Page 7 of The Alien's Little Sister

No, telling the kid this doesn’t work. It never works. Makes her laugh though, and that’s almost as good as if she just shuts her trap and behaves.

Fuck, why do I keep paying these little headaches. I should troll senior centers for my employees. Although, I grew up watching Golden Girls. Those old ladies threw sass just as bad. Shit. Women never grow out of it, do they?

To Inara, I tip my head and give her my firmest smile. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 5

We get Stacy to her car without incident.

The incident starts when Stacy’s still got her car door open, when Inara informs me that she can really get to her ship just fine.

“Your ‘ship,’” I repeat. “The one you parked in the woods?”

“Yes. That is the transport I mean.”

“Oh, crap, Matt, can I come with you?” Stacy breathes.

I cut her a wide-eyed glance. “I’m not sure.” Should I… have a witness? No, no—I can handle this. I don’t care if Inara is cracked, just as long as she shows up looking and behaving tomorrow just like she did today.

I shake my head. “Thanks, but I think you’d better get home.”

“Are you going to take her in your car?” Stacy asks in disbelief.

She’s got reason to be pretty stunned. My car is almost a holy relic. Practically created by God himself, it’s the Mustang to end all Mustangs: it’s a classic black Boss 429. It was my grandpa’s, and it was to be my dad’s. And would have been, if he hadn’t passed away so early.

I think that’s part of why my grandpa let me have his car. He was crushed to lose his son, and it hit home hard that life is too fleeting. And that’s when the vehicle stopped being a showpiece and started being a daily treat to drive. He wanted to enjoy every moment he had with it—and he wanted me to enjoy the car while he was still alive to see it.

Of course, he didn’t just hand it over to an over eager sixteen-year-old me. I had a long road ahead of me to prove I was responsible enough to care for a car worth more money than I’d ever be able to earn in a lifetime. Okay, that’s a bit of a stretch. If the average American makes something like seven hundred grand over the course of their life, they’d be able to afford at least two Bosses… except they can’t, because there aren’t that many 429s to go around.

There were 1,359 Boss 429s made. And with over three hundred components unique to these cars, they’re not an easy keeper. To put it plainly? Replacing anything on them is a bitch. For this reason, it’s only the serious Mustang connoisseur who will put up with their special brand of headache.

Despite using the Boss for daily commute, I could sell this car and earn a fortune. Or I can drive it and think of my grandpa and my dad constantly tinkering with it. Restoration work was their hobby, and this car was their passion.

Now it’s my way to honor them, and I don’t let anybody into my car. I shit you not, I rent an Uber for anyone who needs a ride home. When I date, I drive my date’s car. Some women think I’m a dick, but it’s a solid rule that’s seen my grandpa’s car kept perfectly pristine.

Yet something about Inara has me reluctant to send her wherever she’s going with some faceless Uber guy who won’t give two cranks if she’s curling up on a park bench tonight.

Stacy is staring at me like I’ve grown three heads and as many horns.

“Yesss,” I manage through gritted teeth. I cut a look at Inara. “Will your suit drop any glitter or any—and I meananything sticky?” I can just imagine latex glue leaking onto the premium leather. I can feel my grandpa’s hands wrapping around my throat, and the ghostlike sensation is so real I struggle to swallow for a second.

Inara looks nonplussed. “No. I will emit nothing.”

“Matt, pretty please can I—” Stacy starts, and her highly effective puppy dog eyes are on.

But nope. I’m puppy-dog-eye proof. “Get home safe, Stacy,” I repeat.

“Goodbye, Stacy,” Inara says. “I look forward to interacting with you again tomorrow.”

“Oh, girl, same here,” Stacy grins—and she means it.

I can relate. Inara’s whacked, and I can’t wait to see what she does tomorrow either.

Even if my neck is tight at the thought of driving her, and what I’m going to walk her to tonight. She can’t really be hiding in the woods somewhere, right? She had to have a decent place to do her makeup and get her suit on? I can’t see that being possible if she’s living homeless or a stepupfrom homeless in a tent. Or a cardboard box with a spaceship outline drawn on it, which is what I’m half-preparing myself to find.

When Stacy leaves the lot—using her blinker and obeying the lot speed limit (man, you gotta love a good kid)—I turn to Inara. “Let’s… do this.”

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