The Quarry Master: A Grumpy Alien Boss Romantic Comedy

by Amanda Milo

“—and yet you seem to be under the impression—”

  “I wasn’t operating under any impression except the one where you might mistake what I mean, and look what’s happening. You’re overreacting. Gah, you’re such a drama queen.”

  Bash stops speaking, and apparently his translator gives him what he needs to know for this term. “I wasn’t the one panicking over Narwari—”

  “Who eat people.”

  “—and puny grape beetles—”

  “Those were nasty.”

  “—and if you refer to me as your warden, I will take you and—”

  “And break my neck,” I sigh, finishing his threat for him.

  Bash pauses. “I was going to say I would take you on another kiln-fuel trip.”

  “Oh!” I smile at him. “I’d totally do a repeat.” He shoves a new leather piece in my direction and I take it up, holding it where he indicates I need to. My hand is heavy because his tail is still gripping it… and I don’t mind at all. “You wouldn’t punish me with a beating? You? Are you feeling okay?”

  “The day is young. Keep teasing me.”

  Did anyone else hear Bash give me permission? He totally did.

  CHAPTER 15

  ISLA

  Today started off well, with Bash having a beautiful shiny fourteen on his No-Crying Counter.

  He was so proud.

  It’s been two weeks of companionship for him and me and fourteen whole days wherein he handles us humans with something sort of like patience. A little brusque, maybe, (okay, a lot) but he’s been loads better.

  Then… he yelled at Helen.

  I mean he yelled at Helen. New girl; nice, quiet. And apparently, a crier when a gargantuan alien towers over her and roars in her face.

  Her strike one? She showed up late.

  Strike two? She arrived with a disheveled hob and a keyed-up Rakhii who couldn’t take his eyes off of her, even when Bash addressed him.

  When the hob slipped his arm around Helen, her Rakhii beau attacked him, and the ensuing scuffle was a further delay in the workday and that was the last straw. Two perfectly good employees ruined by a slip of a human was too much for Bash to bear.

  However… did he have to yell at her?

  To be fair, he yelled at all of them, but the guys were barely paying attention to him, too focused on their girl to care that their boss was stripping their hide.

  When Helen got upset though?

  They cared.

  Ohhh did that all get out of hand then.

  When Gracie stood from his throne to glare at him and scratched out his Fourteen Days to a Zero—I thought Bash was going to combust in flames of fury.

  At his side, I winced for him and picked at my lip, murmuring, “You kinda had it coming.”

  Bash turned on me and exploded.

  But the good news was, he didn’t say a word. It was otherworldly animal snarls, a lot of rage-roaring, and he coughed out smoke on more than one occasion. I expected my hair to singe from the fiery vehemence with which he uttered his invective but once he burned himself out hollering nothing but angry sounds, he stalked to the quarry’s wall opposite his crying counter and began to beat the hell out of it.

  Everyone went quietly—and quickly—back to work behind him.

  Even with him in a killing mood, I’m glad to see Bash. The human preservation where I’m at nearly every minute that I’m not working is starting to drive me nuts. There’s a gym, there’s a dance studio, there’s a beauty salon, but you can only coat yourself in revitafying mud and do Zumba-pilates while wearing ankle weights so many times before you lose your mind. I’m bored, I need sunlight, and I miss my grumpy pal when I’m not with him.

  So I always come to work smiling. I also arrive with a slew of fresh mindless topics and tidbits to share. I give him an appropriate length of time to vent his testosterone on the quarry wall he’s cracking to pieces, and then I sidle up to him, the only one willing to get close enough to pick up the fallen stones, and I try to ease him out of his bad mood by making conversation.

  “Our seasons are something else. For example, we have unfairly frigid winters and super hot summers. After a couple of days of either, you’re like, ‘Is it so much to ask for temperatures below ‘boiling alive’ but above ‘my nipples could cut glass?’”

  For the first time since I edged up to him and started yapping, Bash shows signs of something other than rage. He pauses his pounding on the rocks to give me an uncomprehending stare. “Say again?”

  My gaze goes right to his nippular-level, which is conveniently located practically in front of my face. He’s smuggling muscles galore under his shirt, but his shirt, for all the acres of chiseled edges it’s lovingly outlining, is conspicuously free of nipple-bumps. “Oh. You must not have those?”

