firmly planted on an upturned milk crate.

  “Fight,” Trake croaked, his voice unrecognizable. His knees gave out and he slumped to the floor. Lori. He smelled her warm, musky scent amidst the dust and cleaners and baking supplies. My One. He flared his nostrils, breathing deeply, his head bowed, clinging to consciousness.

  “Whatever.” Raff shrugged. “Is my tongue blue?” He stuck the organ out for Trake’s perusal.

  “Yes,” the sexiest voice in all of the known universes declared. “But I shouldn’t talk to you. I’m angry with your sleeping friend.” Lori kicked Trake’s boots. He growled a response and tried to lift his head to look at her, but he didn’t have the energy to move. “I almost got fired thanks to his ‘this is a dream’ nonsense. Do you know how hard it is to find a job in this small town?”

  Must…touch… Trake extended his index finger toward her.

  Air whistled through Lori’s front teeth as she exhaled. “What’s wrong with him? Why isn’t he answering?”

  “He’s determined to kill himself,” Raff declared cheerfully. “You believed the dream line?”

  “The alternatives to that were aliens exist or I’ve gone nuts, so yeah, I did.” She crouched, her knees brushed his arm, and Trake shuddered with pleasure, the pain receding. “I must be crazy, as no one remembers poor Ed, alien or not. He’s even disappeared from photos.”

  Paper rustled and a creased news clipping floated to the floor between them. An image of human males, captured in black and white, covered the tile, a conspicuous blank space where Trake’s assignment once stood.

  “It’s as though he never existed.” Lori’s voice covered him, a balm for his souls.

  “In this time stream, he doesn’t,” his friend offered flippantly. “You’re not crazy, Lori. We’re aliens from Orogone, working with your government to monitor alien activity on Earth. Our duty is to send other aliens back to their planets.” Raff sucked noisily on the frozen sugar water, the treat providing the additional energy their souls required.

  Protocol. Trake moved his mouth. No words came out, the three syllables stuck in his aching throat.

  “How does that work?” Soft skin skimmed over Trake’s lips and he closed his eyes, drawing on Lori’s unique energy. My One.

  “Trake will explain.”

  “Right now, Trake isn’t well enough to do anything.” She ran her fingers up his scarred cheek and across his forehead, wiping away the moisture beaded on his skin, her touch revitalizing him. “He’s burning up. We should get him to a hospital.”

  Raff laughed. “We’re aliens, remember?”

  Trake caught Lori’s wrist, his strength returning with her presence. “Need.” He slid her small hand under his jacket and sighed contentedly as waves of soothing bliss radiated from her fingertips, calming his ravaged souls.

  “Hey.” Lori tugged at her arm. He didn’t release her, too selfish to let her go. “You’re frying my hand.” She spread her fingers over his mark, flattening the raised blue waves. “Your tattoo is infected, Trake. This level of heat isn’t normal.”

  “Not human.” Trake leaned his head against the pillar and peered into a round, pale face dominated by a pair of concerned blue eyes and a pursed pink mouth. Brown curls framed full cheeks and bounced around her shoulders. “Orogone. Normal for Orogone.”

  “Right.” She bit off the word. “The alien stuff again.” Although mockery edged her voice, her form was plush and soft and he yearned to fall into her full curves, forgetting his failures and his regrets, losing himself in her arms. “Aliens are supposed to be green, don’t you know that? It makes you easier to identify.”

  “The point is not to be identified.” Raff chuckled, clearly amused by Trake’s One. “Orogones assimilate. It is one of our many talents,” his friend boasted, breaking protocol once more. “We take the form of the native species. We learn their language. We become one of them.”

  “And when you’re not assimilating?” Lori traced the red sphere on Trake’s chest, pain relief radiating from her fingers. “What do you look like then?”

  Raff stared at her, his face blank.

  “You don’t know what you look like?” Lori stopped her delightful touching. Trake pushed his chest against her hand, silently asking for more of her caresses.

  “I guess we don’t.” Raff beamed, smiling foolishly. “Orogones prefer to mate with other species, and children take the forms of their parents. We’re always assimilating.

  “Great.” Lori rubbed her fingertips into Trake’s tattoo, instinctually providing the connection he needed. “There are gun-toting alien chameleons among us. That’s comforting.” Her tone indicated the opposite. “So what are you doing here?” She glanced around them. “Is there a sale on anal probes?”

  “Your One is hilarious, Commander,” Raff crowed, slapping him on the back, and Trake bobbed his head at the compliment, pleased with Lori’s wit. “No anal probes. Sugar. We want to know who is buying so much sugar.”

  “Protocol,” Trake groaned. His friend was hopeless with secrets of any kind.

