Wyst

by J. A. Hornbuckle

  Will it be enough, my Pam?

  Slamming a five, two ones and a couple of pieces of silver on the table, she palmed a fifty before zipping her purse closed and sliding out of the seat. “It better be. And stop calling me ‘my Pam’. I’m not yours, Wyst!”

  Chapter Eleven

  I paid the check and stormed out the doors of the diner dead-set on getting away just as fast as possible. Then I remembered I had no place to go other than back to the motel. The thought of that took the wind right out of my sails.

  It wasn’t his fault the meal cost so much, taking a large bite out of the remaining cash we had on hand. Although I still blamed him for getting us into our current mess. If he’d thought with his head instead of his dick back at the truck stop, we wouldn’t be stuck in Wayward.

  Or staying at the motor lodge from hell to the tune of a hundred bucks a night.

  The truth of it was, I didn’t know how we were going to stretch our funds enough to feed and provide any other necessities for a full week. And that scared me.

  Especially when I remembered my conversation with Bronsyn regarding how Picari warriors functioned in the field. From what I knew, the way the U.S. Military worked was the complete opposite of what he’d described when he’d explained a warrior’s responsibilities, the absolute autonomy they were given to enact success. And their self-reliance contrasted sharply with our military’s dependence on orders from headquarters.

  When Wyst joined me on the sidewalk, I glanced up once and saw he was glowering at the buildings across the street, although what he had to be mad about was anyone’s guess. I, on the other hand, needed to find a solution to our cash flow issue and fast.

  Our pace was slow as we walked along and I figured he was just as loathe as I was to go back to our dismal little room although we weren’t talking, either verbally or along our weird link. He was thinking his thoughts and I was racing around in my own head trying to find a bright idea to save us from eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the next seven plus days.

  So caught in my thoughts, I wasn’t watching where I stepped and managed to trip over a crack in the cement. Without hesitation, Wyst immediately grabbed my elbow to keep me from falling. And with his hand still on my arm, I lifted my head, gazing up into his frowning face. I didn’t think it was a coincidence we both blurted out, “I’m sorry,” at exactly the same time.

  But it did make him grin, causing me to give one back which led him to slide his fingers from my arm down to my hand. The simple gesture was almost as good as a hug, comfort-wise. Maybe it was the easy way he entwined our fingers, his steps in line with mine that calmed me down but my formerly jumbled thoughts became clearer, more focused.

  “Have you ever had to worry about money?” I’d spoke without thinking but once the words were out of my mouth, I found myself eager for his answer.

  I caught his head shake out the corner of my eye. “No, not really. Although I was labelled a gremal because my father couldn’t supply me with extra credits for extra-curricular amusements.”

  “Did it make you feel bad to be called a…how did you pronounce it? Gray-mal?”

  “Certainly and at one point found me punching another cadet for saying it. But I soon learned to stay away from the privileged boys and dedicate myself to my studies. So much so I graduated the program in only twelve yons and had my pick of first assignments.” He squeezed my fingers and the rash on my inner wrist began to itch. “What about you? Did you have to worry about currency growing up?

  “Not growing up, but after Grams died I did. Worked three jobs for about a year in order to catch up on the back taxes for her house just so I could sell it and pay off her medical bills.” Yeah, no. Those weren’t fun times, but I did it—which gave me an idea for resolving our own money issues. “Didn’t we see a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in one of the windows we passed?”

  I cannot read English, remember?

  “Oh yeah,” I mumbled, dropping his hand to look behind us. I was sure I’d seen one but I’d been so deep in thought it hadn’t registered until that moment. “Let me see if I can find it.” Moving quicker than before, I went back towards the diner peering into every shop’s window that lined Wayward’s main drag. About six businesses back, I found it taped to the window of a place called “Dr’ala”. From the noise I could hear from behind the colorful window rendered to look like stained-glass, I was convinced it was a drinking establishment.

