Dating an Alien Pop Star

by Kendra L. Saunders

  We return to the hotel late, having stopped a few times for supplies for the upcoming concert. Even in the hours since the Twitter account was set up, Griffin has received countless messages from fans, leaving me unable to do anything but scroll in open-mouthed amazement through all of them. He inspires a lot of love and adoration, with very few nasty messages in the mix. It’s incredible.

  At the hotel, Devon disappears into his room, taking all the bodyguards with him; he strictly instructs us to leave him alone. Griffin picks up his white Telecaster as if he’s never seen it before and sits on the bed to strum it. My inquiries about his plans for the rest of the evening are met only with silence, so after a while, I give up and turn on the TV.

  As I flip through the channels, I find an old black-and-white science fiction movie about an alien invasion. I watched it as a kid and remember feeling vaguely uneasy about the fact that most of the characters didn’t even notice the aliens around them until too late.

  I cast a sidelong glance at Griffin, who freezes immediately and looks back at me. “What’s that?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “That, in your movie. What’s that supposed to be?” he demands, pointing at the extreme close-up of an alien on the screen.

  “That’s an alien, of course. According to Hollywood in the 1960s.”

  Griffin scowls at the screen as a woman in an absurd blonde wig screams and faints. “How ridiculous. I’ve never seen anyone who looks like that, not even on some of the less educated planets. Not even on Z23, and they have some of the ugliest beings I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He glances at me, almost apologetically. “Well, they have a lot of arms and I suppose they can’t help it, but it’s not my thing.”

  It’s really not my place to scold him on racism toward beings with more than two arms, so I just shrug. I’m still trying to catch up with the idea that there are tons of other beings living out there in the universe.

  The movie turns very serious when one of the aliens walks into a grade-school classroom and all the children stop what they’re doing and lie down silently on the floor. Griffin, however, laughs uncomfortably and then starts laughing harder and harder until he’s red in the face and doubled over his guitar, coughing and spluttering.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous! What a load of rubbish,” he splutters. “Well, what happens? What happens in the end?”

  “The humans round up all the aliens, kill them, and then burn their bodies, just in case,” I say, without really thinking about it. “But they’re bad aliens,” I add quickly, looking at him. “They’re not like you and Dev. Besides, this was probably just a hidden commentary on the Russians or something. America was obsessed with hating the Soviets then.”

  I switch the channel to an advertisement for an exercise bike that also tones your facial muscles via a special helmet.

  “What’s Dev doing in there, anyway?” I say, trying to change the subject away from humans slaughtering aliens.

  “He’s telling the guards not to bother with protecting him if we’re attacked,” Griffin says in a flat voice, still staring at the screen. “I’ll order them to disregard that later.”

  “Uhhh… oh. That’s… How do you know that?”

  “Why do you think he didn’t invite me to his security meeting?”

  “Dev told me the other alien might be in America now. Is that why he’s acting so nervous about everything? Or is there something else that I don’t know?”

  Griffin casts me a grim smile. “Once, we were walking through a crowd together after one of my father’s speeches, and someone threw a bag of poisonous red dust at me. I was sick for ages. They’d called me names before, but they’d never done anything that malicious. I thought they might like me, if they realized I was on their side. And another time, an angry citizen cut my arm clear open. I bled all over my white shirt and made such a mess that some of my blood ended up on Dev’s clothes.”

  I shiver a little. “So you’re in real danger.”

  Griffin sets aside his guitar and glares in the direction of the TV. The screen goes black and the lights flicker around us. “I want to listen to Bowie right now.”

  I watch him as he climbs off the bed, all tense energy and electric charge.

  “Look, that movie was stupid,” I say. “We’ve always pictured aliens as being scary. I mean, honestly, before this week, I thought the same thing.”

  “Thought what?”

  “Oh, you know… that aliens are these frightening, dangerous beings that would abduct us and experiment on us. Or murder us.”

  Griffin slides his Bowie record slowly out of its sleeve, leaving it naked in his hands, and then he slides one pale finger down the side of the shiny, black vinyl. “Maybe you’re not wrong, Wanda,” he says quietly, without looking at me. He drops the vinyl into place with the careless grace of a lover, and then finally peers at me with those strange eyes.

  I’ve never felt so turned on by someone playing a record.

  “Of-of course I’m wrong,” I say, standing up and nervously winding my fingers together. “You’re not like that at all.”

