Guarding Grayson

by Cathryn Cade

  “Holy crap. You cut your—her hair,” he said, staring at her in disbelief. Brynne’s silky, past-shoulder-length hair had been whacked until nothing was left but short layers around her face and head.

  “Does it not appear normal?” She asked, her hands fluttering up, then back down.

  It looked fine, in fact it looked kind of pretty, looping up in loose curls that revealed her dainty earlobes and the line of her throat, and emphasized her big brown eyes. Brynne had spent the better part of an hour each morning taming her hair into a silky, straight swathe. And Gray had loved messing it up, running his hands through it, especially when he—no, not going there.

  “It looks … short,” he said. “Really short.”

  “I was unable to free the foreign matter from the tangles,” she said. “So I thought it best to simply remove the damaged portions. I accessed a human hair fashion site for information on how to proceed. However, if Brynne is unhappy, I calculate it will return to its former length in nine or ten of your lunar months. Will that be satisfactory?”

  Gray shook his head. “Oh, no. Don’t ask me. Far be it from me to predict a woman's reaction to that kind of thing. But I’m betting on very unhappy.”

  Gah, he needed caffeine. He yawned and shoved his own hair back, eyeing her dubiously. “I need a shower. Think you can stay out of trouble for that long? No more major revisions to Brynne, no other kind of mayhem.”

  She nodded gravely, somehow managing to impart the dignity of an ambassador in foreign environs. “I will endeavor to stay out of trouble, Gray-son. And you should definitely utilize your cleansing unit. As you humans say, ‘You stink’.”

  “Touché. I’ll clean up, and then feed you—or the two of you.”

  He showered in record time, shoved his hair behind his ears and pulled on a clean Henley tee of faded red and a pair of clean jeans and went back to the kitchen.

  Brynne-E’ea had her head in the frig and her sexy—if currently too skinny—ass sticking out at him, her bare legs on display below the hiked up hem of his tee, and the lower curve of one ass cheek. Desire hit him low in the gut like one of her soft hands skimming down his belly and grabbing his stiffening cock.

  He reached down to adjust himself in his suddenly too-snug jeans, wincing. Okay, remember the way she’d looked when she got here—death warmed over. Yeah, that worked, sending a shudder through him that was the opposite of sexy.

  “Hungry?” he asked, reaching into the cupboard for the bag of designer roast coffee he’d been lucky enough to find in Roswell. If there was one thing North-Westerners were picky about, it was their coffee. Had to be strong and dark.

  “Yes, extremely,” his guest said, straightening with a jar in her hand. “Where is an eating utensil?”

  Gray grimaced as he saw what she held. “Ugh, don’t eat that. Mayonnaise is for sandwiches. We don’t eat it for breakfast, and especially not straight out of the jar—that’s disgusting.”

  E’ea looked puzzled. “But it is full of calories and the nutritional content is clearly displayed.”

  Gray took the jar and shoved it back in the frig. “Just take my word for it, okay? Sit down, I’ll fix you some eggs.”

  “The fowl embryos? Regrettably, they have been consumed. Brynne was hungry in the night.”

  Gray raised his brows at her, then looked around the clean kitchen. “Okay. How’d you cook them? You did cook them, right?”

  “It was not necessary. They were quite easy to consume in their natural state.”

  Gray swallowed, nearly gagging. There had been at least half a dozen eggs in the carton. The idea of Brynne slugging down that many raw eggs—he couldn’t picture it. Didn’t want to picture it.

  “Yeah, well don’t eat them raw again,” he told her, moving on to fill the coffee pot under the tap. “You—I mean we humans can get sick that way. We mostly have to cook our protein.”

  “Another reason this mayonnaise is a useful food. It is already chemically heat-altered.”

  Gray didn’t bother to answer that. He hit start on the coffeemaker, which luckily he’d remembered to pick up at the big grocery-homewares store on the way here. Gran’s had been old the last time he visited, and he’d tossed it in the trash his first day here, along with some ancient spices and box mixes of rice and pasta.