  His eyes close, and he rubs behind his ear, where—I know from experience—is the place a translator chip gets popped under your skin. “I heard you say mynah, which I understand is one of your world’s birds, and I heard apple, and from the translator I gather that’s a fruit—”

  “Ha! Gather. Fruit. There’s almost a pun in there.”

  “—then I heard cold-cuts which is a tray of meats, and then you said glass. Birds, fruit, cold meats, and glass? What does that sequence have to do with a temperature the opposite of boiling alive? Your human phrases are strange.”

  “Some sure are, but you totally heard me wrong. Anyway, the point is, our seasonal temps could use some moderation. Moderation is good in all things.”

  Bash tips his horns, the ear closest to me flicking forward and back so fast it makes a popping noise. “Now there’s a wisdom I agree with.”

  I keep up random commentary and Bash keeps beating giant rock slabs into smaller human-handleable chips. I’m collecting the small chunks of stone and keeping Bash company. Gradually, his nostrils stop producing smoke. He’s calmed. He hasn’t told me to stop talking, and he hasn’t stalked off, so I feel like we’re friending.

  Bash bends his knees, preparing to lift another ginormous boulder.

  And being the good friend I am, I drop the rock I’d been carrying into the cart and hurry back to him. If I were pressed to explain why I was in such a hurry, my official story is that I’m acting as Bash’s spotter.

  Safety is important.

  But honestly, even though he’s wearing clothes on top of a body full of scales, Bash is not hard on the eyes. Totally hard in everything else—personality, muscles, his scowling-so-hard-he-could-break-fine-china face—but he’s sure not hard on the eyes.

  A woman’s giggle breaks Bash’s concentration, making him turn his head to the sound—and because I’m standing just off to the side of him while he’s crouched, his horn darn near catches me in the eye socket, just like I’ve been afraid of.

  “Ack,” I exclaim. It’s less than a yelp, because I moved back in time.

  Bash’s ears twitch. “Apol—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I wave my hand. “You’re sorry you almost mutilated me with the danger sticks on your head, I know.” I keep my hand cupped to my brow protectively. “What is with you and wigging out whenever somebody laughs? Are you allergic to laughter?” I pat him on the shoulder, which makes him stiffen, still kneeling and beginning to look like he’s blending in with the stone he was about to lift. “Is that your problem?”

  “My problem,” Bash grates, his tone acid, “is that trio’s frolicking.”

  I look to where he’s indicating by way of his turned-up nose. It’s Helen, her Rakhii, and her hob. “Oh no,” I say, deadpan, “the hob is smiling, darn him—but he’s working, look at that, he’s a good boy, which is totally typical of hobs, they’re great like that—”

  Bash’s body turns even stonier. He’s now surpassed the rock in the ability to be mountainous and remote.

  “—and Helen is smiling at the Rakhii and guess what! They’re working too.” I look between the three people, the two hot creatures vying for Helen’s interest, and Helen demurely praising both of th
em. Who knows who will end up together; I’ve heard Rakhii can’t really share, and I believe it. But one thing is clear: they’re still all doing their jobs. Flirting or not, they’re getting work done. So I’m confused as I swing between eyeing them and Bash’s impassive face. “What’s making you sparkle with happiness now?”

  Bash usually likes it whenever I describe his mood in sarcastic terms. He calls my assertions ridiculous, but I can tell he’s secretly thrilled.

  He doesn’t even touch it this time though.

  Bash’s fingers flex at the base of the rock still sitting on the stony ground. “That male wastes his time.”

  I grab another rock and wing it into the cart, shocked that Bash still hasn’t moved. Him, not tirelessly working? “Which one?”

  “The Rakhii,” Bash answers so low it rumbles.

  “And you know this how?”

  Bash is beginning to look like he’s in the early stages of experiencing a forest fire. Smoke is pouring around him care of his emotion-driven breaths. “Because I know. There’s no point in him wasting his time chasing her. If she lets him catch her, she’ll only discard him half a dozen rotations from now. Between a hob and a Rakhii, the female will choose the hob. She will always choose the hob over him.”