  Wyst joined me and we both looked at the sign. “See? It says they’re looking for a server which is perfect since I, like, used to work in a bar.”

  He glanced up at the flashing sign before dropping his chin to look at me. “You can read the symbols?”

  Huh? I glanced up and tried to sound out the bar’s name. “Drah allah? Der ah lay? It’s not a word I’m familiar with, but I don’t need to know how to say it. I just need to put in an application, right?”

  “Although I cannot read the English letters, see the script at the bottom? That I can read.”

  I looked upward again and saw little curlicue-looking things I considered nothing more than decoration, making the sign more cheerful. “What does it say?”

  “It’s in the very old Baspic script but it’s pronounced Dray-lah, which means this a congregation house, one which serves libations to people who wish to meet in a place outside of their homes.” He didn’t seem very happy he could read the little squiggles, but what he described matched my impression of the place to a T.

  I reached for the door but he stopped me from opening it. “I need to speak with Bronsyn about this.”

  “Okay, you do that and I’ll go see about snagging an application and setting up an interview.” I was excited by the thought of not only resolving our money problem, but not being stuck in our motel room the entire time we were waiting for the car part to arrive. “I’ll be right back.”

  When I walked through the door, I was greeted by a wall of sound, one comprised not only of voices but speakers pumping out some old Bob Seeger. The entire time we’d been in Wayward, I’d seen only a handful of people but it appeared the little town got active after the sun went down. That was if the diner and Dr’ala were any indication.

  Looking around I saw almost every table and booth were filled as well as the stools in front of the long bar running the length of the back wall. Convinced that was where I needed to go, I quickly shouldered my way to the counter, squeezing in between a couple of good ole boys chugging glasses of whatever was on tap. Shooting a smile at each in apology, I tried to catch the bartender’s attention as she seamlessly moved from station to station, her eyes shifting from glass to glass as she prepared drinks and made change.

  She was an exotic beauty although it has to be said her look was a little over the top for a small town in eastern Wyoming. If I could’ve given it a name, I’d call her style ‘biker babe chic’ with her low-slung, black leather pants and matching vest both of which were held in place with laces instead of buttons. But as a long time fashionista, I more than knew an outfit didn’t create a ‘look’ in and of itself. To do it right, a girl had to use it all—hair, makeup and jewelry as well as attitude—to really rock whatever look she wanted to project. And this chick nailed it in the beautiful biker girl realm.

  From the top of her long dreads that appeared a navy blue in the dim lights of the bar, to the stiletto heels of her fringed boots, from her feathered earrings to the mass of turquoise and silver necklaces and bracelets and different expanses of creamy skin in between, she was working it big time. Even if I hadn’t yet seen her face to assess her makeup, I had to admit to being impressed by what she’d achieved.

  Without looking at me, she slapped a coaster on the bar and yelled loud enough to be heard over the conversation and music. “What can I get you, Shorty?”

  “Uhm…an application?” To tell the truth, I was more than a little intimidated because I knew I didn’t look my best in that moment. Not in my yoga pants and t-shirt, not with my hair untamed
and stuck in a messy bun and definitely not without full makeup in place. Not to boast or anything, but when done up I knew I could hold my own even with her in attendance—causing the men who preferred long-legged brunettes to give little, blonde-haired me more than a passing glance.

  I knew she heard me by the momentary pause of her hands, a move so slight that if I hadn’t been living with warriors of the Picari Protectorate for the last few months I would’ve missed.

  “Come around the end of the bar and join me,” she advised, nodding her head to the right.

  Stepping lively I rounded the crowded bar and soon was by her side, but even so, she remained in action.

  “Job pays ten buck an hour, cash,” she started, not once looking directly at me. “You have any experience waiting tables?”

  Adjusting my purse, I nodded, which didn’t do a damn bit of good as an answer because she wasn’t glancing my way. “Yeah. Back in Phoenix, I schlepped drinks at O’Reilly’s and after that Jed’s Place.”

