Page 8 of Love Galaxy

Not that I let myself linger on thoughts of our potential first meeting, over the last two months of waiting. But in the few moments between waking and sleeping, when I had less control over my thoughts than usual, I had formed a picture of her as being… well, larger.

Not this small creature before me, still running her hands over my legs, searching for acell.

“Seriously, not a single pocket?” she murmurs, walking a slow circle around me, examining me from multiple angles.

Self-consciously, I straighten, filling my lungs with air to increase the breadth of my chest. Does she find me pleasing? Am I what she was expecting?

As she completes her circle, I catch sight of a dark substance at the back of her head, matting stands of her hairs together. Again, she sways where she stands, and this time she grabs at the windowsill to keep herself from losing her balance entirely.

That is blood, I think, in her hairs.

With fresh eyes, I examine her more closely. There are dark circles under her eyes, pinched lines at the corners of her mouth and tension in the way she holds her body, as if she is preparing to run or to fight. As if she is in a lot of pain. Clearly, she was attacked.

Pah! So much for her being willing!

Chapter Five

Briar

He growls suddenly, low and deep in his throat. The sound seems to rumble through the broad expanse of his chest. And he’s staring at me with renewed intensity, his eyes narrowed, his head bowed.

Then again, I might be mistaken. My vision’s getting blurrier by the second, and I think my knees are preparing to give up the fight of keeping me upright.

Through the pounding of my headache, I try to remember the greeting painted on the revolving doors to IKEA. “Hej,” I think it was, but when he doesn’t answer I’m no closer to knowing if he didn’t respond because he doesn’t speak Swedish or because my pronunciation was so shit he didn't realize I was attempting Swedish. If he’s from literally any other non-English speaking country, I’m screwed, because English is the only language I ever learned. I don’t even remember any of my junior school French, which all went in one ear and straight out the other.

My grip on the windowsill slips, my hands shaky and sweaty. But before I faceplant onto the ground, he catches me aroundmy waist. He might be nerd enough to be dressed like a lizard alien, but boy he’s got muscles under that skin-tight jumpsuit. He picks me up like he’s failed to notice I’m heavy, a hand at my back and another under the crooks of my knees.

Or, actually, is that two hands he’s got at my back? One under my knees and an entire spare arm free?

What special effects are needed to animate an extra set of arms? Up close, I’m surer than ever that there aren’t wires involved. There’s no green screen. So is it some sort of optical illusion? Or am I so concussed that I’m seeing double?

Carefully, he settles me closer to his chest and starts walking. Possibly, he’s planning on carrying me inside to where Mr. Smith and his deranged secretary are still arguing with the two other lizard men, and I still haven’t found a cellphone. I should protest, and part of my brain is urging me to struggle out of his hold. But the other part, the part that’s currently thumping with the worst headache of my entire life, doesn’t care where he takes me so long as I don’t have to keep trying to stand on my own.

Maybe if I close my eyes for a few minutes I’ll start to feel better. Maybe if I take a quick nap…

Wind assaults my face, hitting me with the force of a slap. For a second I seriously think I’m going to be swept straight out of his arms, but then his hold tightens, and I bury my face against his chest, selfishly trying to use him as a shield.

Warmth radiates off him. He must be hot under that jumpsuit.

It’s not that the wind is cold, just violent, and the warmth radiating from his chest is absurdly comforting, to the point that my bottom lip quivers. I only keep from crying this time because I realize crying would probably make my head hurt even worse, and I’ve got no intention of fainting from pain.

With his fourth arm, he presses a button beside the front door, and it slides open, revealing a wide staircase. As the doorautomatically closes behind us and as he starts down the stairs, the wind disappears as quickly as it had arrived.

A moment later I find myself in what’s clearly a kitchen. The major difference between this kitchen and every other kitchen I’ve seen is that this one’s underground, and there are no windows or natural light.

Maybe there’s a cellphone down here. Or a landline.

A large table with five chairs dominates the space. Cupboards line the farthest wall, under which has been set a long counter. It’s completely empty, no bowls of fresh fruit, no microwave or toaster or any of that other clutter you expect to find in a kitchen—paper towels or that one granola bar everyone always means to eat but keeps forgetting about.

In fact, the kitchen’s so clean it doesn’t look like it’s ever been used. So perhaps this house is actually a set, built specifically for filming, kind of like theBig Brotherhouse.

It suddenly occurs to me that maybe he’s not speaking a genuine language at all; maybe he’s acting, pretending to speak some made-up language, as if he really is from outer space.

“Put me down,” I demand, still not struggling. Partly because I don’t think I’ve currently got the hand-eye coordination to struggle effectively and partly because he’s got to be close to eight feet tall, and I don’t really fancy falling out of his arms. The floor’s a long way away.

“Du brenover lakenjerd.”

“If you’re being an ass and pretending you can’t speak English, I’ll… I’ll… ” I stare around at the empty kitchen again, searching for ideas, but all I really want to do is lay my head on his warm shoulder and close my eyes.

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