Chapter 1

Chapter One

"Dumb motherfucker," I mumbled to myself as I raced from my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend's truck. I may or may not have been talking about myself, for getting into this mess to begin with. I scanned the industrial park where we'd been idling—waiting for one of his smarmy criminal contacts—and darted toward the wide-open garage door of what looked like a warehouse. Mark's engine roared and I knew he'd try to follow me in the truck.

Inside the building were rows of shipping containers. A glance over my shoulder confirmed what I'd feared. Mark had followed me. I ran further into the dusty space where the truck couldn't follow. Shipping containers towered above and around me. The further I ran, deeper and deeper into the warehouse, the narrower my path became as I frantically tried to determine my next step.

Should I just continue running into the labyrinthian space, assuming eventually Mark wouldn't follow? I didn't think he'd ever give up; not when he mistakenly thought I'd stolen $10,000 from him.

Should I take a chance and hide in a container? In the movies, the heroine usually ended up in some weird-ass foreign country in those instances. It would be just my luck to end up in the middle of nowhere in some backwater place halfway across the world.

Should I?—

My wild musings cut off. A container beckoned from the far wall. I hustled past the forklift sitting beside it. The container door appeared slightly ajar. Another glance over my shoulder showed nobody else in sight. Why not? If Mark caught me, my 100-pound self wasn't fighting off his 200 pounds. I'd take my chance with the unknown of the container.

I pulled the door open, wincing at its squeal. A quick spin confirmed the squeal didn't alert anybody (Mark!) to my plan. Stepping into the darkness within, I fought off a frisson of anxiety. At least it didn't smell. In fact, it seemed quite clean, almost antiseptic. A brief question of what was being stored in the container surfaced, and then I closed the door. At the sound of the heavy clank, I collapsed on the metal floor to wait. It wasn't long before I heard a voice. His voice.

"Where are you, you thieving bitch?" Mark's voice passed through the metal walls of the container.

I held my breath, though my heartbeat thundered in my ears. Dying of a heart attack would really suck, too.

"I know you're here. You fucking cunt."

Nice. What a shithead. That's what I got for wasting six months of my life with someone who fancied himself a low-level gangster.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," he said in a singsong voice.

Like hell I would. He'd get bored and leave. That I knew with certainty. I only needed to wait him out.

"What are you doing here?"

I perked up at the sound of the new voice. Even straining, I couldn't decipher the response. Mark was probably answering the new person. Did I risk coming out now? Would Mark try something with a stranger around?

A scraping sounded from under the container. My mind spun, trying to identify it. The forklift maybe. Oh my god. They were moving my container!

I stood to open the door and thought better of it. Mark was still out there. Confronting him with a stranger present sounded like a terrible idea. I sat down heavily, the movement of the container roiling my stomach. I needed to logically think this through. Our town wasn't near a port, so, worst case, the container was being put on a truck or a train. It wasn't likely to be a days' long voyage. There hadn't been a lock on the outside of the door that I saw. Whenever the container stopped moving again, I could simply pop the door open.

Easy-peasy.

Yeah, right.

But, decision made, I pushed myself against the container wall, recoiling from the cold before adapting.

Time passed and the container continued to move. First, steady movement of the forklift. Then, bumpy movement that might have been a truck traveling over roads. The brick in my stomach grew heavier and heavier, and I wondered if I would vomit. A check of my cellphone provided the relief of illumination and informed me that an hour had passed since I ran into the warehouse.

The next time the container seemed stationary, I'd leave. That moment came sooner rather than later. When I no longer felt the bumping of possible road, I swayed to my feet and felt for the door. I couldn't tell what I was grabbing, so I used my cellphone flashlight.

Oh fuck.

There was no handle to open the door.

Panic consumed me and I pummeled my fists against the metal. "Help! I'm inside. Can anyone hear me?"

I yelled as loud and as long as I could, then leaned my ear against the door. Nothing. Maybe nobody was out there yet.

Time became a blur. The container seemed to move again, an almost weightless feeling. My heart dropped at an image in my head of the container being lifted in the air for placement on a boat. Maybe we'd gone to a port, after all.

