by Gini Koch
Of course, Chuckie’s family were humans who adored me. Though Martini’s parents seemed to sort of like or at least tolerate me. Now. Chuckie’s family also weren’t invading from another planet to pass judgment on me. Maybe Mom had a point. Maybe the invading aliens had a point—I wasn’t exactly Princess Diana material. I did my best to think about flowers so I didn’t give Martini any emotional signals.
“Okay, fine. What are we supposed to do, though?”
“Do? Figure out what’s coming and how to stop it while listening to Charles and not getting yourselves killed.” Mom didn’t add the “duh” in there, but it was clear that she’d just exercised impressive self-restraint.
“Duly noted. We have to listen to Chuckie?” I wasn’t the one who had problems listening to Chuckie, of course, but I felt I had to represent Martini’s interests here.
“Yes. Unless you resign and all the A-Cs leave the planet. Let me mention that I don’t think that’s a viable option for anyone, nor is it the option I, personally, think anyone should exercise.”
“Good to know. Any other words of wisdom?”
“Please God find a decent wedding dress soon, so the rest of us can figure out what we’re going to be wearing.”
“Thanks for focusing on the big picture, Mom.”
“Any time, kitten. Love you and love to Jeff.”
“Love you, too, Mom, and same to Dad.” We hung up, and I felt exhausted again. “Normally talking to my mother doesn’t make me want to sleep for a week.”
“Your body’s responding to stress,” Martini said, as he stood us up, still holding me, in one fluid motion. A-Cs were super strong as well as super fast. He carried me into the bedroom. “You want to talk about the situation, plan the wedding, or go to bed?”
I didn’t have to give this one much consideration. “Bed.”
Martini chuckled. “I meant to sleep.” Martini’s other super skills were empathic and bedroom. He said lust was an easy emotion to pick up, particularly mine. Then again, it was an easy guess, because I was always lusting after him.
“Oh, so did I. You know . . . after.”
Martini grinned. “I love how you focus on the priorities.”
CHAPTER 7
AFTER AN IMPRESSIVE SEXUAL DISPLAY for a normal human, but what was bedroom business as usual for Martini, we fell asleep. I woke up hours later, his arms tight around me. I nuzzled into his chest, and he gave a sleepy growl.
I estimated we’d fallen asleep an hour or so after dawn. It was still daylight—the internal lighting was on full. But I had no guess as to what time it really might be.
Before either one of us was fully awake, a voice came through the intercom. “Commanders Martini and Katt, Supreme Commander Reynolds requests your presence at a briefing.”
“Supreme Commander?” Martini sounded wide awake. “Gladys, what the hell?”
“He knows you well. Mister Reynolds said that would probably wake you. And to tell you he’s kidding, about the title, not the briefing.”
“Hilarious guy. Remind me to punch him when we get to the briefing. Fine, Gladys, please tell Mister Power Mad we’ll be there as soon as possible.”
“An hour,” I shouted. “At least an hour.”
“I’ll pass that along, Commander Katt.”
“Thanks, Gladys.” The com went dead.
“You know, I hated Reynolds enough before I found out he was interested in marrying you. This is going to be sheer hell, having to take orders from him.”
“He’s just got an interesting sense of humor.” I sat up and stretched.
“Mmmm, do that some more.” Martini stroked my breasts.
“Oh . . . Jeff . . . we have to . . . get dressed . . .” My voice trailed off as he moved his mouth to help his hands with the work of sending me to orgasm heaven.
In light of our upcoming briefing session, he used the speedy approach. I was yowling like a cat in heat, my standard reaction, within a minute and climaxing within the usual two. Martini looked extremely pleased with himself as he got out of bed, picked me up, and headed us into the shower.
I was always in the Happy Place if we were showering together. Somehow, we managed to fit in another couple of screaming orgasms before we cleaned up and got out. Royal family be damned—they were not going to prevent me from showering with Martini on an at least once-daily basis, certainly not without a huge fight from me.
