Page 56 of The Alien's Little Sister

All four of my sisters hit puberty at about the same time. It happened over one memorable summer no one will ever forget. Temperatures skyrocketed, hormone levels soared, and our house went from a home full of mostly silly girls to a den of hyenas: you never knew if they’d laugh or bite.

It was a dangerous time.

And lately, much to my terror (so much so that I’ve been afraid to say anything—because just the thought ofaskingif she’s okay has moody sister flashbacks hitting me like strobe lights), Inara has become slightly… emotional.

(Not in an aggressive way. Just in ways that make me question her sanity. Ahhh, hormones.)

“What’s wrong?” I man up and ask her, my voice rising and turning rusty with alarm. Because we may just be driving to work, but when I glance over at her because the air feels funny, I find Inara iscrying.She haspurple tears.

Honestly, I don’t know why this surprises me. My woman is a freakin’ alien. Then again, what woman isn’t? If I expected normal from any female, that was my mistake.

“This music,” Inara sobs, hand flailing towards the earbud plugged into her ear.

I downshift, eyes doing a cursory sweep of traffic before I glance over long enough to snag an earbud from her long ear and fit it into my own (way smaller) ear so that I can listen to what piece of music is breaking her heart.

It isn’t some awe-inspiring symphony like I half expect. It’s a pop song. The singer is insisting that he can’t lose his woman because she’s like his reflection, and he’s imploring his baby not to look away from him.

It’s… “Mirrors” by Justin Timberlake.

I take my eyes off traffic for yet another protracted moment so that I can stare at Inara. “Justin Timberlake is making you cry?”

Inara looks at me like I might be a monster. “It’s so beautiful! You don’tfeelit?”

“Well... not like you,” I start carefully, ripping out my borrowed earbud as Justin starts telling the listener that we’re the love of his life over, and over, andoveragain. “But sure, it’s okay.”

Yep, she thinks I’m one step up from the psychos who drown kittens. “Do humans not resonate with feeling when they hear beautiful pieces of music?”

I don’t drown kittens! “I’m sure lots do. I can promise lots of people have cried over this song. Damn near myself included.”

Inara’s brows inch closer, her face softening, her expression hopeful. “You too?”

“Yep. For a while there, the radio stations wouldn’t quit playing it. I actuallylikepop music, but there comes a point to any song when you’re ready to drive off a bridge if one more listener calls in to request it, you know? Who are these DJs and do they not have souls?”

Her ears make slapping sounds as they whap her hair aside and slap flat to her neck. She’s full-out frowning at me, blue scales pulled tight over her amazing cheekbones. “You should be asking yourself ifyouhave a soul!”

I hit my blinker, glance left, and speed up to take over the lane before the bossy little Fiat gunning up on me cuts me off, and assure her, “We are not fighting about a Justin Timberlake song. I refuse to.”

Her answer to this is chilly silence and she very pointedly stuffs her earbud back in, drowning me out and crying her music-lover tears all alone.

I lick the inside of my lower teeth. For some reason, I feel like I’m in hazardous territory.

I reach over and tug her closest earbud out again. When she glances at me (in scrunch-faced) askance, I venture, “Cue up ‘Photograph’ by Ed Sheeran.” I catch her hand. “Sweetheart… ssss.” (Because, you know—she’s got more than one.)

Me saying this, making a reference to the fact that I remember her multiples situation, makes her melt a little. Thank God. She’s still angled all aloofly, but she’s relaxing, a little less rigid andgo-fuck-your-heartless-self.

“I’m sorry, baby. What I didn’t say because I don’t have a great big deal of practice with putting my feelings into words—”although God knows my mom and sisters tried to force me to learn“—is that I think it’s sweet as fuck that you were so moved by music that you cried.”

Inara turns her head enough to really look at me. But she doesn’t say anything. Her big Bali blue eyes are wet and pretty and a little unsure.

A wild groan catches in the journey from my chest to my throat, making a rumbling noise that has her pupils popping, her eyes going darker. At a perfectly timed stoplight, I drag her close enough to put the moves on her and go in for a kiss.

When we pull apart, she’s dazed and back to being sweet.

I’m clearing my throat and wishing it was appropriate to rumble up to the nearest curb for a backseat bang. I feel like this is a good make-up sex reconnection moment that we’re having to waste because it’s not safe to drive a 429 while having sex. Especially not with Inara’s horns. I still wince when I see the window that got cracked, even though it’s been replaced. “Anyway, If you like Ed Sheeran’sPhotograph,I’ll call my sisters over and you can all watch a movie together.”

Inara’s face clears of even the last vestiges of passionate-music-unappreciation pique and begins to glow instead. “You wish to show me to your sisters?”

I take my eyes off the road for yet another split-second look at her. “You want to meet my family someday, right?”

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