  “So you know how to cash out your apron at the end of a shift?”

  “Of course.” Shit, that portion of the job had been the hardest for me to learn in the beginning. Cocktail waitresses had to collect for what was served and then pay for all they’d provided at the end of the night. Which kept a girl’s math skills sharp as shit.

  “Great. You start tomorrow at five.” Finishing up at the register, she turned and faced me fully, adding to the shock rocketing through me at getting the job without the normal, expected rigmarole. Because she wasn’t just beautiful, she was slap-me-silly stunning. Dark brows arched gracefully over a pair of almond-shaped eyes the exact color of green from a box of crayons. Ones she’d accentuated with eyeliner and shadow to create a smoky look. High cheekbones and an aquiline nose framed a full mouth, but I wasn’t sure if the glossy blue lipstick helped or hindered the look she more than rocked. I just knew blue wouldn’t ever be my choice of lip color.

  Continuing on, she propped a hand on a hip as she wiped the prep space with the other. “We close at one but you’ll also have clean-up. So prepare to be outta here by two at the latest.”

  “Works for me,” I answered, my eyes still roaming over her amazing face.

  “So what’s your name, kid?”

  “Pam.”

  “Dani. Nice to meet cha.” Her grip was sure; not overly aggressive or passively limp, giving me the idea that with her, what you saw was what you got.

  And so it was in less than fifteen minutes after entering the door, I had a solution to our cash flow issue.

  *.*.*.*.*

  When Bronsyn answered, Wyst wasted no time in asking for a samlithpi, a meeting of vital importance for those united on the field of battle.

  “I’ll gather them together, get Rykhan on the line and call you back,” came the terse response from his commander.

  As he waited, Wyst paced in an effort to expel some of the excess adrenaline coursing through him even as his eyes remained trained on the brightly lit sign. Seeing the old Baspic script in the wilds of America while on planet Earth was not only unexpected, but unimaginable. And caused his body to immediately go into fight-or-flight mode at the danger it represented. Because somehow and in some way, one of his species had arrived on the same planet, a world not listed in any Picari records (ancient or otherwise) and had done so, well before the Mate Search Quest was planned and enacted.

  The chirping of his tresl signaled Bronsyn’s incoming call, and Wyst relayed his recent discovery verbally, sending along an instantly streamed video which he knew provided validity to his words. The moment he finished speaking there was a beat of silence before all the other warriors began yelling at once and so loudly, he had to pull his ear away from his device. And within a few seconds, Bronsyn took control of the call.

  “Outside of the sign, have you encountered anyone of our kind?”

  “Der,” Wyst replied in the negative. “But we’ve only been in Wayward a few heras.”

  Gyard spoke before Bronsyn could get out another word. “Then a reconnaissance mission is in order for the entire town. One you will have to perform alone, brother.”

  “Wait!” Rykhan cut in. “We all have seen how the Americans like to name their businesses after themselves or with a humorous, quaint names. Perhaps he does not need to search the entire town and surrounding area but simply investigate the premises.”

  Wyst frowned although he knew his warrior-brother’s logic was solid. “Then what do I do? Introduce myself? Talk about our home worlds?”

  Arbrynt’s growl was the loudest of the group, more than giving confirmation of his frustration. It was Laxon though, the youngest and quietest of their team, who put things into perspective. “For all we know, whoever started the business is no longer living and poses no threat to us.”

  “So my first approach would be for information only, correct?” Wyst asked, his incredulity clear even to his own ears. He didn’t have a shred of evidence to support his feelings but there was something about the sign that raised his hackles, warning him remain sharp. And after all his experience as a senior warrior in the Picari Protectorate, he’d learned not to ignore the feeling when his internal alarms sounded.

  Tyshar took on his question. “Outside of our physiques, there is nothing that proclaims us as different from the humans. Therefore, it stands to reason you might be able to ascertain the who and why of the sign without any fractious conversation. Humans are naturally curious about others. I would initially play on that.”

