Page 86 of Alien Jeopardy
Or worse, I say the words on the tip of my tongue. It’s too soon to tell him I might love him.
It can’t be love. Not yet.
By the time I’ve cleaned up, it’s past dawn, and the underground sleeping area’s bathed in a golden light. Rex follows me into the tub, and I’m tempted to slap his butt, but I know if I touch him like that again, we’ll just end up in each other’s arms all over again.
I’m trusting the AI’s word that we’ve had privacy so far, but I don’t doubt the minute our deal is up from the reward challenge, we’ll be streamed everywhere again.
Regardless of any compromising positions we might find ourselves in.
Regretfully, I towel off with the seemingly endless supply of towels next to the rock-hewn tub.
“Oh my god,” I say out loud, staring at where my clothes fell the previous night. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What’s wrong?” Ka-Rexsh is next to me in a flash, dripping all over the polished rock floor.
“My clothes.” I point, and for some reason, I’m hit with the uncontrollable urge to laugh. “This isn’t funny,” I wheeze, and all I can think is that my body is getting rid of the excess adrenaline through my funny bone. “I’m sorry,” I say.
Bending over, I grab the clothes off the chair.
Sometime in the night, yesterday’s clothes were taken.
And replaced with a set of extremely familiar pajamas. My pajamas, to be exact, though dirt- and hole-free, as if they were painstaking recreated.
Maybe they were.
I sink to the floor in my towel, dumbfounded and staring at the clothes with my mouth hanging wide open.
“I don’t like what this might mean.”
“You’re right to worry,” Rex tells me, a heavy hand on my shoulder.
I reach up and squeeze it, thankful for the small comfort of his touch.
“Most men would tell me there is nothing to worry about,” I blurt.
“I’m not most men. I think this means that Ken No Privates is up to something.”
“Or he just liked watching me in my pajamas,” I venture. Rex using the very formal name of Ken No Privates isn’t quite as funny as it was yesterday.
“That might be worse.”
“It might be,” I agree.
The comms tablet chimes again, and I shimmy into the clean clothes, grateful at least that the thick sports bra and underwear are also there. Going braless on this ghost alien space station sounds positively horrible.
The hairs stand up on the back of my arms, and I squeeze my eyes tight, trying not to panic as memories of yesterday morning’s near-death experiences wash over me.
How was that only a day ago?
It feels like a lifetime ago.
“I want to get out of here,” I finally say through gritted teeth.
“We will,” Rex says quietly, still hovering beside me. “We will.”
Blowing out a long breath, I force myself to calm down. One of my therapists taught me that trick after the Roth attack, and though it doesn’t always help, it does now.
In and out, I focus on the feeling of the air filling my lungs, my diaphragm, imagine it carrying life-giving oxygen to every finger on my hand, every toe on my foot.