  I pick up a rock and toss it into the cart. I wipe the dust from my hand onto my already-dust-stained pant leg. “You don’t know that. They could be on their way to having something beautiful.” I give the three people (one person and two aliens, I guess) a perplexed look before swinging back to Bash. “How did you get to be so cynical?”

  “Life,” Bash bites out. He dead-lifts his boulder.

  Lucky me, I’ve got a good vantage to spot him. It’s a really, really nice vantage. And he lifts it safely. Hotly and safely. If he wasn’t being so weird and upset, I’d enjoy this even more. He’s sort of killing my ogling buzz, but I try not to let it slow me down. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

  Oh, the dangerous look he shoots me.

  I bite my lip and bob my head. “Gotcha, this is a tender spot. I can see that. And you probably don’t know this, but I can back off. I know when to leave things well enough alone.”

  Bash snorts and little flames blow out. He hurls his rock into the cart. Right from where he’s standing. He turns back to look at me, one of his thick brows cocking a little higher than the other one.

  “Hey, I just said I’d leave it alone,” I say quickly, and heft my own rock. “See? This is me leaving it alone and working. Stop scowling.” I pass him to walk my rock to the cart, because I’m not insane enough to try throwing it like an Olympic shot put.

  I stretch over the side of the wagon to drop it like a normal person. A normal human, anyway. By now, it’s an action I’ve performed a thousand times, or so it feels. But with zero warning, pain steals my breath. An instantaneous backache hits me, one so fierce it could stun a rhinoceros. Being that I’m nowhere near as sturdy as a rhinoceros, it damn near paralyzes me.

  Involuntarily, I gurgle-yip-yelp.

  “Isla!”

  This shout is from Bash, and he sounds like a man who is either extremely furious or extremely worried—or a man who is furious because he’s so worried.

  I don’t turn to reassure him that I’m fine because I don’t think I can. The stabbing pain in my back hurts so sharply that I’m scared to move and make it worse.

  In a flash, Bash drops to one knee beside me and the wagon. “Who did this?” He glares around us, at everyone picking up rocks nearby. Like we both somehow missed some punk who snuck up behind me with a baseball bat and wham, popped me on the back out of nowhere.

  That is how the pain feels, though. “Nobody did anything, psycho. It’s a pinched nerve in my back or something,” I wheeze.

  Bash’s hand is at my lower spine, his talons skating across my skin as he fumbles with the hem of my shirt, trying to raise it.

  “What are you doing?” I choke out.

  “Stop speaking,” Bash orders, and he gently starts kneading my hip with his other hand. “Don’t tense,” he barks.

  “Don’t stab me with your claws!” I cry.

  Bash leans down enough to catch my eyes—but still keeps his hands where they are. “Isla, I would never.” His kingfisher jade beauties search my features. “May I please raise your clothing?”

  “Wow,” I gasp, “you asked instead of ordering. With a please, too! This is amazing. Somebody mark it on the calendar, quick.” My voice is reedy, but I manage to get all my trash-talking out.

  Bash’s tongue makes an appearance; it’s not forked, by the way. He’s licking his bottom lip. Nope, his fangs. Oh, I see, the move is vaguely threatening. “Are you taunting me while you’re already in pain?” he asks in a dangerous tone.

  I try to smile. “I feel like you can’t hurt me worse. Hey, maybe you’ll even put me out of my misery.”

  Bash’s concern is evident, and it doubles at my words. His thumb talon traces my cheek. “Isla…”

  A woman nearby whispers way too loudly, “She stops working and he doesn’t scream at her?”

  Bash’s head does a scary-owl one-eighty twist—and his horn swoops right past me, missing me. But it doesn’t mean I’m in the clear; I’ve suddenly got a faceful of the quills that sit at the back of his head like hair.

  I pull back, puffing and spitting. I do this as loud as I can, hoping to catch his attention before he goes on a killing spree.

  It works. Bash quits glaring at the speaker in favor of turning his glower on me. “Did I quill you?”

  I laugh a little breathlessly. “If you ever do, I think that means I lose an eye or two for sure. Try to relax, friend.”

