The Quarry Master: A Grumpy Alien Boss Romantic Comedy

by Amanda Milo

  Instead of peeling me off, Bash seems to go quiet.

  I don’t let go of where he’s letting me hold onto him.

  Charlotte says more to him, and when Bash’s response is delivered in his usual brusque manner (which is to say he scares the poor woman with his growliness and bad-moodiness), I take the liberty of poking him in the ribs and whispering, “Be nice.”

  Against my arm at his back, I feel his spines twitch. I nudge one, and they all clack together.

  “Stop that or I’ll beat you,” he warns.

  I smile happily and snuggle deeper against him—because he didn’t order me to get off of him.

  BASH!

  LIKES!

  ME!!! “Okay.”

  After a moment, his tail creeps around my poking finger like it misses the contact.

  Bash sighs, pausing briefly in his directions to Charlotte about who she should alert next about the missing workers and supplies—then to my delight, his voice goes less rude when he finishes, “And you did well bringing this to my attention.”

  Immediately, Charlotte looks relieved and less afraid that the scary alien is going to bite off her head.

  “Bash!” I whisper-shout. “Good job! You get a gold sticky-star!” I squeeze my arm tighter around his back where I still have it firmly looped between his danger-pokeys.

  In response to this, Bash makes a low, hollow thrumming noise in his nasal cavity. Like a super put-upon sigh, Rakhii-style.

  But he still doesn’t shake me off.

  See? He’s a sweet grouch.

  “I wasn’t modulating my tone for anyone’s approval. I was attempting to prevent the upset of Charlotte,” he rumbles, angling his horn at her—and her eyes go wide, I think because she’s shocked to realize he knows her name. “My Weeping Counter rating is superb and I’d be loath to lose it,” he explains.

  As if this is the only reason he chose not to be mean. “Uh-huh.”

  When Charlotte leaves, there’s a long pause of silence between us before I can feel Bash’s eyes on the top of my head.

  Me? I’ve got my cheek pressed into his shirt at his side, my short arm hitched at his stomach, my other arm along his back, and I’m hugging the hell out of him because he’s warm, super muscular, and surprisingly nice to hug.

  “You’re impeding my range of motion,” he gripes down at me—but his voice is level, and not angry or even impatient.

  Quit your bitching. “Just one more snuggle,” I say, burrowing my nose into his good-smelling shirt. “You smell amazing.”

  “Get off me,” Bash warns. This time, his voice is firmer but there’s a thread of humor in his tone that’s unmistakable.

  It makes my heart puff up, and I drop my arms from around him instantly before skipping to a spot in front of him. “You got it, pal. Hmm, I don’t know if I like that one. How about ‘bestie?’”

  Bash’s nose goes up in the air, his ears held flat to show me how much he doesn’t care for this nickname.

  Secretly though, I think he likes that I’ve been trying them out on him.

  “Isla?”

  “Yeah, Bash?”

  His face is averted, and he keeps it that way when he asks, “Why do you touch me?”

  “Well at first, it was to razz you,” I admit.

  At this, his posture relaxes somewhat, and he mouths the word, cutting me a wide-eyed are you insane look as he shakes out his ears.

  I don’t let this deter me from my reasons. “But now it’s because you feel good.” I bite my lip, trying to explain without totally jumping off a cliff he’s probably not receptive to diving off of. Evidence? Here he is, questioning a simple hug. “Do you know how long it’s been since I hugged someone? It makes me feel good.” I crouch to grab a nice-sized rock off of the ground. “You might be surprised to hear this, but you’re really good at giving hugs.”

  “Yes, this news would be a surprise,” Bash mutters—pretty darn sarcastically for a guy who is mid-motion in rescuing me—his hand is gently cupping around my shoulder to steady me as I start to trip back with my rock.

  “Thanks,” I breathe, righting myself.

  “Unhrr,” Bash grunts, because I guess he can’t be Mr. Cheery all the time. Or any of the time, but this is good, he’s not barking or spitting fire—this is great, really. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and a grouchy dragon can’t be tamed in an hour. Rather than dropping the rock into the cart, I hold it out to him in offering. “Want this one for your collection? They all look the same and I’m not sure what you like—”

  Bash takes it from me. He never even looks at the rock. “I like you.”