  “I’m not, but maybe the others are?” he asks, as “Five Years” by David Bowie fills the charged space between us.

  I walk toward him without even really meaning to. “You’re an annoying little man with… with designer clothes and an obnoxious laugh. That’s not what we expected from an alien invasion.” I’m standing in front of him now, with no idea how I got there, and I reach out to grasp one of his jacket lapels in my shaking fingers.

  “Are you finally going to look into me, Wanda?” he demands, a sneer forming on his face. “After all this time?”

  “Please just shut up,” I say, snaking one hand up so I can twist my fingers deep into his soft hair and force his mouth to mine. Not surprisingly, he responds with vigor, pulling me in hard against his body and returning my kiss. It’s been a while since I’ve kissed anyone, and he’s certainly new to me, so I bump noses with him and it takes a bit of fancy—okay, not so fancy—maneuvering around his high cheekbones and my nose and whatever, but he coaxes my lips apart for a deep, claiming sort of kiss that sends shockwaves to my toes.

  Speaking of my toes, I realize one of my feet is nearly crushing one of his feet, so I step off him, but this makes me almost lose my balance. Griffin takes advantage of the situation by snarling a little and spinning us around, crashing my hip into a table in the process. I gasp from the pain, but he covers my lips with his again, kissing me so hard that I dig my nails into the back of his shirt in response.

  Griffin presses my back to the wall, his hands dancing down my sides, down my hips. “My father said if I came here, all of you would hate me,” he says in little gasps between kisses. “You’ll try to kill me, just like those—those aliens on your movie.”

  “That was not my movie,” I say, tugging at the bottom of his shirt, attempting to move it in the direction of up, up, up, over his head and off.

  “I think he’s wrong.”

  “I think you should stop talking about him right now, before I force you to strip naked and put another record on,” I say, finally managing to remove the shirt from him and toss it on the ground. “Do you have any idea how hot you looked with that record in your hands?”

  Griffin kisses the corner of my mouth, my chin, the most vulnerable part of my throat, my collarbone, and then he bites my jaw, which is almost hotter than him holding a vinyl record in his hands. Almost.

  “Is that all I needed to do? Hold a record?” he demands, before moving his teeth to my collarbone. “Or did you want me to do this?” He hitches up my skirt just enough to run one finger up my bare thigh, much the same as he ran it over the side of the record.

  I restrain any loud noises, but barely.

  “Look, the wall is too advanced for me,” I say, pushing him back, but not too much. I slide out of my dress in a mess of flailing arms, leaving it behind as I grab his wrist and tug him toward the bed. “Even if you could make me levi
tate or something, this is better for me. Okay?”

  Griffin nods, all but tackling me to the bed and catching us up in another feverish kiss. After a few seconds of kissing nirvana, I grab a handful of his dark hair and pull hard enough to force his lips away from mine. “You should lock the doors.”

  “The…?”

  “Your best friend and about half a dozen oversized bouncers are in the next room, remember? Go lock the door to that room and the door to our room.”

  Though I’m disappointed to lose the warmth of his body against mine, I’m glad that he obeys me and runs across the room to lock the doors. He returns almost before I know he’s gone, climbing back onto the bed with me.

  We tangle, and I do my best not to embarrass myself or hurt either of us. His arms are pleasantly wiry and muscular, more than I would have guessed, and his shoulders are good and strong for how slender he is. My hands explore this new territory a little at a time, savoring the glowing heat of his skin.

  “You’re beautiful, Wanda.”

  Somehow, even I’m starting to believe my name is Wanda. “Well, you have strong arms,” I say as he presses kisses down my front.

  “I was in the military.”

  “What? You? In the military?”

  “Yeah, yeah, we all have to put in two years.” His lips have reached my belly, and I try not to knee him in the face or something, but my reflexes are still dodgy from years of misuse and the occasional tray-tipping scare at the restaurant. “But I wasn’t very good at murder.”

  “Oh. Oh, Griffin, please don’t use that tone right now.”

  He looks up at me, raising one eyebrow in surprise.

  “No, no,” I quickly say. “Sorry, by that I meant, please keep using that tone. You were all growly. Please tell me more about that. If you used a gun, you can tell me about that. Or talk about music.”

  Griffin snickers and returns his face to mine, kissing me again and then whispering something in my ear that I don’t understand. It’s definitely something in his weird alien language, but it sounds snarly and delicious right now. “I only had a gun when I was in the military. A citizen has no use for a gun,” he says, in English again. “Our guns are quite different from yours.”

