Page 22 of Love Galaxy

“Why don’t we contact this Guild and tell them what happened?” Briar turns more fully to face me. “Couldn’t they help us?” Her voice faulters. “Why do you look like that?” She nods to my face. “Why do you look like you’ve got bad news?”

“Briar—” I begin.

“Jesus Christ.” She huffs a sigh, her hold on my arm radiating tension. “Let me guess. The Guild might have been the ones who leaked Earth’s location.”

“It is a possibility,” I concede. Although I have no idea why they might have done such a thing. “Alternatively, the Guild might not know anything about Earth at all. There are more planets in the universe than any one organization can track.”

She closes her eyes, just for a second. Then she is glaring at me. “Let me get this straight. Mr. Smith is very possibly the onlyperson who can get Harlee, Lydia and me back to Earth? So if we piss him off too much, he could just leave us here, and we might be stuck forever?”

“Briar!” John Smith yells her name. Standing on the third step from the bottom, he is nearly as tall as Killan and me. “You can come with me, too.”

She turns her glare on him. “You said I wasn’t being interviewed until tomorrow.”

“Now,” he orders. “Unless you wish to risk your ride home?”

Silence fills the kitchen.

“I thought not.” And John Smith continues climbing the stairs, knowing his demands will be obeyed.

“Right.” Briar grinds her teeth. I want to stop her from having to follow. Instead, I force myself to remain in place as I watch her leave.

Chapter Twelve

Be blown away by whirlwind romance. A new season of LOVE GALAXY is coming soon.

Download the Human language update to your translator today.

Herewegoagain replied:I cannot wait?!

RussNnh replied:YEEP!

Anonymous replied:What the fek are Humans?

torkstenlover8572583 replied:Who the fek cares? Is anyone seriously still watching this scudding show?

RussNnh replied:YES. OBVIOUSLY.

Briar

My interview isn’t conducted until the next day, which means I’m dressed in this same stupid cocktail gowntwo days running. Overnight I was stored (yes,storedis the appropriate word for what happens to me when I’m not needed on set) in a room aboard the spaceship that’s barely larger than a closet. The closet-turned-storage room contains a hammock and a water bottle with my name printed on it, with absolutely nobody to talk to.

I know for a fact Mr. Smith is working hard to keep me separate from the other contestants. What sucks most is not being able to argue against his directive. He knows we’re reliant on him, and he’s using his power to assure our obedience.

Now, still on his spaceship, I’m seated in a vomit-inducing pink heart-shaped chair in a room that’s been designed to look like an office had a kid with a bedroom. The LOVE GALAXY logo decorates the walls in a repeating pattern, and sitting opposite me in an identical heart-shaped chair is mean girl Chloe. Mr. Smith hovers in the background, checking camera angles and shouting at me tostart againwhen I stumble over my words in answer to Chloe’s pretty basic questions. She’s mainly asking me about what sorts of qualities I’m searching for in a romantic partner and my first impressions of the other participants.

I don’t give my answers much consideration. I certainly don’t admit to my intense feeling of relief when I’d walked down those kitchen stairs and saw Sorin leaning against the back wall with all four of his arms crossed.

And when he’d strode straight over the kitchen table to stop Mr. Smith from touching me—chef’s kiss! Perfection.

I hurry from the interview room the second Mr. Smith callscut,but the other women aren’t in sight. There’s only Sorin, taking up most of the corridor and looking adorably awkward, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with all four of his arms in such a confined space.

Before I can say anything, he’s directed to take the seat I’ve just vacated, and the door’s shut firmly, with me on the outside.

Well, fuck them too, I think, and press my ear to the cold metal, but the door is soundproof. Angry, I stalk along the corridor, searching the other rooms in the ship for signs of Lydia and Harlee and generally attempting to make a nuisance of myself.

Only some of the doors open when I pass. On those that remain closed I can’t find a handle or any other way to open them. Maybe that’s what Mr. Smith meant by a biogenetic lock.

In the few rooms I can access, I don’t find anyone. The walk-in-closet is empty but for the racks of our clothes. Even the creepy room I first woke up in with the vertical pallets is devoid of life. The fine hair along the backs of my arms rise, but I make myself step into the pallet room long enough to check the touch screens on the off chance I can get some more information—about this planet, about the ship, about how to get home. But the writing is still undecipherable. Apparently my translator only works for spoken words, not written.

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