  CHAPTER 23

  BASH

  (Crying Counter: Faultless)

  “I can’t believe you just admitted that!” Isla exclaims, her lower eyelids turning a strange shade of pink. I lean down, peering at this change, wondering if she’s caught dust in her eyes.

  She throws both her shortened wing and her full arm around me for a second round of ‘hugging.’

  I… don’t fuss at her.

  I don’t fuss at Isla at all. In fact, I want more.

  Much, much more.

  Isla’s fingers are warm on my scales. So warm I could almost vow that I can feel her touch straight into my hearts.

  She’s gazing up at me looking quite pleased. “You know, you’ve done really well at this.”

  “At what?” I ask, my voice deep, my eyes trained on her.

  “At…” she swallows, staring up at me, and I swear to the Creator, if she gives me one signal, I will fall on her and take her right here.

  “At letting me hug you. So you’ve earned a high five, right here,” Isla orders.

  I would swear that her voice sounds almost forced. She’s always cheery, but this seems a superficially shiny sort.

  But… I’m not certain. She seems reluctant to part from me, but she pushes away and holds up her hand for me to tap. “Ah,” I grunt. “Five-high bonding.” Gracie’s mate explained the purpose of the gesture to me the first time I saw two humans slapping their five-fingered hands together.

  Mimicking the relaxed-set of Isla’s fingers, I bring my palm to hers.

  “It’s like watching the kid teaching the Terminator to do it,” someone whispers from not far away. My eyes dart in the speaker’s direction to find Beth with one of her mates, who’s grinning and watching Isla and I. A glance around and I see several humans watching us too.

  I take a deep inhale, ready to render the onlookers deaf with my shout—when Beth covers her hands with her ears and begs, “Wait! Sorry, sorry, we’ll get back to work! Just please don’t do the bellowing thing—it freaks me out.”

  I frown. I was scowling, so this should be a softening in my expression, but whatever it looks like, the change has the humans scrambling to get back to their posts, and soon the sounds of a well-oiled workday are back underway.

  But I’m still thinking about Beth’s words. I turn to Isla. “Does it ‘freak you out’ when I shout?”

  Isla’s arm hangs relaxed at her side, her hand no longer in a high-five pose now that we’ve performed the palm tap gesture. “Nah. I’m not scared of you.”

  “I’m not certain if I should marvel or be offended.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Isla states. “You’re still plenty scary. Just…”

  “Stop,” I order her. I point to the wagon with my tailblades. “Get back to your duties, indolent pup.” I send her on with a mock scowl that only makes her shake her head and grin.

  Something is wrong with her. But I like her despite this fact.

  Or perhaps because of it.

  ***

  As I work close enough to Isla to catch the spontaneous smiles she sends me, I find myself wishing I knew what to do with my desire for her. Oh, I know what I want to do—throw her over my shoulder and carry her to my cave.

  Keep her chained to my bed.

  Mate with her savagely and taste her wickedly and cherish her wholly. Feed her and care for her and
order her to stay with me and demand that she always pets my chest whenever I’m not rutting her senseless.

  I consider this scenario of keeping Isla captive far too often. I want her desperately. I know she is fond of me. She has made it plain that she would like to sate herself with me. If I were a different male, this would be enough.

  It isn’t. I’m not that male.

  Because if I have a taste of Isla, I will keep her. I will never let her go. And eventually, even the willing want nothing more than to escape when they realize they’re actually prisoners.

  So. How do I make Isla want me enough that she never feels caged by my possessiveness? What can I do to make her decide she never wants to discard me?

  Beyond lust, beyond fickle infatuation, beyond mere attraction: I want Isla to love me. No, not want. Need. How do you cultivate an abiding love?