  “There is also this substance,” E’ea said, and Gray turned just in time to see the bottle of tequila he’d bought for margaritas slip from the cupboard into her hand. She opened the lid and inhaled, then closed her eyes. “Mm-mm, it smells delicious. It reminds me of … twilight on my planet. Yes, that is it.”

  Gray grabbed the bottle from her just before she got the lid off. “Yeah, well, you let Brynne drink this, it’ll remind you of nightie-night time, all right. You stay out of this bottle, got it?”

  She gave him a reproachful look. “But why? Your alcohol contains many calories and is responsible for much weight gain among your people. Also, I want it.” She reached for the bottle.

  Gray held it out of her reach, moving away. “No. Now, listen. Tequila is a very potent alcohol. And Brynne’s slender. She can’t metabolize much of the stuff. You’ve heard of alcohol, so haven’t you heard of being drunk? Schnockered, buzzed, wasted …?”

  His guest tipped her head and frowned in concentration. Then she nodded once. “Very well, I perceive you are correct. But I am sad. I did so want to taste twilight.”

  “No twilight for you, not that kind.” About time he got to say no to her. “Anyway, you’re, uh, made of light, right? Why would you want to ‘taste’ twilight? That’s the dark.”

  She pondered this. “How to explain to a human … it is because we are made of light. Light is energy, movement and life. But it uses our resources, which we must replenish. Twilight means a time when we can rest, sink into stasis. It is … peace. Sweet and rejuvenating. Only it smells rather like your teh-keel-ah. And like you, sometimes those of my race come to crave that peace too much. If we spend too long in the twilight, we never rise to the light again.”

  “Huh. Okay.” Instead of alcoholics, they had twilight-oholics. Gray shoved the bottle in the high cupboard over the fridge, peered into the fridge itself, then moved to the cupboard for bowls, spoons and the granola. “I need groceries. Especially if you’re gonna keep feeding Brynne this way.”

  “I calculate her body is under-nourished by at least ten percent for her height, age, build and genetic heritage. To recover fully from the trauma of her death, she will need high calorie, nutrition packed food items. Also, she loves cheese-burg-erzz. I do not know what that is, but you should procure her some as soon as possible.”

  “Right.” Gray poured himself a mug of coffee and took a grateful sip, then another. Ah, that was better. It was hot, dark and bitter, just the way he needed it.

  He turned to the table, and found Brynne-E’ea already seated, her gaze on the granola she was pouring.

  He set his mug down and snagged the box from her grasp. “Whoa,” he said, eyeing her brimming bowl. “Brynne wouldn’t eat that much—wait, never mind. Knock yourself out. You’re right, she can stand to gain a few pounds.” He handed her the milk.

  He sat, glugging coffee and watching as she shoveled in granola with the determination and enthusiasm of a child. If this kept up, she was going to gain weight in no time. And add some killer curves to Brynne’s body. He imagined that, and then her reaction to that, and grinned inwardly.

  Then he remembered how obsessive she was about her appearance and everything else, and his humor fled.

  “So how long are you planning on sticking around?” he asked, scowling into his own bowl.

  She drained the milk from the bottom of her bowl by funneling it in a tidy stream into her open mouth, then licked her lips and sighed. “I do not know. This morning I will reconnoiter the area to determine the points of greatest vulnerability and ascertain whether intrusion has already been attempted.”

  “Intrusion?”

  “Yes, by your intende
d assassin.”

  Gray nearly chocked on his first mouthful of granola and milk. He managed to swallow somehow, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at her.

  “Assassin,” he repeated.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “So … whoever trashed my studio did follow me here? Shit, we need to get you—I mean, Brynne out of here, and to the sheriff’s office.”

  She shoved him back into his chair with a move of her hand. “No, Gray-son. The sheriff cannot assist us in this.”

  “Oh, not you too,” he said in disgust. “If we’ve got hitmen after us, I think the law is the best equipped to deal with them. You may be able to push people around with your powers, but not sure that will stop a bullet or a knife. And keep in mind you’re using my girlfriend’s body here.” His ex-girlfriend, but whatever. He just wanted Brynne safe.

