Page 30 of Alien Wants A Wife

Roan

Trying to look neither desperate nor fake, I keep my gaze from lingering on Harlee as Briar and Sorin say their final farewells and set off on their journey to Sorin’s cottage, where they will presumably stay for the remaining days of filming. Silence fills the kitchen, with Killan and Lydia both sulking, theirarms crossed, and Harlee… I move my head in a circular motion, pretending I am examining the kitchen, while really I am trying to catch sight of Harlee in the corner of my eyes.

She is standing behind one of the kitchen chairs, hands clutching the chair back. Her mouth holds a smile firmly in place, as she waits for John Smith to finish doing whatever it is that has captured his attention on his datapad. She is not as happy as she is determined to look for she is holding onto the chair with such force that her knuckles have turned white, betraying her true feelings.

“Okay,” John Smith straightens, glancing around at us. “Time to film episode 2. I’m after some natural dialogue. We’re still in the early stages, so try to spend most of your time talking about your lives and hopes and dreams—andlotsof flirting.” He waves his free hand through the air, dismissing our lives, hopes and dreams as being of no more importance than fodder for his broadcast. “To help, I’ll be setting the group a task that I expect everyone to participate in. Even though Chloe and I will be back on my ship, we will be watching closely. Any signs that you’re not following instructions and… well, we all know that you need me a lot more than I need you, so don’t fuck this up.” He shoots the Females one last glare, then he and Chloe head up the stairs. A moment later comes the sound of the front door opening and closing.

More silence.

A muscle twitches in Killan’s forehead. He is furious at being told what to do. Even more furious, I think, that two Females were threatened in his kitchen and there is nothing he can do but comply with demands.

As if it costs her strength, Harlee releases her hold on the chair and turns to more fully face the group. “I wonder how Briar and Sorin are getting on.”

“Akh…” The cheerful note in her voice sounds strange. Forced.

“Me, too.” Lydia nods, her voice strained, too, and when she glances toward the camera clipped onto the kitchen bench, I realize they are trying to give John Smith the natural dialogue he demanded.

“Me as well,” I add, taking a half step closer to the Females and throwing Killan a meaningfulsay somethinglook.

His frown deepens, but before he can argue, his datapad releases a sharpbeepthat has Harlee jumping and looking around the room for the source of the alarm.

I pick up Killan’s datapad, as he makes no move to do so, and when I touch the dark screen with a finger, it lights up, displaying a message from LOVE GALAXY. It’s two brief paragraphs. I can read one, but the other paragraph comprises these strange, disjointed symbols, presumably Human writing.

Killan, Roan, Lydia and Harlee,

Now that introductions have been made, it is time forTwo Truths and a Lie.

But can you guess which contestant is hiding the biggest secret of all?

#TellAll #LoveGalaxy

I read my half of the message aloud, then ask: “What is Two Truths and a Lie?”

“Ugh. It’s a game,” Lydia explains. “We all take turns telling the group three things about ourselves, but one of those things has to be a lie. Then, the others have to guess which is which.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m way too sober for this. Hey, have you got any alcohol? The best games are always drinking games.”

“I do.” For once, Killan agrees with Lydia, and he makes a selection on the touch screen set into the backsplash—the one that controls his kitchen.

A slot opens in the bench-top, and we are presented with four cups, each filled with a single portion of golden liquid—the color of Harlee’s eyes.

“I make it myself,” Killan says before downing the contents of one cup and immediately requesting a refill.

“Cool. Hootch.” Lydia follows, swallowing her serving in a gulp.

“It is not cold,” I insist.

“Wow, that’s burns.” Lydia’s voice breaks, and she coughs. “Really, really strong.” She sways where she stands, reaches for the closest chair and misses, stumbling forward. Killan catches her around the middle and sets her on the chair, before putting four filled cups on the table. When she reaches for one, I hurriedly push them farther across the table, away from Lydia.

“Hey.” She scowls at me. “Not fair.”

“Hold your horses.” Harlee takes the seat opposite Lydia. “Don’t get too drunk, or you’ll be hammered before lunch.”

I quickly slide onto the chair beside Harlee, leaving Killan to choose between the two chairs on either side of Lydia. Sitting, he sinks low, his upper arms crossed over his chest, and after another moment of thought, scoots his chosen chair farther right, putting more space between himself and Lydia.

If she notices, she does not give him the satisfaction of reacting. Rather, she points at me. “You thirst,” she slurs. “I mean, thirst.”

“You first,” Harlee translates, with a fleeting glance at me.

I break eye contact, proof that I am neither desperate nor fake.

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