I screamed myself hoarse, begging for someone to let me out. Salty tears leaked down my cheeks and my hands felt raw and bruised, matching my vocal cords. I slumped to the floor. If I needed to wait for rescue, then I would. It couldn't possibly be my destiny to die in a fucking shipping container. No fucking way.

I just needed to pass the time so I wouldn't go batshit crazy while I waited.

The itsy-bitsy spider song popped into my head and, with a maniacal laugh, I began humming. And humming. And humming some more.

On what was probably my thousandth iteration of the song, a new sound caused me to leap to my feet.

Someone was opening the door! My trepidation rose with the slow movement of the door. A crack of light became a floodlight, blinding me. I threw a hand up over my face, fully aware of my complete vulnerability in that moment. The person who opened the door remained silent. My hand dropped to my side. I blinked a few times while my vision adjusted.

"What the actual fuck?" I blurted out at the sight before me. "What are you?"

Standing before me was… well, I wasn't sure. He was tall and slender, with broad shoulders. Although he wore a nicely tailored pinstripe suit, and appeared otherwise like an attractive, respectable human, his skin shined like an iridescent oil slick. On either side of his neck were slashes, like gills. Bright green eyes beneath close-cropped dark brown hair widened at me.

He opened his mouth, and a series of dolphin-like whistles and clacks sounded.

What was he, a merman? "I don't understand you," I said, trying unsuccessfully to tamp down the anxiety snaking its way through my entire body.

The merman-being before me coughed and opened his mouth again. "You are not my Runner. Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Thank god, you speak English!" I exclaimed. Adrenaline still poured through my system from running from Mark and hiding in the unknown trailer. The relief that the unusual stranger before me spoke English was short-lived. I just wanted out of the container. "Thank you so much—" I stepped forward.

His hand shot out and prevented me from moving forward.

I glanced down in confusion, wrapping his meaty paw in my two tiny hands. The distinction between my clearly-human hands and his human-shaped but covered in blue-green skin distracted me. I tried for a level tone when I spoke. "Excuse me. Please let me out."

"You are a stowaway." His gravelly voice stated this as fact.

"Technically," I agreed. "It wasn't on purpose. See, there was this?—"

"You are not supposed to be here," he continued as if I hadn't spoken.

A spark of anger popped. "Okay, sure. But if you'll let me out, I can be on my way."

"You will need to be disposed of."

My jaw dropped open at the nonchalant way he said he was going to kill me. "Hey, now. That's not necessary. I can just leave." Pushing against his hand, cool yet somehow warm against my chest, did nothing.

"Do you want to ask the captain for special dispensation?"

"Captain? Dispensation? I'm sorry, what?" I tried to follow his question. "Are we on a boat?"

The stranger tilted his head. "Ship."

"Boat, ship, same difference."

Pursed lips greeted my response. "Spaceship."

That stopped me cold. "Spaceship?"

"The captain will likely dispose of you. Stowing away is not allowed."

I held up my hands in supplication. It occurred to me that the stranger might actually be deranged. A spaceship? Please. But, I wanted out of the container and away from wherever we were, so I needed to humor him. "Look. I didn't mean to. There's no reason to, uh, dispose of me. Can you just drop me back off where you found me?" The wheedling tone in my voice irritated me.

"There is another option."

I seized at the words. "What? Anything is better than being disposed of."

"You are lucky the Collector is on board, too. Human females are popular with the Collector."

"The Collector?" I gaped at the stranger. "Like sex trafficking? Oh, come on."

"This option is good," he continued, "because I also get a finder's fee. What is your name?"

I decided to play along until I could figure out my options. If this lunatic wanted to believe I'd agree to being trafficked, I could do that until I found a way out of this mess. "Bailey Wicker," I finally answered.

"How old are you? In Earth years."

In Earth years? Sure. "28."

The stranger nodded. "Remove your clothes."

"Um, no."

"Then you will be disposed of."

We stared at each other, my own green eyes likely reflecting the crazy bright green of his.

"Remove your clothes if you do not wish to be disposed of," he repeated his request in a tone suggesting he'd made this request a thousand times before.

Fuck it. Even though I didn't think we were on a spaceship, let alone out in space, on the off chance I was wrong, getting naked was better than being blown out of an airlock. Plus it bought me time. Using the heel of first one foot and then the other, I slid my shoes off. I grabbed the bottom hem of my black tank top and, in one fluid motion, yanked it over my head. Given my small-breasted stature, I wasn't wearing a bra. My nipples hardened in response to the stranger's gaze on them.

