Page 1 of My Big Fat Fake Alien

CHAPTER 1

RAVEN

The bass from the speakers pulses through the floor, rattling my bones as I weave through the crowd with a tray of cocktails. My goth schoolgirl skirt swishes with each step, the straps of my corset digging into my shoulders. The air smells like sweat, expensive cologne, and desperation. A guy in a wrinkled suit reaches out to grab my waist as I pass, but I pivot just in time, his fingers grazing nothing but air.

“Hands to yourself, champ,” I toss over my shoulder without breaking stride. He mutters something I don’t catch—probably not flattering—but I’m already on to the next table.

“Kristal for the gentlemen,” I announce, setting the bottle down with a practiced flourish. The table erupts into cheers, their ties loosened, their faces flushed from too much whiskey and entitlement. One of them, a guy with a Rolex that probably costs more than my rent, shoves a wad of cash into my hand. His grip tightens before I can pull away.

“You’re coming home with me tonight,” he says, his voice low and possessive, like he’s already decided I’m his.

I plaster on my best customer-service smile and pull my wrist free. “Sorry, I’m working late.”

His eyes narrow, the kind of look that makes my skin crawl. “I’m not used to not getting what I want.”

I tilt my head, feigning innocence. “Then this will be an opportunity for growth.”

His buddies roar with laughter, slamming their glasses on the table. He glares at me, but I’m already gone, melting back into the chaos of the club. My wrist throbs where he grabbed me, and I rub it absently as I head for the bar.

“Another table of charmers?” my coworker Max asks, handing me a fresh tray of drinks.

“Just your average Tuesday,” I reply, rolling my shoulders to shake off the unease. The guy’s eyes linger in the back of my mind, the kind of stare that makes me check over my shoulder when I leave work. But for now, I push it down. There’s too much to do, too many thirsty assholes to keep up with.

I adjust my corset, take a deep breath, and dive back into the fray. The night is young, and so am I—but not young enough to fall for that bullshit twice.

I grab the champagne bottle by the neck, my practiced fingers cradling it like it’s a weapon. The elevator ride to the fourth floor is brief but stifling, the mirrored walls reflecting my tired eyes and the faint sheen of sweat on my forehead. The higher floors are quieter, the air heavier with money and secrets. I’ve been up here enough times to know the vibe—power, arrogance, and the kind of entitlement that makes my skin crawl. But tonight feels different. Maybe it’s the way the bass from the lower floors hums through the floor, or the way the ceiling seems to press down, daring me to dream about what’s above it. The fifth floor. The forbidden zone. I’ve never been up there, and the staff who work it act like they’ve taken a vow of silence. I’ve always wondered what goes on up there. Private parties? Drugs? Or something darker? My lips curve into a smirk. Maybe one day I’ll find out—just to satisfy my curiosity.

I step off the elevator and head for the table at the far end of the room, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The man sitting there is massive, his broad shoulders straining against the expensive fabric of his suit. He’s leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed but far from casual. His eyes—blood orange, like the sky just before a storm—snap to me as I approach, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. His gaze rakes over me, slow and deliberate, and I feel it like a physical touch, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Dom Pérignon,” I say, my voice steady despite the sudden heat pooling in my stomach. I set the bottle down with a flourish, my fingers brushing the ice bucket as I pull away. “Your evening just got classier.”

His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Class is overrated,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, like whiskey. “But you’re not.”

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. “Smooth. Real smooth.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rich. “I’m not trying to be smooth. I’m just stating a fact.”

I tilt my head, studying him. Most guys at these tables reek of desperation or arrogance, but this one… he’s different. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he holds himself, like he’s not trying to impress anyone. And those eyes—I’ve never seen anything like them. They’re unsettling, but in a way that makes my pulse quicken.

“You’re not from around here,” I say, more to myself than to him.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What gave it away?”

“The suit. The accent. The… everything.” I gesture vaguely, trying to keep my tone light. “You’re not exactly blending in.”

He laughs again, and this time it feels genuine. “Fair enough. But neither are you.”

I glance down at my outfit—the corset, the skirt, the fishnets. “It’s called a uniform.”

“It’s called distracting,” he counters, his gaze lingering on my legs a little too long.

I feel my cheeks heat, but I keep my expression neutral. “Flattery won’t get you a discount.”

“I’m not looking for a discount,” he says, his tone shifting, growing more serious. “I’m looking for you.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

He leans back again, his smile returning. “You’re not like the others here. You’re… real.”

---