Page 62 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
RYCHNE
I’m in the garage, adjusting the nanotech mesh around the makeshift weapons vault, when I feel it—a tension like a high-voltage wire coughing to life. I pause, fingers suspended over the plank, as a guttural rumble interrupts the early morning calm. Through the open doorway, I see it: a beat-up Ford Bronco-lift, engine chugging like a wounded beast, sputtering across Nessa's driveway. The metal bumper is held together with layers of duct tape and desperation. It’s like witnessing a coalition cruiser crash-landed in suburbia.
A portly, unshaven man emerges—camo sleeveless shirt stretched over beer-rounded abs. His boots glint with dried mud, and the air behind him smells of stale cigarettes and warm cheap beer—Calibrated, I note, to reek “I’ve got nothing to hide.” Yet somehow, the stench screams concealment.
Buford Mussels. Sammy’s biological father.
The moment his foot hits the gravel, I log it all. The way his shoulders slump back even though he’s grinning. The swagger that’s more animal bluster than confidence. Nessa stiffens as she steps onto her porch. Her posture locks; her hands ball into fists. I can taste her tension from across the lawn, even though I don’t breathe the same air.
Sammy, perched near her mother’s side, shrinks back. Her face twists—fear mixed with loyalty. I see her mental shields slip into place, gear shifting to “protective daughter,” ready to deflect or fight.
I don’t need a translator module. I sense the unconscious pull in abusive familiarity: a man who thinks smiles and half-truths can smooth over a mess.
Buford saunters forward, clearing his throat like he owns the boardwalk. “How’s my girl today? Lookin’ good, Nessa.” The grin on his face is the kind you carry when you believe your name’s stamped on the universe. He points at Sammy. “And you—got a big strong man next door now, huh?”
He creeps his gaze toward me. The way he looks tells me he thinks my place in this country is ornamental. Something you wave at when you're done with whatever rural fidelity you believe you own.
Nessa stiffens further. “He’s not your concern, Buford.”
He shrugs, stepping onto her lawn. Gravel crunches under his boots. He flicks his cigarette stub into the dirt. “Oh, I got concern all right. I want to see my daughter. Spend some time with her.” His smug smirk cracks open before I hear his next words, measured and loud: “And make sure you know who’s steppin’ up as a real man.”
His eyes flick — not at me, but at the house, the garage, my bent posture as I tampered the vault door. He smells money, danger, territory.
Nessa stands up straighter. I smell her fear—spicy, genuine. My instincts flare like battlefield sensors. Instinct tells me: He’s unwelcome. This is mine. Protect.
Buford drifts closer, invading her aura. I feel a shard of anger jam behind my ribs. I step forward silently, closing the invisible gap.
He notices me then—my posture, my height. He blinks. I stand in human guise—Richard J. Wilmont, suburban neighbor—but I see something twitch in his eyes. Pride warps into assumption: I’m a washed-up accountant or some nonsense.
He grins and edges forward. “Nice to meet you?—”
“Please leave,” I say, voice calm but low, the promise of violence under each syllable. My light passes across my face, and I see his grin shift. That look of entitlement fading. Delusion of ownership dissolving.
Buford coughs. “We ain’t done talking.” He draws himself up, chest puffing like a bull.
Before he can launch any more empty threats, Nessa steps between us, smooth and solid.
“Buford, you’ve got limited visitation and you know it,” she says, voice steady. “I’ll call my lawyer if you even think about causing drama here.”
His grin tightens. “Lawyers? Court orders? Girl, I get more money in a month than you see in a year.”
He turns to me, eyebrow raised. “You good with that, accountant-man? My daughter thinks you’re the sentinel of suburban security.”
I step fully into the yard now. My gaze shifts to Nessa, then back to him. My jaw sets. I smell aggression—like raw electricity heading into discharge.
“I’m good at protecting kids,” I say. My tone is ice over flame—measured. “Especially others’ kids.”
His face twitches. His pride crumbles, but stubbornness holds it together.
He glances at Nessa again. Then down at Sammy. He softens for a split advantage, like a predator shifting weight before an attack.
He takes a step toward Sammy, and I respond. I open my posture—chest forward, shoulders back. I stand not to threaten but to stand guard.
“Don’t,” I breathe low. A command. Clan-shaped, absolute. My proximity is small—five feet—but energy flows across the space and rattles his psyche. He registers it.
Buford blinks. His bravado fades. The rock wall of my stance unsettles his swagger.
He coughs again, nervously. “Aw, hell.”