  “Oh, the assassin will not use one of your weapons. It would not be necessary.”

  “You think I’m that big of a wimp?”

  “Wimp—human slang for a weak and cowardly being. No, Gray-son, I do not believe you are a wimp. You are a strong, virile specimen of human maleness. But you are no match for a being who can do this—among other things.

  She pointed at the refrigerator, and it creaked and then rose off the floor, bumping gently into the cupboard above it. As Gray stared, it settled back with a rattle of the contents.

  “Now picture that, and other even larger objects flying through your air at high speeds, on command. How would you foil such an attack?"

  “Think I need more coffee,” Gray muttered. He shoved his chair back, went to refill his cup and leaned against the counter as he sipped.

  “Okay,” he said after he’d drunk half a cup. “Hit me—with information, I mean. Not with the toaster or something.”

  She cocked her head and then made a strange sound—kind of a snorting gargle. “You have made a humorous statement, called a joke.”

  Gray stared at her. That had been a laugh? He tried to imagine Brynne’s reaction if she heard herself making that sound, and chuckled behind his mug. She snorted again, looking very pleased with them both.

  “You were gonna explain?” he reminded her. He was not—repeat not—getting sucked into any warm fuzziness here with Brynne. Option one, she was being inhabited by an alien who glowed and had kinetic powers like a giant magnet, or option two, he and she were both nuts—either way, he couldn’t see this ending well.

  She nodded again. “Yes. As you know, your paintings have angered someone very dangerous.”

  “Yeah, I think I got that. Ivan Bondar wants me to stop painting, Rico Fenretti wants me to stop painting, etcetera.”

  “No, Gray-son. Your paintings served only as a marker, to draw attention to you. Your aggressors don’t wish you to stop painting—they wish you to stop living.”

  He’d figured that, what with the speed and secrecy the FBI agents had moved him here, but hearing it again, and from her, made it more real. “Well, Fenretti can afford some top hitmen,” he muttered.

  She shook her head. “I do not know of this Fenretti. The beings who want you dead, and your line ended, are Taurian.”

  “What the hell’s a Tah-ree-an?”

  “They are a race of intelligent, aggressive, and warlike beings who will, in your future, wish to take over a certain planet. A planet much like your Earth, which will be called Frontiera. A planet which, if all goes well, one of your great-great many times removed progeny will help to settle for the Inter-Galactic Alliance, a peaceful organization of planets engaged in trade.”

  She looked at him expectantly.

  Gray shook his head. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked at his coffee cup and wondered if someone had laced it with peyote too.

  “Did you just say … in the future?” he asked, squinting at her.

  “Yes. I am from your future.”

  One detail spring from the mind-boggling morass of intel she’d just spouted. “You’re telling me someone from the future, from another planet, cares that I paint portraits of celebrity criminals?” Yup, definitely peyote in the food and drink.

  It was her turn to stare at him. “No, Gray-son. Not at all. Although the paintings you speak of earn you enough credit to procure a comfortable lifestyle here, they are important only in your time. The paintings that brought me here are like this one.”

  She waved her hand, and Gray started violently, coffee sloshing over his hand. He sucked in a breath and set his cup hastily on the counter. In the kitchen doorway floated the half-finished painting of his futuristic dream.

  “It is a very good likeness of him,” she said.

  “Of … whom?” Gray managed around the lump in his throat. “You know this guy?” And he was real? Or would be?

  “His name is Logan Stark,” she said. “Unfortunately born in poverty, as his father is little more than a sperm donor, and his mother longs for her absent husband instead of making a good home for her son. But eventually, Logan Stark rises to become one of the wealthiest men in the galaxy, and creates a fine life for himself, his two younger brothers and the thousands he employs.'

  'That is … if the Taurian-hired assassin does not succeed in preventing you from procreating. In that case, the Stark family will die with you, and instead of Frontiera being peacefully explored and settled by the Alliance, it will remain a haven for space pirates and eventually become another war base for the Taurians.”

