Page 14 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
I pour myself another cup of coffee, though it’s gone from lukewarm to tepid, and sink into the chair opposite Sammy.
She’s sketching again. The man’s profile. His arms. His stance. She’s labeled the drawing “Specimen X” and listed possible occupations underneath.
Alien scout, government plant, genetically modified accountant.
“Accountant?” I ask, pointing at it with my mug.
“He said he’s here to do taxes. No one does taxes voluntarily unless they’re either faking it or brainwashed.”
I can’t argue with that logic.
Sammy rips the page out and folds it crisply. She slips it into a separate binder marked “Field Evidence.” Then she closes her journal with a satisfied sigh and looks me dead in the eyes.
“We’re going to have to make contact eventually.”
“No,” I say, already preemptively exhausted. “We’re not making contact with the weird man who talks to bushes. That’s how horror movies start.”
“Maybe it’s howadventurestarts.”
“Sammy.”
“Fine.”
But I can tell she doesn’t mean it.
And worse? That little rebellious corner of me, the same one that wanted to peek again, the same one that felt something strange and electric pass through my bones when he smiled?
That part of me... kind of agrees with her.
The soil is too dry, the sun is too hot, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure Sammy has ulterior motives. But here we are, on a lazy Saturday afternoon, sweating and covered in dirt with a trowel in one hand and a half-crushed bag of tulip bulbs in the other.
“I thought we were waiting until fall to plant these,” I mutter, wiping my forehead with the back of my wrist.
“We were,” Sammy chirps, already digging a lopsided hole. “But scientific observation requires proximity. And he’sright there.”
She tilts her chin ever so subtly toward the yard next door, and I follow her gaze like a moth to a flame.
Richard—if thatishis real name—is stalking the perimeter of his yard with a device that definitely doesnotbelong in asuburban toolbox. It’s boxy and metallic with a glowing display that flashes in irregular pulses. He scans the lawn with the precision of a man searching for landmines.
“Maybe he’s a surveyor?” I offer weakly.
Sammy snorts. “Surveyors don’t scan trees.”
He does. Twice.
My gaze trails along his broad back, the pull of his t-shirt across those massive shoulders. He moves like someone wearing a meat suit for the first time, overly aware of every muscle twitch, every joint. And even from this distance, there’s something... off about him. Not bad. Just uncanny. Like his bones are a few degrees out of sync with the rest of the universe.
I bury another bulb, tell myself to stop staring, and fail spectacularly.
Then he sees us.
His head snaps toward us like a hawk spotting prey, and for half a second, I forget how to breathe. He pauses, lowers his strange device, and walks over.
Sammy immediately perks up. “Showtime,” she whispers.
“Be polite,” I hiss.
“Always.”
