The Alien King’s Mate part 3

VIVIAN

Harper and I bolt from the sun-kissed king of gold. The elevator can’t make it down fast enough.

He wasn’t supposed to be in the building anymore. The rooms we were assigned to clean were supposed to be empty by now. Harper and I went upstairs to assess the damage and check what equipment we had to bring upstairs. We weren’t expecting to walk into the king.

The king. Holy shit, he was massive. Horns practically scraping the ceiling. Shoulders wide, eyes intense, alien features stark. The TV doesn’t do him any justice. When he’s behind a screen, his grandness is muted.

Harper and I make it to the parking lot, tossing our equipment in the back seat of her car and bailing out of there.

It’s probably time to shut the business down.

“What the fuck was he doing here? Oh, god. Is this about his grandma’s ashes?” Harper asks.

My hands are trembling.

We rarely cross guests after a party. Only the mess they left behind. The floors of their extravagant galas are usually sticky with spilled champagne, dropped bits of food, and the occasional panty in the bathroom. We’ve seen it all as we cleaned up these places. But I’ve never seen a king upclose. Especially an alien one.

“Did you put the vase back in place?” I ask.

“Yes!” She grits, turning the wheel. “But he can clearly see its in a different vase. Why the fuck did they even put her urn in the kitchen? Did they fucking cremate her there?”

I drag a hand through my hair. “We’re going to jail, Harper.”

“Jail? We’re going to hell. Grandma is going to drag us down there.”

We should have never taken this cleaning gig.

I text another one of our crew members, asking them to clean the rooms we’ve just abandoned, and offering to pay them overtime.

“I even made sure to pluck every hair strand and that one french fry out of the ashes,” Harper whimpers. “I didn’t mean to drop it!”

“Maybe grandma was angry about the carbs.”

“Not funny!” She hisses.

I know it’s not funny, but how else should I cope? We ran into the king, and instead of playing it cool, we panicked and ran. Now he knows who the suspects are.

“Maybe those weren’t ashes. Maybe it was like… sand?”

“Woman, the urn had a nameplate,” Harper growls. “It said G-ma. November 2067. That’s clearly the date she kicked the bucket.”

I frown. “That’s not the best analogy to use right now.”

“I need a fucking drink.” She sighs, driving to the nearest bar. We park on the street and turn a few heads as we show up wearing our uniforms. It doesn’t help that it’s morning and we’re looking to drink.

There’s practically no one here. Harper and I throw back beers, cringing when we see a replay of the king on television. We eat snacks, and over the next three hours, manage to relax a bit.

“Are you still going to that therapy session tomorrow?”

I shrug. “Yeah. Maybe she’ll have some tips for my anxiety.”

“Stop being anxious. We will be fine,” she says. “Maybe spend a few years in jail and get blacklisted from the industry, but we will survive. Besides, he’s leaving the planet tomorrow. Maybe he’ll forget about it.”

“We dropped his grandma on a French fry, Harper. He’s not forgetting that.

“He can dump some fries on us and call it even.”

I shake my head, and she calls for another beer.

She sighs. “Damn it. I swore to myself that if I ever saw that man I would grab him by the horns and motorboat him. Why did grandma have to rain on my parade?”

“Again, you really need to work on these analogies. You’re the one that made it rain grandma all over the fucking parade!”

We go to two more bars. It has been a long time since we hung out like this. Business has kept us occupied, and I forgot what it was like to drink with my best friend, even if it is to celebrate our last days of freedom because a gold-horned alien might be coming for us.

With every hour that passes, I relax more. Because nothing has happened. I’m still here, with my best friend. With beers in our hands and third, untouched beer left at the counter to honor grandma.

Tomorrow is Saturday. We will have plenty to do, but for today, we just remember to live.

It’s late when we decide to call it quits. We leave grandma’s beer on the bar counter and pay for our tab. We’re both feeling too drunk to drive, so we check into a local motel and instantly pass out once our heads hit the pillows.

—

The sun beams on my face. I scowl and roll over, tapping Harper’s back. “Are you up?”

She groans. “I am now. Fuck off.”

My blurry eyes find the clock, and I curse. “I’m going to be late for my appointment.”

“Leave, then. Take the car. I’ll check out at eleven and go to work.”

I roll out of bed and go to the bathroom, running a quick shower and brushing my teeth with the sample products. I slip back into my uniform and run my hands through my messy ponytail on my way out.

I hop into Harper's car and drive thirty long minutes to my therapist office. As I sit in traffic, I rummage through the car and find a mist. I spray it on, hoping to cover the lingering smell of alcohol.

I make it to the appointment five minutes late, and if my therapist noticed my rumpled clothes, she doesn’t say anything.

“Hi, Dr Sorbec.”

“How have you been?”

Where should I start? The ashes part or running from the king part?

This is only my second appointment. Harper insisted I went through therapy to “let the demons out.” My childhood was a difficult one, and although I’ve spent a decade shoving my issues into a pot, the thing has begun to rattle.

“I’ve been fine.”

I wonder if she can see right through me.

“So last meeting you told me you have some resentment for your mother. Is there anyone else?”

Ah, yes. My mother, who had five children because she loved the attention she got when she was pregnant, only to pass the children onto the fathers when they were born and get knocked up again.

Damn. I need another beer.

“My ex?”

She rummages through her notes. “Right.”

The ex who fetishized me. Whose girlfriends all have the same face and body type. He was obsessed with it. As soon as I found his album of exes, I was out of there.

“So I’m seeing a pattern here…”

I nod. I’ve noticed the pattern, too. Being loved for all the wrong reasons. For being child number five with a speech impediment and getting my mother some extra years of public attention and pity. For having the same face as other women.

“And how is your relationship with your mother now?”

Great. As long as she doesn’t know that I actually make money as a cleaner.

The next hour runs by fast. It feels good to get this off my chest. Things are finally going well in my life. I’m paying off my student loans and saving. And I’ve cut off unhealthy relationships. It feels like I can breathe. And I’m grateful.

I know the time is up when she looks at her watch one too many times. We schedule for another meeting, and then I walk out with a smile on my face.

I frown once I hear loud chattering coming from outside. Dr.Sorbec’s office is soundproof, so I didn’t hear anything until I stepped out.

I turn the halls and come to a staggering stop when I see what’s past the glass door.

Reporters. Dozens and dozens of them, flashing cameras and shouting questions at me.

What the fuck did I do this time?

READ PART 4>

< Swipe left for previous part

📋 View Table of Contents for The Alien King's Mate

📚 View All Books