I decided not to put on the Armani fatigues today. I chose a pair of jeans, my Converse, and, in light of the impending state of emergency, the Aerosmith shirt I’d worn during Operation Fugly. I figured a little nostalgia couldn’t hurt.
Martini was in, of course, the standard Armani issue. In the year we’d been together I’d gotten him into something else only a few times. He’d been willing to be casual during the day when we’d gone to Cabo—of course, most of the days in Cabo we’d been in swimsuits or naked in our private cabana. But at night he’d adapted the suit to wherever we were going.
Otherwise, I’d gotten him into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt exactly twice since then. I’d almost given up—A-Cs really loved their formality and their Armani. I’d resorted to haunting the Armani website to see if there might be anything in upcoming collections Martini would consent to wear. As of yet, no luck, but I’d certainly learned more about fashion trends and gotten some great ideas for my wedding dress, which was, as my mother had so nicely pointed out, as of yet, neither picked out nor ordered. We were six weeks away from our wedding, but I wasn’t worried. I was panicked. But something, like horrible space visitors, always kept popping up.
We left the Lair and got into the elevator. The one incident with Christopher in here had pretty much been wiped out of my clear memory by Martini’s ravaging me in it shortly afterward. I normally loved being in an elevator with him—it was always a toss-up as to whether he’d stop it and we’d see how often I could climax, or he’d at least ravage my mouth to the point where a climax was a strong possibility.
We went with the latter today. I hated having to be someplace on time, it took away so many potential orgasms.
We reached the launch area, which was the top of the Science Center. There were the usual personnel milling about doing things I still, after a year, didn’t understand or try to learn about. I was dedicated that way.
All of Airborne was waiting for us. Tim, who was our official driver, my five Top Gun pilots—Jerry, Hughes, Walker, Joe Billings, and Randy Muir—and Claudia and Lorraine, our medical. Randy and Joe were their boyfriends, and the four of them looked particularly worried. I could understand that. Martini and I were pretty much going to be the test case for interspecies marriages. It was how White had gotten around the older A-Cs totally freaking out. If all went well for the two of us, then more couples would be allowed to do their counseling with the Pontifex and, of all people, my mother, then walk on down the aisle to wedded bliss.
Tim was the only one of our team not dating an A-C. He was dating Alicia, whom we’d met during the fun trip where we’d all almost died about ten times, good old Operation Drug Addict. She worked for the airlines and thought we were all part of the P.T.C.U. She was doing great with keeping that a secret, and we figured one day we might be able to tell her the truth. Jerry, Hughes, and Walker were playing the A-C field—there were so many Dazzlers to choose from, and my flyboys were the ultimate combo—all great looking by human standards and all really, really smart.
“Everyone ready?” Martini asked. “Wouldn’t want to keep Mister C.I.A. waiting.” The guys all grimaced. Claudia and Lorraine just rolled their eyes.
Something I hadn’t considered for a while occurred to me, but now wasn’t the time to ask the girls why Chuckie—who was tall, handsome, rich, human, and beyond brilliant—wasn’t right after Hawking on the Dazzler Wish List.
“We really have to take direction from Reynolds?” Tim asked.
“Presumably,” Martini growled, and I flipped my mind onto flowers while I tried to determine if h
e was growling because of the mere mention of Chuckie’s name or if Martini had picked up that I was thinking nice things about Chuckie. Then again, he was an empath, not a mind reader. I relaxed.
“Chuckie’s not that bad. And we need his help right now. So, yeah.”
“Kitty won’t,” Jerry said with a grin. “She’ll pretend to, but she’ll do what she wants.”
The entire team nodded. I felt a little embarrassed.
Martini laughed. “Too true.”
“Chuckie knows me pretty well,” I muttered.
“Yeah? Then how’d he let you shove him through the gate when Reid had you two cornered?”
He had a point. And Chuckie wasn’t empathic. Okay, we were good.
My cell phone rang, and I dug it out of my purse. “Hi, Christopher, what’s up?”
