Page 8 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
Someone.
Tall. Like,absurdlytall. A silhouette framed by the burning sky, motionless. Too motionless. Not even swaying like most people do when they’re standing still. Just… fixed. Upright. Like a statue waiting for a cue.
Something tightens in my chest. I don’t know why. Could be exhaustion. Could be that today already carved a canyon in my soul and I’m not ready for anything else.
I blink.
He’s gone.
Not vanished exactly. Just moved. Out of sight. As if he’d never been there at all.
Sammy’s still watching. “That wasn’t normal,” she whispers.
“Could’ve been a realtor, babe,” I offer, reaching for normalcy with both hands. “Or a contractor.”
“Mom. That guy was, like,seven feet tall. And he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Or shoes.”
“…What?”
“He lookedshiny.”
I rub my temples. “Okay. Maybe we’re both just tired. You especially. Too many alien blogs. Not enough hydration.”
She sits back with a suspicious grunt. “I’m gonna keep an eye out.”
I manage a chuckle. “You do that, Agent Mulder.”
“Wrong reference,” she mutters. “I’m way more of a Dana Scully.”
We grab the groceries from the trunk—just bread, milk, and a whole lot of off-brand cereal—and head inside. The house is hot and stale and smells faintly like microwave popcorn and lemon cleaner.
I set the bags down, kick off my shoes, and stare out the kitchen window one more time.
No silhouette.
No motion.
Just a yard that hasn’t been mowed in months and the scent of something faintly metallic on the breeze.
Still, a shiver slides down my spine. Tiny. Cold. Like a finger tracing the line between my shoulder blades.
I brush it off.
I have bills to pay. A kid to feed. A headache that’s threatening to turn biblical.
And some new neighbor nonsense is the last thing I need.
Still, I pull down the blinds.
Just in case.
CHAPTER 3
RYCHNE
Smoke curls in lazy tendrils above me, stinging my eyes, my nostrils, the back of my throat where taste and pain collide like bitter lovers. I lie in a tangle of twisted alloy and shattered conduit, sprawled belly-down across the half-melted ribcage of my own ship, and everything hurts.
My breather mask is broken. One side of it hisses a soft, rhythmic death-rattle into my left ear, leaking compressed air in wet, choking pulses. It’s like being kissed by a dying serpent. Every inhale burns. The acrid tang of scorched plastic and seared circuit board coats the back of my tongue. I turn my head slightly, and agony blooms down my spine like a second sunrise.