He said nothing, so I continued. My fingers fumbled with the button of my jeans, but the zipper was easy enough. I slid the jeans over my hips and down to the floor of the shipping container, shivering when the cool air flowed over my bare skin. My face burned when I realized my panties were becoming damp from unexpected desire. I chose not to remove them.

After a beat, he spoke. "Finish."

I waved my hand over my almost-nude body. "You can see the merchandise," I snapped, irritated both by being forced to strip and by my body's traitorous reaction.

"You will remove everything."

I hooked a finger in my cotton panties and slid them down as well, moving slowly not to arouse, but to delay. Once I was naked, what would happen? The stranger's bright eyes betrayed nothing.

The panties skimmed along my skin, joining my jeans on the floor. I stepped out of them and stood naked before the stranger. I couldn't keep calling him that. Doubt remained that I was on a spaceship. But, since he believed he was—and I couldn't explain his appearance, to be honest—I needed another term. Alien, I supposed, was better terminology, given the fucked-up situation.

A calloused hand reached out and cupped my breast.

I squeaked and stepped back in response.

The alien frowned. "Bailey Wicker. You must consent to my examination so I can determine if you meet the Collector's requirements." He shrugged.

The remarkably human gesture made me question further whether he was some human mutant… or, playing devil's advocate, how long and often he came to Earth.

"Or you can be disposed."

Damn it. I chewed on my lower lip. Being blown out of an airlock or being groped by the alien. How did my life choices lead me here? "Get on with it," I growled.

The alien surprised me by winding a piece of my long red hair around one of his blue-green fingers. He released the strands and stepped closer.

My breath caught in my throat as he cupped both of my breasts in his large hands. He kneaded them, rolling his thumbs over my nipples, making noises when they rose to attention. His hands drifted lower, over my ribcage to my waist. He encircled my waist for a moment before sliding his hands behind me and lowering them to grasp my ass. The tight grip shocked a gasp out of me as I recognized my rising lust. How could being groped by an alien turn me on?

The alien used his hands to spin me so that now I faced away from him. He pushed on my upper back. My face flushed when I bent at the waist before him. Desire pooled in my belly even more when he separated my ass cheeks, exposing the anus. One hand released a globe and he placed his hand on my anus, rubbing against me. Pleasure radiated throughout my body and I mewled in response. Longing for release grew. My hand rose involuntarily to my breast, and I caught myself before acting on the impulse to tweak my erect nipple.

Almost as if in response to my internal want, the alien cupped my sex, massaging against the exterior folds.

Oh my god. His skin wasn't just colored like an undulating oil slick. The combination of warm and cool of his fingers against my sensitive folds felt like nothing I'd experienced before. The scales tipped more in the direction of his truly being an alien.

My thoughts stilled when he separated my pussy lips.

No. He surely wasn't?—

A finger entered me. I could have wept from the pleasure of the mixed warm and cool fullness. I bucked against his hand and he made a popping noise.

"Already wet is good," he said.

Making notes on my suitability to be a sex slave? Normally, I'd be all, hell no , but hot aliens who knew how to use their fingers… Wait, what the fuck was I thinking? Good sex was one thing. Being a sex slave was a totally separate not-acceptable-at-all thing.

While one hand caressed my ass, a finger on his other hand rhythmically moved in and out of my vagina, the increasing pressure on my sweet spot derailing my frantic thoughts.

I moaned as my desired crested, my legs quivering from keeping me upright while I neared climax.

He withdrew his hand from my ass and his finger from my pussy. I whimpered from their absence.

"You may stand and turn around."

I followed the instructions, breathing hard from my unreleased orgasm. My legs clamped together to control my throbbing.

His eyes raked me up and down, and if I wasn't mistaken, there was something dismissive there. His next words confirmed it. "You're like a tanary we'd throw back."

"I don't know what a tanary is, but that sure sounds like an insult," I retorted, the sexual energy dissipating in the face of his words.

His eyes glowed. "It is a small fish." He seemed to think for a moment. "Like a minnow."

Definitely a fucking insult. I wasn't a minnow.