  “As graciously as you can, Wyst,” Bronsyn cautioned, making the other warriors laugh.

  Wyst didn’t find Bronsyn’s warning humorous in the least, since it was based on fact he tended to rub some people the wrong way without any effort. “Frack ved, Gyard.”

  “Why are you telling me to frack myself, singling me out when all of us found Bronsyn’s words funny?”

  “Because you laughed the loudest.” It wasn’t a very strong comeback, but it was the only one Wyst had. Deciding a change in subject was in order, he asked, “Will this be reported to Stege or the Committee?”

  Bronsyn answered Wyst’s question with one of his own. “How can we? We cannot, not without exposing your and Rykhan’s escape as well as putting your mates in jeopardy. Although it would help greatly if we had access to the main Galaxian system to search the ancient texts.”

  Wyst wanted to deny Pam was his mate, but knew his protestations would bring another round of hilarity, just as it had the first time one of the warriors named her as such. “How have you been able to hide our absence from the Committee thus far?”

  “We have not had to since communications are down due to solar flares,” Laxon replied. “But then you would’ve only missed two of the required check-ins, something we could have easily explained away.”

  It was true he and Rykhan had only been gone a couple of rotas, which he knew translated to days in English, although the time away felt a lot longer with all he and the pixie had experienced.

  “Let us worry about the Committee and the daily check-ins. You both just keep yourselves and your blays safe within Tsiran’s blessed protectiveness.” Bronsyn’s voice was more than a request and more like a command.

  But Wyst still bristled at his leader’s words, since it was one thing to call the pixie his ‘mate’ but another to assign her the role of his ‘bride’. They had not even joined in sex, for Gyed’s sake! As he parted his mouth to correct his commander though, he realized the call was being concluded.

  “Keep us posted on your findings, warriors.”

  Before signing off, Wyst had the presence of mind to ask Arbrynt to upload the sleep tapes on written English just as the pixie exited the bar with a huge smile.

  “I got it, babe!” she crowed, shooting her both her hands in the air. “I start tomorrow at five in the afternoon and she’s gonna pay me ten bucks an hour in cash! Ain’t that great?”

  “Wonderful,” he growled, turning away from her to scan the street. Now
that he was aware of the possibility of other unknown Picari in the vicinity, his senses were set to ‘vigilant’ especially with her by his side. It was his duty to protect her and he’d become too complacent in their journey, relying on his enhanced senses and well honed war-skills should they encounter trouble. But if they were to meet with someone from his race? It was better to stay on guard than to be caught unaware.

  “Well it is to me, big guy. With the moola I bring in, we’ll have enough to allow you to eat your fill while we’re stuck here.” She was a complete distraction and it rubbed him the wrong way—what with her bubbling, happy voice and the way she bounced and skipped beside him as he strode towards the motor lodge. “But we’re gonna need to fetch my suitcase and makeup from the Escalade. There’s no way in hell I’m showing up without getting my glam on, that’s for damn sure.”

  As usual, most of her words were unintelligible seeing how it was a mix of regular phrases, words he knew were of the cursing sort and her slang, but he zeroed in the part regarding the retrieval of her possessions from the nonfunctioning transport. “I will go for them at first light.”

  She stopped and stared up at him as the smile faded from her face. “How will you get there?”

  Using a palm in the middle of her back, Wyst got her moving again although it seemed to him she was dragging her feet. “On foot since we have no other choice.”

  “But it’s so far! Too bad we can’t rent a car or something but I’m not suppose to use my credit cards because Arbrynt said they could be traced by the Searcher crew.” She stopped once again and stared up at him. “Do you think that’s true?”

  “We will talk about this once we are inside our room.” He knew his words were abrupt, clipped even, but he couldn’t help it. His attention needed to be on their surroundings, not on her. “Let us hurry, pixie.”