“Oh, we’re just wondering when Airborne’s going to grace us with their presence. And Jeff. The rest of Alpha’s sitting here, taking bets on when Reynolds loses his cool and starts screaming about how late you are.”
“Chuckie doesn’t lose his cool.” This was true. He’d had a lot of reasons to in high school, when he’d been short, ravaged by acne, and a total geek-nerd combo. He’d never lost it when people had picked on him, though I had. He’d always told me success was the best revenge. Becoming a multimillionaire twice over before he was twenty-five and now running the C.I.A.’s ET Division qualified as overwhelmingly successful in my book. I was, as always, so proud of him.
“I hate it when you think about him,” Martini muttered to me.
Focused on the stupid flowers again. They didn’t seem to be working. Maybe I should try trees. “Be there as soon as we get through the gate. By the way, where is ‘there,’ exactly?”
Christopher sighed. “You don’t know?”
“No. See, if I knew, I wouldn’t have asked. It’s my crazy little way.”
“Crazy is the accurate description for you. And, apparently, Reynolds. We’re not in any of our bases.”
“Um, why not?” I looked around. All of Airborne seemed confused. I looked up at Martini. “They’re not at a base.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Oh? Where the hell are we going, then?”
“Jeff has no clue either. Want to share, or do you secretly like hanging with Chuckie waiting for the rest of us?”
Christopher sighed. “We’re in Las Vegas.”
“Come again?”
“Vegas. We’re in freaking Las Vegas. Reynolds is cracking up, by the way.”
I was sure he was. Chuckie had a wicked sense of humor. And he and I had spent a wild week in Vegas when Circle-K had bought out his chain of convenience stores for the first of those multimillions. That was when he’d suggested we get married, the first time, but I’d thought he was kidding. He hadn’t been, as I’d discovered six months ago, when he suggested it the second time. Before my week with Martini in Cabo, Vegas with Chuckie had been the best vacation, and sex, of my life. And Chuckie would enjoy tormenting Martini, and apparently Christopher, with this knowledge.
“Let me guess . . . you’re in the Mandalay Bay somewhere.”
“Oh, you’re good. Yeah, top floor of THEhotel.”
“Not the Four Seasons?” Which didn’t surprise me at all that much. Chuckie preferred sleek to grandiose.
“Reynolds says he knows you’ll like THEhotel better.” I could hear how annoyed this was making Christopher.
“He’s right. We’ll be there as soon as the gate’s calibrated. At least the Vegas bathrooms are clean.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t want anything to keep you from spending your money quicker.”
“You don’t like gambling?” I loved it.
“We gamble our lives every day. Gambling money seems anticlimactic.” Christopher had a point.
“Well, whatever, be there shortly.” I hung up. I looked around at the team. I couldn’t help it—I was sort of excited.
“Well?” Martini asked. “Are we heading where it sounded like we’re heading?”
“Oh, yeah. We’re going to Vegas, baby!”
CHAPTER 8
MY TEAM HAD THE MOST HUMANS ON IT, and all of them looked pleased. Claudia and Lorraine looked confused. And Martini looked beyond annoyed. “Vegas. Great.”
“Oh, come on, Jeff. It’ll be fun.”
“Right. We aren’t going to be having fun. We’re going to be figuring out how to stop my relatives from ruining our lives.”
“True, but . . . it’s so cheap and tawdry and glittery and loud. And it never sleeps!” I loved Vegas, when you got right down to it.
Martini sighed. “Can’t wait. Truly.”
We walked to a gate and calibrated for the McCarran International Airport. Martini sent Tim first, then the rest of our team. He recalibrated quickly, his hand a blur. Then he swung me up into his arms.
I hated going through the gates. They still looked more like airport metal detectors than anything else to me, but they also brought new meaning to the term “sick to your stomach.” About the only way I could get through one without wanting to barf my guts out was in Martini’s arms, with my face buried in his neck. He stepped us through, and in a second we’d gone from the middle of the New Mexico desert to the middle of the Nevada desert.