  “Everyone knows that.” Lori made a rude sound, her plump lips vibrating with the noise. “Ed from the gas station, the alien you supposedly sent home.” She cast a hard look at Trake and he smiled back, dazed by her presence and enchanted by her fearlessness. “He bought sugar to add to concrete for his side renovation business. I think he said sugar settled it. I don’t really remember.” She shook her head, the store’s fluorescent lights turning strands of her hair red.

  “Old Man Warthers also buys truckloads of the stuff to make jam all year round. He gave me a jar once.” Lori grimaced. “Deathly sweet. It’s a wonder he still has any teeth left.” She slid into Trak
e’s lap and rested her arm on his shoulder, her body fitting perfectly into his. “Why didn’t you simply ask someone?”

  “Yes, Commander.” Raff stood, grinning down at him. “Why didn’t we simply ask someone?” He shook out the wrinkles in his khaki pants. “Don’t worry. I’ll investigate the old man. Quietly.”

  “Raff.” Trake swept his hand over his face, exhausted, yet knowing he should accompany Raff, the careless warrior as subtle as a supernova.

  “Let your One take care of you,” his friend advised. “You need her and you’ll require your strength if this is the break we’ve been looking for.”

  Trake nodded, too weak to argue, and Raff walked away, whistling a jaunty Orogone tune. Lori sat in silence, her plump form firmly settled on Trake’s hard cock, her gaze on his chest.

  “Did he mean that?” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “About you needing me?”

  Trake leaned forward and skimmed the tip of his nose against hers, savoring the sensory delights to be found within his human body, delights he hadn’t discovered until meeting his One. “While I regain my strength.”

  “You need me.” A small smile curled her lips. “I won’t let you down, Trake.”

  “I know you won’t.” He pressed his mouth against her forehead, unable to make her the same vow.

  Chapter Two

  Lori held on to Trake’s hand as he led her blindly along the twisting trail. They were shrouded in darkness, the sliver of a moon and the sparkling stars in the sky above them providing the only light.

  The reduced visibility didn’t slow Trake. He moved quickly and surely toward the Warthers house, a rambling mansion situated at the top of Pearl Falls’ highest hill. His steps didn’t make a sound on the newly mowed grass and Lori placed her sneakers as carefully, determined not to break the silence.

  A branch snapped under her heel and she winced, certain he’d regret asking her to join him. “Sorry,” she whispered. He glanced back at her, the blue-and-red flames in his eyes glowing, and he squeezed her fingers, his palm calloused and comfortingly warm.

  They rounded a bend in the narrow path. A flicker of light illuminated the bushes surrounding the house. “Fuck.” Trake inhaled sharply. “Hasn’t he heard of protocol?”

  Lori slammed into Trake’s back and bounced off the leather-clad wall of flesh. He reached behind him, his big hands steadying her. She sucked in her breath, breathing in leather and fire and alien man. “Trake?” Her voice thinned with need.

  “Give me a minute.” He didn’t release her immediately, holding on to her as though he gained strength from their connection.

  He needs me. Lori trembled with sexual excitement. He may be crazy or an alien or both, but he needs me. She rested her palms on his shoulder blades, her breasts flattened against his back, her hips snug against his tight ass.

  “Now.” His hand dropped to her wrist and he surged forward, pulling her with him.

  “’Bout time.” Raff stood, a lantern illuminating his wide grin. “I have an assignment tomorrow. Not all of us are retired, Commander.” He winked at Lori.

  “He’s Orogone, fool,” Trake ground out through clenched teeth, his face dark and hard. “He’ll hear you.”

  “That’s the point.” Trake’s blond-haired friend rolled his eyes. “Flush him out and find out who he is, with no direct contact, satisfying protocol.”

  “How do you know he’s Orogone?” Lori whispered, leaning into Trake, curiosity overcoming her caution.

  “When we’re in close proximity, we can sense each other.” Trake sniffed the night air. “Our souls, our essences, what we are, send a weak signal.” He breathed deeper and his body stiffened against hers.

  She circled in front of Trake. “What—”

  “Not now.” He pressed his fingertips into the delicate skin at her wrist. “Raff.” Trake turned to his friend. “Go get some sleep.”

  “Yes, Commander.” Raff saluted smartly, clicking his boot heels together, the twin blue flames in his eyes dancing. “Your Trake hasn’t always been so easygoing, Lori. On Orogone, he—”

  “Warrior!” Trake barked.

  “I’m going. I’m going.” Raff chuckled as he disappeared into the night.

  Commander. Lori glanced at Trake, brimming with curiosity. He stared silently at the house. She followed his line of sight. Lights flickered in a darkened second-floor room.

  “You know who he is,” she guessed.

  “I have my suspicions.” Trake shrugged out of his leather jacket, revealing broad shoulders and a tanned, bare chest rippling with muscles. His unusual tattoo, blue scalloped edges surrounding a red sphere, blazed, accentuating his fit form.

