Page 11 of The Alien's Little Sister

Inara’s gaze is bewildered at first, but then her eyes turn… almost amused, if I’m not mistaken.

She smiles, flashing canines as long as my thumbs. “All riiiight,” she says slowly, like nowI’mthe crazy one.

“My bed,” I tell her, voice gruff, “is in there.” I point past her to the darkened doorway of my room.

Her eyes light up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I confirm. “I’ll take the couch.”

Inara’s face seems to fall. The ears that I knew looked too damn real still look too damned real even as they look too alien to be believed. They sink until the tips are brushing her shoulders. “Oh.”

I frown at her. “What?”

“We could share the bed,” Inara offers with what I’d swear is excitement gleaming in her eyes.

“Yeah, no can do, sweetheart,” I tell her, watching her, trying to figure her out. “You may be an alien, but my dick says that’s not a problem, if I can be frank. You’re an employee though, and the fact that I’ll be making paychecks out to you wouldn’t sit right with me. This here, you being here in my place?” I spread my hands. “This is strictly me making sure you aren’t in the woods at night. Soon, we’ll figure out something. Maybe we can rent you a spot somewhere that’s got a yard big enough you can park your ship and shut a gate around it at night. Just for my peace of mind. Got it?”

When she dips her chin, I let out a breath and check my watch. “Okay, good. Why don’t you settle in? I’ve got to tinker with my car for a bit before I can call it a night, but it shouldn’t take me more than—”

“May I join you?”

I glance up at her. “You want to hang out with me while I work on my car?”

Her eyes are large and luminous and sincere. “I want to work on your carwithyou.”

CHAPTER 8

“This is a creeper,” I tell Inara, indicating the red rolling cart as I set it on the ground. “Have a seat.”

She lowers herself onto it, and I’m glad her horns sweep back and not forward, otherwise we could run a danger of her hooking something damageable along the undercarriage. Once she’s positioned herself comfortably, she looks up at me. “Where is yours?”

From under my arm, I procure my circa 1950s Sears and Roebuck Craftsman special. It’s a creeper made from wood, and it’s uncomfortable as hell, but it was my grandpa’s. I’ll use it for this car until the day I die. I set it down on the concrete with care. “This one’s mine.”

“It looks well loved,” Inara observes.

Touched, I shoot her a smile. “Yeah. You could say it is.” I drop to my back on it and roll under the car, stopping at the center section (also called the pumpkin by gearheads), where we’ll be working.

Inara appears beside me. “What are we about to do?”

“We,” I tell her, “are about to change the fluid for the rear differential. Fair warning,” I share, “it’s going to smell like ass.”

Inara’s frown is fierce. “‘Ass?’” She glances at me. “As in, this is about to smell like a barnyard animal?”

I bark a laugh. “Actually? Pretty much. It’s going to smell like a donkey crawled up and died in here.” I plunk a knuckle on the diff cover. “It’s going to smell like it died androttedin here.” Along with a herd of a thousand pissing cats. (Random factoid for the day: a group of cats is called a clowder. There’s been absolutely no situation in my life, ever, where I’ve had proper opportunity to whip that term out, so I should probably apologize that I’m force-feeding it to you here.) I reach for my toolbox, which I’d slid under the right back tire earlier for easy access. The tires are locked in a custom ramp my grandpa created and welded himself. Jacks and lifts are great, but when you’ve seen cars fall off of both, you lose faith in them. These ramps guarantee this car isn’t going anywhere on either of us as we cram together under here.

“Okay, here we go. Ratchet’s up first.” I wiggle it in the limited space between us to show her what it is.

She gives me a patient smile. “I’m familiar with something similar in design.”

I tip my chin to acknowledge this. “You work on spaceships?”

Her smile grows a little wistful. “Yes. With my brother, Tahmoh. He’s quite scholarly in nature, usually preferring to have his snout between the pages of a book. But he also loves ships and spends equal time in the belly of whatever homely little creation he’s attempting to return to the sky.”

“Nice,” I tell her and roll further under the pumpkin, positioning myself to tap the fill cap. “All right,” I murmur, getting my head in gear for the job at hand. “You always check to be sure you can remove this cap here. Because if it’s rusted shut to where you can’t, and you make the mistake of emptying your fluid from below, you’re going to find yourself with no way to refill it, and now you can’t drive anywhere.” I gesture to the near pristine underside. “Not a true concern since she’s babied, but it’s a habit best kept sharp.” I roll out and let Inara move in to see for herself, because she seems genuinely interested.

As she peers at it with concentration, as if she’s memorizing what it looks like and what information I’ve given her, my chest tightens. Besides my grandad, I’ve never had anyone to work on cars with. This is cool.

When Inara shifts to roll out, I place my hand on her thigh, making her firm flesh jump. “You want to loosen it?” I ask her. And she doesn’t know it, but I’ve never offered for anyone to touch this car. I’ve never trusted any guy enough not to fuck around with it, and I’ve never had a woman show interest. Not with maintenance. If they wanted to do anything, it was to drive it. And that’s always been a solidnope.

---