  She fixed a stern look on Gray. “Which will be a tragedy for millions upon millions of beings.”

  Gray drank coffee and absorbed all she’d said. So, he had to stay alive to found a veritable dynasty of Starks? That was pretty hard to believe.

  He had good parents, great parents, but seemed as if they should’ve had more kids, provided a little broader base for procreation, if the fate of the galaxy rested on the Stark line.

  “I have cousins,” he pointed out. “My mom’s side. They live somewhere in Canada—Saskatchewan, I think. Can’t they take care of this? Pretty sure at least two of them have kids by now.”

  “No, Gray-son. Logan Stark, if he is to exist, will be your descendant.”

  “That means …” He looked at her, slim, lovely and focused on him, just the way Brynne always had, but with a difference. Now, the melting brown eyes meeting his gaze were friendly but dispassionate, in the way of a paid advisor, not a clinging girlfriend. “Uh—that means I get married.” Something he had no intention of doing. He wasn’t against the institution, it simply held no appeal for him.

  “Not necessarily,” Brynne-E’ea pointed out. “Many humans procreate without an official bonding ceremony.”

  Gray winced. When she put it like that, it sounded like his kid would be merely the unintended result of a casual hookup—likely a broken condom, because he always suited up. His mind flashed over some of the women he’d enjoyed sex with, and then tried to imagine any of them with a baby—his baby in their arms.

  The picture didn’t come … although he did find himself wondering what Brynne would look like, round with pregnancy. Well, she’d look beautiful. But that didn’t mean she’d be a good mother. And he was sure he’d be a lousy father. Unless he made some changes in his life … which he didn’t want to.

  “Well, let’s say you’re right—and it sounds pretty far-fetched to me—I have no plans to procreate,” he said. “I like my life just the way it is.”

  He stopped short, suddenly aware of exactly how stupid that sounded, when he was hiding out from faceless criminals, and his dead girlfriend and/or an alien composed of light was here with plans to guard him from a supposed ‘inter-galactic’ assassin.

  “Okay, I liked my life the way it was—before all this happened.”

  Brynne-E’ea cocked her head, her brown eyes searching. “Even with Brynne gone?”

  Gray winced. He opened his mouth, then closed it, not sure how to put into words the mix of grief, guilt, anger and remorse he’d lived with since Brynne die
d.

  Grief at her death, guilt that the last words she heard from him were ugly, anger at her for not listening to him, and remorse that he hadn’t tried harder to show her she didn’t need to twist herself into knots to try and please him … and then another layer of guilt that he just wasn’t sure it was in him to make that extra effort. He was a selfish bastard who lived the way he lived, and other people could take him the way he was, or move on.

  “Brynne’s a beautiful woman,” he said. “But she needs to learn to put herself first, and not try so hard to please m—I mean, whatever man she ends up with.” Which wasn’t gonna be him.

  So he’d been lonely after she was gone, and maybe started to turn to her and share a private joke or comment at times, and maybe reached for her in the night. Didn’t mean he wanted to put up with her brand of crazy.

  Enough of this. He drained his coffee and set his cup in the sink. “Let’s find you something to wear, and we’ll go get groceries.” He had a pair of Lycra running shorts that might stay on her.

  “It won’t be necessary for you to procure clothing for me. Your neighbor, Topper, left a bag of female clothing and sundries on the back step. I will utilize them.”

  Great. His neighbor couldn’t call the sheriff for him, but she could make up a care package for his visitor.

  This town was so weird.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Gray leaned his forearms on the grocery cart and sighed again—he seemed to be doing a lot of that today—and the day was only half over.

  It had been a long morning on the road to and around the famed town of Roswell. Had Gray thought ahead, he would’ve realized his passenger was going to react to the local obsession with aliens. Hell, they drove into town on the ‘Extraterrestrial Highway’, also known as State Route 375.

  The first thing they saw as they hit the city limits was a huge, lime-green statue of an alien with a big head and slanted eyes. Brynne-E’ea nearly fell out of the car window, levitating off her seat to view it.