  Unobtrusively, I observe the loving embrace between the Rakhii male named Zadeon, and his human mate, Callie. Zadeon is a former gladiator, a fearsome male in size and temperament. When his female draws away from him (he doesn’t, I note, let her leave his arms until after he’s liberally applied a coating of his scent by rubbing his horn bases on her person—an activity that makes her smile), he takes responsibility of their infant, fitting the youth in a pup harness made to carry a litter of Rakhii offspring. Instead of carrying a litter though, it totes only their lone pup, Baskian. A scaly but small thing who doesn’t look very Rakhii at all, save that he does have scales. He is the smallest pup I have ever seen. Pure Rakhii pups are born twice his size, even when they’re birthed three in a single lifesack. (Pups who share lifesacks tend to be birthed smaller than their contemporaries.) The poor hybrid has no other features: no horns, no tail, no spines. He appears almost as blank in features as a human, yet despite this, he still possesses a winsome factor that cannot be denied.

  I suppose I’m staring at the unit the family makes, specifically, at the result of a Rakhii and a human—but Zadeon catches me staring at his son, and he mistakes my curiosity for disdain of his cross-species pup. Zadeon’s gaze, already sharp, turns deadly.

  I suppose I haven’t given anyone the impression that I hold warm thoughts towards any human (unless, by ‘warm,’ I’m lighting them on fire), let alone the get of one. But the male is dead wrong in his assumption. I was seeing his half-human son, and I was thinking… I was thinking if Isla had one of these by me, perhaps she would always want me to stay with her. Mercenary thoughts perhaps, but I need an iron-clad guarantee that Isla and I remain lifemates if we join.

  Zadeon’s hand moves to cup the fragile, thin neck that holds up the tiny little head of his boy. It’s clearly a protective gesture, and I lower my horns to show him that I saw it—that I heed it.

  Not one to let a threat lie in silence, Zadeon appears in front of me to deliver his message. “If I catch you looking at my pup again—”

  “How did you court your mate?”

  Prepared for me to disparage his interspecies offspring, not ask him how he secured the female that gave him his young, he takes a protracted moment to digest my query. During this, his jaw stays clenched. He snaps his ears. His fierce eyes stay locked on mine.

  I don’t let my gaze waver.

  Finally, he answers, “I suppose I did not court her.”

  Finding this answer very interesting—and by that, I mean promising, I ask, “Then how did you win her?”

  “I didn’t leave her side.”

  I consider this. I could shadow Isla. For now, she seems amenable, but the first blush of attraction is always strong. When she invariably loses interest, I could pursue her to the point of exhausting any reservations that she has. The idea would have merit, except I have tried this once before; with another female, in another time, in what feels as if it took place in a whole other lifespan—and the results were a spectacular failure.

  However, that was a Gryfala. Not a human.

  Perhaps humans respond well to an unbreakable claim simply being staked on them. Give them no choice. I like this idea. It has merit. Gryfala tend to label this sort of Rakhii mating behavior as ‘relentless stalking.’

  They view it unfavorably.

  Zadeon is silent while I process his statement, his gaze seemingly on his son, whom he reassures by brushing the side of his thumb over the pup’s very-bare scaled head (not a quill on the boy’s head, nor hair like a human, very plain, very strange—but still terribly fetching in that way all young tend to be). But I know that Zadeon is watching me, his eyes on me or not.

  My spines flick and I cross my arms over my chest, thinking of Isla, wondering if she would accept me if I simply refused to let her accept anyone else.

  Zadeon’s gaze is direct but no longer challenging. “If you are seeking advice, Mitteeku may be helpful to speak to.”

  Mitteeku, a Rakhii who spends much of his time with his mate and human younglings in the fields, but occasionally he brings his family to view the goings-on in the quarry. Their youngest pup is the most interesting. He may be human, but he has a fine growl, and he uses it when he encounters strangers.

  Now that is an example of a Rakhii raising younglings right.

  “You could also ask my brother,” Zadeon offers, surprising me.

  “Which one?” I ask. Like most Rakhii, Zadeon is one male out of a healthy octet. Litters nearing a dozen pups are common, but if humans continue to hybridize with our species, large litters could become a thing of the past. Humans are unique, spawning much smaller numbers by comparison than most species of space vermin.