  Smoke curls up from his nose, but I’m so used to seeing this from him that it doesn’t seem all that weird anymore. His fingers sweep reassuringly up and down my spine. “Still hurts?”

  I stare up into his unbelievably beautiful gemstone eyes. “Yep. Not liking this. You might have to put me in traction. This is terrible.”

  Admitting that the pain is not good is a really bad idea, it turns out. Bash’s head whips to the side (far enough away from me this time that my eyes are in no danger from quills, and his horn avoids clocking me)—and he spits fire.

  Humans yelp and jump back. (No one gets singed, but really, Bash needs to start looking first before he begins smoking or searing the area. Basic flame courtesy 101.)

  With all the wrong timing, a hob appears at my elbow, the unfortunate soul. Bash’s considerable amount of concern—an emotion he is clearly not used to dealing with—ignites into rage. “Do NOT touch her,” he snarls.

  Something powerful slaps against me, wrapping, squeezing, banding around my thighs and winding up along my stomach. Bash’s tail, I realize in time to squelch the scream that was about to form in my throat.

  I have to clear my throat twice in order to speak. “Look who’s back, it’s our resident medic hob. Jonohkada, right?”

  Thankfully, Jonoh hears me over Bash’s obscenely loud growling. “Yes!” He lights up, not because he’s on fire (although with Bash so close that is a concern) but because he’s genuinely surprised that I remembered him, his wings flaring open and flushing with an intense citrine color before he snaps them shut. “I heard you cry out.” His forehead is furrowed with gentle concern. “I thought maybe I could offer medical assistance. Could you tell me where exactly you’re injured?”

  “Her BACK,” Bash enunciates, like any idiot can see what’s wrong with me.

  I raise my smaller arm in a silent request for Bash to shush. “Thank you for braving my dragon and coming over. It feels like I have a railroad spike about, oh, here,” I carefully gesture, manipulating my other arm so that I can point at the spot without making my back angrier than it already is. I hope Jonohkada can see where I mean, because during this maneuver, Bash doesn’t remove his hand. In fact, he slides it under my shirt not helpfully, but… almost possessively.

  My body likes this maneuver.

  My back w
arns that I can get excited at my own peril.

  I decide to cool my excitement at Bash touching me anywhere under my clothing. Doctoring first; be happy later.

  Jonohkada eyes Bash with a healthy amount of wariness. “I’ll just…” he starts—and proceeds to do a bang-up job of ignoring the way Bash continues to growl like a sulky rabid dog, and gets me assessed, offers me chocolate, asks the impersonal round of questions I’d expect from any medical professional, and examines me without touching me.

  And suddenly, the mysterious pain disappears.

  “Hey… It’s gone,” I breathe.

  Jonohkada looks almost as relieved as I feel. “Repetitive strain can cause the muscles in a human back to become stiff. I am no expert, but—”

  “Then why are you HERE?” Bash bites out, shooting to his feet.

  (He doesn’t take his hand out from under my shirt. I think it's an important detail to mention.)

  Jonohkada cringes—but only for a hot second. He draws himself up a little straighter, and his wing talons sit up over his shoulders almost proudly. At least they’re not cupping each other anymore looking like a pair of worried clasped hands behind his head.

  He’s been doing that since he showed up. It normally wouldn’t inspire confidence, but Jonoh has a quiet thoughtfulness that’s plenty reassuring, so some Rakhii should really cut him some slack.

  I brave the movement, hoping I don’t cause a twinge in my back, and reach out to cuff Bash’s horn on the deep swoopy part.

  A noise more befitting for a primordial dinosaur ekes out of Bash, and he tosses me a look, but he stops being mean to poor innocent Jonoh who only came here to help. He swallows, his throat scales shifting and spreading. “You were saying?”

  Jonohkada’s eyes bounce from Bash to me. “...I was saying I’m not an expert, so… t-take my opinion with that in mind,” he begins hesitantly.

  Bash’s eyes narrow on the hob.

  I squeeze Bash’s tail.

  Bash’s head whips down, eyes locking on my face.

  I turn a super-polite smile on Jonohkada, because he deserves it. Anyone can see he’s trying, and he doesn’t need this wretched Rakhii harassment. “You’re doing fine. You were thinking I was momentarily crippled because…?”