  “Whatever, whatever. We’ll pretend you’re James Bond right now, okay? And I’ll be a somewhat clumsy Bond girl who didn’t get the perfect blowout and makeup job.” I trace my hands over his back and shoulders. “My hormones must be really bad right now. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should not, should not, be doing this.”

  “It’s because we’re made of the same stuff,” he says, wriggling around to remove whatever else he’s wearing. Once he’s sent the last of his clothes over the side of the bed, Griffin bites my earlobe gently and whispers, “Why don’t you look into me, Wanda? Do it. Just do it.” When he meets my eyes again, I let out a quiet sigh and nod.

  “Alright. Whatever this is, go on.”

  He leans down, and we stare into each other’s eyes. At first, I don’t see anything besides thick, black lashes and bright blue eyes, but then I feel as if I’m levitating. Some part of me is lifting away from the rest, floating into a universe of painted memories, many of them not my own. I can see a little boy with yellow hair laughing, and I see a tall, graceful woman dancing about in a white dress. I see a tiny, green plant poking up from black soil. I see ugly red, green, blue, and yellow colors swirling together in the sky. I see Dev’s face, twisted into a panicked expression, I feel my lungs burn with something painful, even more painful than a strong sense of betrayal that goes along with it, and I see red-black blood on my fingers. I see the tall, graceful woman folded into herself and bloodied on the floor, arms splayed wide and eyes closed. I see rows of uniformed soldiers, I see Dev laughing about something. I feel confused and lost and happy and lonely and drunk and hopeful and hopeless all in turn, emotions washing through me, sewn together with my own memories. High school photos, the first time I rode a bike, my mom’s embarrassing lecture about boys…

  I feel excitement, warmth, pleasure, and just a touch of tenuous doubt. And then, all at once, I can see Griffin again, though the memories and visions continue to exist around me like ghosts.

  “Do you see now?” Griffin whispers, his eyebrows drawn together, and I nod. I still feel dazed.

  “Don’t doubt yourself,” I say at last. “You’re doing just fine. Just show me why your—uh—why the women on your planet don’t need blush, okay?”

  Wait, is he vibrating a little…?

  Yes. Yes, he is.

  When I was younger and still imagined that my life would be full of romantic adventures, grand trips to exotic locations, and a record collection to rival that of the most serious collector in the world, I had often fantasized about rolling around on a beach with a handsome man to some sexy David Bowie songs.

  We’re not on a beach, and technically, Griffin is an alien, but this is close enough to be satisfactory.

  “It’s been a while, so please—” I start to say, but he nibbles on my neck, and I find it difficult to remember how to talk, never mind what I was saying.

  “Daisy,” Griffin whispers against my ear, and I shiver to hear my real name. “There’s nothing to feel nervous about. You’ve seen me, but I’ve seen you, too. I know.”

  His mouth moves over me in claiming waves, lower and lower, past my belly this time, until he’s reached territory no one’s gone to in that way before. I’ve read about this kind of thing in magazines, usually from the safety of my bedroom while wrapped up in pajamas with frogs on them, but it’s all been theory up until this point. Griffin’s got me squirming helplessly before I’ve even had enough time to process what’s happening.

  I raise my head to look down at him when he stops, already thinking of about two hundred ways to scold him, but he’s grinning back at me in the most evil manner. When he leans over me, I wrap my arm around his neck, pulling him down against me. He kisses my neck once, twice, and then works his fingers down over me. He’s better at that than I’ve ever been, the jerk. “Are you ready for me yet?” he whispers, snickering when he draws a gasp out of me. “Good girl, Daisy.”

  Just as I start to tense up again, I hear him say, “Don’t think about that. Don’t think about him.” I’m not sure if he said it out loud or in my head, but somehow, it works. I stop worrying so much about what I look like or what’s going to happen or what happened before or the bodyguards over in Dev’s room or anything in the world except for myself and Griffin.

  “I’ve abducted your mind,” he says, with one last very deliberate flick of his finger, and a dark laugh. “And now I want the rest of you.”

  Oh, God.

  “Alright,” I manage to say. “Alright, Griffin. I have not known you long enough at all and shouldn’t be doing this but… alright.” This is all the permission he needs to fully take me. He draws noises out of me that I hadn’t thought possible, and he makes a few noises that I’m sure actually aren’t possible—for humans. He’s attuned to me, through it all, patient, confident, and just fervent enough to leave us both a pleased wreck by the end.