  Zadeon points to another male, Arokh, whom I don’t know as well. I’ve known of Zadeon because of his fame among our people; he was a gladiator of renown. I know of Arokh only because he arrived here, in my quarry, and I make it a point to know who works for me.

  I thank Zadeon—and pause long enough to nod to his son, who watches me with silent, too-solemn eyes. Then I head for Zadeon’s littermate.

  Arokh is holding his female, Angie. At my approach, his arms tighten around her and he begins scent-marking her right in front of me—right in front of everyone.

  He licks and rubs his marking points on her until she’s red-faced, and he’s satisfied. I don’t doubt his excessively public display is due to my presence.

  His mate must be aware of this too, because she reaches up, pats his jaw, and murmurs, “Feel better now?”

  “Much,” Arokh confirms. Then he turns a very direct stare on me.

  “I’m just gonna…” Angie starts, darting a look between us, “...go.” She breaks Arokh’s staredown that he’s locked me in by catching her mate’s face and pulling it down so that she can kiss it. It’s a short kiss, but when she turns to leave, his stare is all for her, and I think I’ve lost my opportunity to speak with him at all until Angie laughs and orders him to let her get back to work.

  Work. Dubiously, I eye her belly, because it’s grown heavy with Arokh’s pups. Very soon she, like Gracie, needs to retire until after she’s safely delivered.

  I save that argument for another time and get directly to the point when Arokh’s eyes finally shift from his mate’s swaying waddle to my face. “In the early days of your pursuit, how did you court your human mate?”

  Arokh grimaces slightly, and his jaw hardens at some memory. “Well, at first, she was terrified of me. All humans fear us.”

  Smoke puffs out of both of my nostrils. My ears lower. “Krortuvian dung they are.”

  Arokh eyes me, measuring me for his answer. “Ask them. It’s true. And may I say that you’ve done well to foster more fear in them?”

  I exhale a gust of flames, fighting my sense of discouragement—because in regards to my efforts to cause humans to have respect (yes, yes, fear)… Arokh is right. And not for any of the humans do I regret terrorizing them—save for one. I don’t want Isla to fear me. “I don’t think my female fears me.”

  Another voice cuts in. “Not all humans have fear of us. My mate didn’t initially fear me.”

 
I turn to find Brax, a Rakhii in a relationship that’s truly shocking. He’s mated to a human who is mated to a Wanbaroo—another species of alien—and this male and Brax share his mate.

  I would have killed her Wanbaroo.

  I will not share Isla with anyone.

  Isla is for me.

  “What do you mean by ‘initially?’” Arokh questions.

  Brax licks his fangs. “When I made it clear that I was pursuing Tara as my mate,” he smiles ruefully, “that’s when she became wary and tried to avoid me.”

  Dismay strikes me at his words.

  Brax gives an easy tip of his horns. “Just sing to them. Humans may not reciprocate the bonding the same way as a Rakhii female does, but they feel drawn to their male. With coaxing, mine came back to me.”

  Arokh’s chest rises proudly. “Ah. Song.” He nods. “Angie was impressed with my voice when I sang to her.” His gaze moves back to mine, satisfied. “It seems human females are just as susceptible to our songs as Rakhii females.”

  For him, the matter is solved. Unfortunately, this advice is probably only true if you are gifted at the pulsed calls unique to Rakhii. I can attempt singing if it means I have a chance at enticing Isla, but my hopes on this tactic’s effectiveness are dismal.

  A grumbling sigh comes from our right, and we turn to find Hotahn. He’s a Rakhii mated to a human female that everyone calls Doc, but I believe Hotahn has a private name for her. Not Gem for gemstone, which is what I thought I was hearing him call her at first, but Jen, I think. Whatever that means in human.

  “Amateurs,” Hotahn declares. He looks me in the eye. “If you desire a female, just take her. She’ll warm to you.”

  With all the worst timing, a hob chooses that moment to stroll by us—and at Hotahn’s words, the hob skids to a stop.

  I growl at him. “Ignore what you’ve heard.” To the others, I declare, “I appreciate this advice.”

  Rather than preserving his lifespan by assuring me of his intention to keep silent and go about his way, the hob stays where he’s standing, and even raises a cautious hand in the air.