McCarran was one of the few airports where a bunch of people coming out of a stall, three of them women, didn’t cause too much notice. Anything went in Vegas. We lucked out in that there weren’t any men in the bathroom, and our little parade coming out of the men’s room didn’t attract any looks—there were slot machines all over the airport, and people were paying a lot more attention to them than to us.
However, once we were in the area to get to a taxi stand, I noticed someone watching us. He was hard to miss—he had a camera the size of his head. And it was aimed at us.
I nudged Martini. “Why are we getting our pictures taken?”
He looked over and shrugged. “Guy likes to take pictures of pretty women.”
“Um, Jeff, really? That’s what you’re picking up?”
He sighed. “Baby, we’re in an airport. Loaded with people with their emotions going off the charts.”
“Oh. You have all your blocks up on full.”
“Right. He’s not giving off any kind of threat emotions—those I can still feel. So what if he takes pictures of us? We’re in a tourist spot, and Christopher’s people will alter anything we don’t like.”
The man had snapped several shots while we were talking. He lowered the camera and grinned at me. He was under six feet, dressed in casual, baggy clothes, well worn but clean. I couldn’t tell if the clothes were hiding muscles or a slight pudge. Black hair, beard, and, as he walked closer, I could see twinkling blue eyes. I couldn’t tell his age—maybe 30s, maybe 40s, maybe not.
“How’re you folks doing?” he asked. He had a slight twang in his voice, but I couldn’t place it, other than to say I’d bet he was from the Southwest somewhere.
“Fine. We don’t want our pictures taken.”
His grin got wider. “Pity. You shouldn’t be out of Home Base then, should you?”
Chuckie had trained me well. The only people who referred to Nellis Air Force Base or the Groom Lake portion of it as Home Base also called it Area 51. Based on how he looked, this man wasn’t an A-C, and based on how he dressed and was acting, he wasn’t a human agent, either.
“Just who are you?” I tried to ask nicely. His grin managed to get wider, indicating I’d failed.
“Mister Joel Oliver. World Weekly News.” He put out the hand not holding his humongous camera.
None of us extended ours in return. “What does a rag photographer want with pictures of tourists?” Tim asked, more politely than I’d have managed.
Oliver shook his head as he retracted his hand. “You’re not tourists.” He leaned closer. “I know who . . . and what . . . you are.” He straightened up. “And I’d love to do an interview. I’m our top photojournalist.”
“I’m sure that’s impressive to so
meone, Oliver,” Martini said casually. He seemed so calm and cool. Glad one of us was.
“Mister Joel Oliver, please. Full name.”
“Why?”
Oliver shrugged. “Ensures my byline’s always right, my sources are sure who they’re talking to, and I like hearing the Mister.”
“Like Mister T?”
“And for similar reasons.” Oliver shook his head. “You’d be amazed at what names I get called.”
“I’ll bet you twenty dollars none of them would shock or surprise me.”
He laughed. “I don’t take sucker bets.” Oliver looked straight at Martini. “I know your people alter my photos. But they can’t alter what I write. You have powerful friends who do that, though. But it won’t stop me.”
Martini shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a meeting to attend.” Martini jerked his head at us, indicating it was time to move on.
“With the head of the C.I.A.?” Oliver asked as we headed for the limo line.
Martini smiled. “Nope.” He clearly wasn’t lying and it was obvious Oliver could tell if the look of disappointment that flashed across his face was any indication.
Of course, that’s because Oliver hadn’t asked the question properly. Chuckie wasn’t the head of the C.I.A., so Martini wasn’t telling an untruth. He was avoiding telling the truth, which was about the only way the A-Cs could manage lying. It was nice of Oliver to have made it so easy. I didn’t want to count on that happening again.
Oliver followed us to the limo stand. “So, Miss Katt, how have you recovered from your recent ordeal?”
“How do you know my name and what ordeal are you talking about?”
“You were pursued by crazed madmen through the Arizona desert not too long ago, weren’t you? By Representative Leventhal Reid and an associate, I believe?”