  As Lori’s jaw dropped in admiration, Trake draped the garment over a decorative boulder and plunked his ass down. “Come here.” He drew her back between his spread legs, settling her against the ridge in his pants, and he linked his fingers under her breasts, his tantalizing warmth engulfing her. “Yes.”

  She leaned into Trake, his tattoo heating her shoulder, and she waited for him to share his thoughts. He didn’t. He cuddled her close, clinging to her as though touching her were critical to his survival.

  “Being near me heals you, doesn’t it?” Lori murmured, wishing he’d slide his rough palms upward and cover her taut nipples. “That’s why you wanted me to nap with you on the couch.” Fully dressed.

  He didn’t answer and she exhaled slowly, blowing the curls away from her forehead, her body tight with sexual frustration. “Do you need me specifically or would any human woman suffice?” She straightened, bracing herself for his response.

  “Only you.” Trake slid his cheek against hers, his stubble stimulatingly abrasive. “You’re my One, the keeper of my innermost soul, lightness to my darkness, laughter to my sorrow.”

  “Whoa.” Lori blinked, surprised at the flow of poetry coming from her grim man. “That’s serious.”

  “Deadly serious.” His bare chest heaved, pushing on her spine, and her shirt burned where the cotton rubbed against his tattoo. “Watch the house, Lori.”

  “What am I watching? Your mysterious alien is glued to the TV.” Lori stroked along the veins in Trake’s arms, following the curve of his muscles, his flesh smooth, warm, and solid. “Old Man Warthers can’t be your brother. He’s too old.”

  “Our human bodies are shells. We can choose to age. It is an option…but why would he want to grow older and weaker? And why wouldn’t he show himself? I’m visible. He knows we’re out here. No.” Trake sighed again, the hopeless sound distressing her. “That the Orogone is my brother makes no sense, yet I don’t know where else to search. I’ve looked all over your crowded planet.”

  “We’ll find him,” Lori assured Trake. She covered his hands with hers, his scarred knuckles rough under her palms, and they sat, their limbs entangled.

  “If you’ve looked all over, you must have been to the ocean.” Lori changed the subject. His chin rubbed against her hair as he nodded. “Man, you’re an alien and even you’ve seen the ocean. I bet the beaches had gorgeous white sand and the water was as blue as—”

  “Your eyes.” He nibbled on her earlobe, his mouth hot, his lips firm, and she tilted her head to the side, giving him more access. “You’ve never been?”

  “No,” she breathed, her voice husky. “I’ve never been anywhere. I almost left once or twice, but my grandma needed me and…” You’re not what I need right now, Lore-Lore. “My grandma needed me,” she finished lamely, pushing away the other memories, focusing on Trake, on the here and now, on his fingers splaying between her breasts, and his tongue flicking her earlobe. She arched, grinding her shoulder into his strange tattoo, the burn flowing from pain to pleasure. “Trake?”

  He pulled back from her, the cool night air rushing into the widening gap between them. “I have to watch the house. I’m running out of time.”

  She glanced up. The house was dark, the TV was turned off. Insects chirped around them and the stars were now covered wi
th a blanket of clouds. They were surrounded by shadows and silence as though the lantern were a solitary island in a sea of black.

  Lori pivoted within the circle of Trake’s arms. “You watch the house.” The limited light accentuated the angles of his face, making his cheeks leaner, his brow more pronounced, his expression hungrier. “I’ll watch you.”

  He didn’t glance at her, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the house.

  “How did the sand feel between your toes?” She ran her fingertips over his jaw. “Was it paradise?”

  “I didn’t remove my shoes.” A nerve in his scarred cheek ticked. “I didn’t have time. You…I…we can’t do this, Lori, not now.” He caught her wrist, stopping her explorations. “I—”

  “You have to find your brother,” she supplied, knowing all about putting personal happiness and dreams on hold while waiting for loved ones. “And you don’t have to do anything.” He needs me. He needs this. She pressed her lips against his chest, tasting the sweetness of his skin. “Watch the house and I’ll take care of everything else.”

  “Lori.” He groaned, releasing her.

  She licked around his flat nipples and flicked them with her tongue. “The house, Trake.” Her lips hummed as she blazed a trail to the tattoo over his heart. The vivid ink glowed, the rings of electric-blue spiraling out from a crimson sun beckoning to her.

  Unable to resist its call, she swiped the unique design with the flat of her tongue. The tattoo burned her, her saliva sizzling. The flavor of pure sugar, concentrated by one-thousand percent, burst in her mouth, the heady mixture pumping straight into her veins.

  Trake growled and clutched the back of her head, holding her to him as she sucked. His tattoo rose up to fill her, a hard protrusion in his flesh pounding against his skin, trying to break free, and she yearned for its release, needed it to pour into her. She tugged harder and the world spun around her, his arms her only anchor.