  And then, maybe ten minutes later, I’m on my way to the bathroom, wrapped in a blanket and clutching some clean clothes, and the door between our room and Dev’s busts open.

  Like, all the way off its hinges.

  Somehow, I manage not to scream, but I definitely gasp and pull the blanket up and around myself better.

  Dev’s the first through the doorway, his eyes wide. “Is everyone alright?” he demands, and then his eyes stray to Griffin, who’s lazily stretched on his back on the bed, propped up on his elbows. “Griffin, did you—?”

  “You could bloody knock next time, mate.”

  “You locked me out! I was worried about you!”

  Griffin doesn’t seem all that bothered as the bodyguards spill into the room, and Dev shoots me a few embarrassed glances. “Well, you should be worried. I can’t find that menu they gave us for room service,” Griffin says. “I’m
hungry enough to eat a full grown balak.”

  Dev looks at me again, and then clears his throat, dropping his gaze. “Sorry, Daisy. I’m just… I was a bit worried is all. Sorry. I shouldn’t have barged in like that.”

  “I-I would appreciate it if everyone would just walk away and pretend this never happened,” I splutter.

  This isn’t quite the most mortifying thing that’s ever happened to me, but it’s close. Thankfully, all the bodyguards return to the other room, leaving Dev behind with Griffin and me.

  “Well, don’t just stand there gaping like a fish,” Griffin says. “Where’s that menu?”

  “You could have told me,” Dev says.

  “Told you what?”

  “That you needed some time alone. I tried to open the door and… look, I was worried.”

  I wave one hand around. “Nothing was planned, alright? And to be fair, it was kind of my fault. I jumped him.” My face warms to the approximate temperature of Texas blacktop in July. “Can we please follow my earlier suggestion and pretend this never happened?”

  “Nah, he needs to find the menu. You had it last, Dev. Where is it?” Griffin asks, shifting around casually on the bed so his back is to the backboard. A corner of the sheet is barely draped over his lap, precariously close to slipping out of place.

  “I’m going to go into the bathroom and try not to die from embarrassment. When I return, I’d like the door to be put back where it belongs and for everyone to have learned their lesson about knocking first. Goodbye.”

  With that, I spin around and all but run into the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind myself.

  My original plan had been to take a shower and then climb back into bed—wearing one of Griffin’s expensive T-shirts—and cuddle up to him for the rest of the night. It shouldn’t be too much to ask, really. But that’s just not how my life ever seems to work.

  After a quick shower, I shuffle over to the mirror for a full assessment. My skin doesn’t appear to be glowing and my hair hasn’t turned into a shampoo ad, but that’s all right. It was all a bit of a surprise and I’ll just have to deal with the fallout from it, awkward eye contact with Dev included.

  Once I’m finished brushing my hair and composing myself, I exit the bathroom with head held high. Okay, not high, but with some confidence at least. Mercifully, for the sake of my hormones and sanity, Griffin has put some pants on and settled himself in the middle of the bed with his guitar. The David Bowie record has finished playing, so the music I hear is… Griffin’s.

  It sounds good, too—nice little guitar tune and his melodic humming over top.

  “That doesn’t sound too bad,” I say, looking around and noting that Devon and the bodyguards have managed to prop the door back in the doorway, even if it’s not really fixed. “Aren’t you… tired, though?”

  Griffin shrugs and continues playing, lost in what seems to be a song in progress. He looks energized, rather than tired, and when he finally raises his head to me, I see a gleeful expression. “Got some ideas for songs,” he says.

  “From David Bowie?”

  He rolls his eyes. “From you, of course. From our experience together.”

  Ah. Great. Hopefully, he won’t add graphic lyrics with details about everything that happened between us. My mom is only going to be able to take so much.

  “It was a pretty nice ‘experience’, up until the door came down,” I say, settling under the cover on the right side of the bed. “However, I am tired.”

  “Go to sleep, then.” He strums the guitar for a few seconds, and then glances over his shoulder and smiles at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you in your dreams.”

  I want to tell him that I wasn’t worried about finding or losing him, but that actually sounds kind of nice. And when I drift off to sleep, I do see him once or twice in my dreams, but he’s being pulled further and further from me, no matter how fast I run toward him…