Chapter 5 | Kara

Chapter 5

Kara

I was starting to think that my alien chef was the quietest, calmest guy I’d ever met. He was also wickedly competent in the kitchen, which was both pretty sexy and entertaining to watch. I’d woken from my nap because I’d felt his eyes on me, and then we’d just locked gazes, all magnetic-like. I couldn’t really describe how it felt to truly look him in the eye; intense was the only word that came to mind.

Then I’d spent the next few hours watching him work. He made meat pies that looked very tasty, even if the dough was red. Watching him chop vegetables was a work of art. He wielded two knives at the same time, mincing two things at once. The multitasking was impressive, as were his muscles, which I got to admire all day thanks to his shirtlessness.

I knew what kind of alien had walked into his kitchen, just before what was probably going to be the dinner rush too: an Asrai. That’s what I remembered from my Kertinal safety classes. They were supposedly almost always twins or triplets, and telepathic or psychic in some other way. This guy was older—I could tell by the way his skullish, Day-of-the-Dead-like markings had faded to yellow. He was also without a twin, which gave him this sad, sort of downtrodden appearance. I couldn’t really explain it, because I’d never met an Asrai before, but he seemed to be missing something.

My chef was called Rex. I’d learned that much from the brief, one-sided conversation I had overheard. And Rex knew I’d been watching and was now silently offering me a job if I wasn’t mistaken. His eyes flicked to the apron on the wall twice, one of his shoulders rolling. Eventually, when I didn’t move from behind the bin, he gave up and turned back to his food.

I wasn’t sure what to think. A job was... What was it? I didn’t even know. Good? But was it a trap, charity, or something else? It all came down to trust: did I trust my chef enough to crawl out of this hiding spot and walk through that door? He was putting stuff on a plate, and it smelled so good. I couldn’t believe I was letting another meal tempt me to get closer, but I was. To be fair, I hadn’t eaten lunch. My stomach was rumbling from emptiness.

My feet ached, as did my knees when I rose from a seated position into a crouch. I wrapped the blanket around myself because I felt exposed, naked, and I wasn’t even out from behind that giant metal trashcan yet. That’s what I got for being barefoot and in my freaking pajamas when they kidnapped me from Ker.

The blisters on my feet didn’t like it when I walked on them, but I ignored the pain. The food waiting for me on the table was as tempting a lure as the pretty white apron that promised a future beyond this dark alley. It was dark now that the sun had dropped behind the slanted roof of the bar. Shadows had cooled the stone, so it no longer burned, and I could make my way safely to the door.

My chef was by the stove, his back turned, and his lower arms down by his sides while his upper arms stirred in pans. He wasn’t anywhere close to the door, which meant he couldn’t catch me by surprise and snatch me. I drew in a deep breath, still hesitating about stepping across the threshold. Once I was inside, escape would become much harder, but did I really need it?

I couldn’t sit in that alley for the rest of my life, waiting for his scraps. Never in a million years had I expected to be homeless and on the streets in an alien world—a very hostile, dangerous alien world. I had to do something, just like I’d done when I’d woken up trapped in that drug-making factory. I’d escaped, and if this was a mistake, there was only one way to find out.

My chef didn’t talk, didn’t move from the stove, but I knew that he knew I’d walked into his kitchen. And it really was his kitchen, even if that Asrai guy had implied he was the boss. Acted like it, and acted scared too. The plate of food was on the table closest to the door; the apron was farther away, hanging on a hook across the room.

When I started for the plate, which was far more tempting than the job on an empty stomach, my chef made a noise. Not a sound so much as he shifted on his feet and his wooden spoon tapped against the side of the pan. I jerked my head up, fearing the worst, but all he did was jerk his chin toward the sink. I felt a hot wash of shame almost immediately. He was right; my hands were dirty, and I’d forgotten all about manners in three days. My mom would be so disappointed.

It felt normal, like I was falling back into myself, when I crossed to the sink and started washing my hands. I’d done this action a million times; it was familiar, and it made me feel human. I grabbed the soap and scrubbed at my dirty fingers, soaping up all the way to my elbows before rinsing. Almost, I ducked to wash my face too, but my back was to my chef, and my shoulder blades were tingling. He was looking at me.

Looking, yes. But he hadn’t moved from the stove, even if he appeared to have forgotten about the pretense of stirring things so he looked busy. Awkwardly, I brushed my hair behind my ear and shuffled to the food on the table. It was a bowl of fragrant, steaming stew, with a sturdy wooden spoon next to it. That bowl was as big as my head, and when I was next to it, I suddenly feared that I’d mistaken his early dinner for a peace offering. It smelled too good to hold back now, and my stomach rumbled angrily to remind me that food had been scarce the past few days. He didn’t tell me to stop when I picked up the spoon and took an eager bite.

When I looked up from savoring that first bite, I realized that he was smiling, still by the stove, his many hands clasped behind his back. The freckle-like spots that dotted the bridge of his nose and cheeks were glowing yellow against his dark red skin. I could be wrong, but I had a feeling that color meant happiness—his smile was a good indication. So, even if it was his food, he didn’t mind. I was starting to believe that my alien chef was a good guy. Could he help me get back to Ker?

My sore, tired feet urged me to sit in the chair, and even though that made me less mobile, I gave in to the urge. Then, I was embarrassed to admit, the tasty stew had my full attention, and slurping noises filled the kitchen as I ate. Try as I might, I couldn’t finish all of it; the bowl was too big, and my stomach felt full and satisfied halfway through. When I looked up from the food, I realized that my chef had approached on silent feet. He was at the end of the table, his lower set of hands braced against the scarred wood, and his green and yellow eyes were intense as he stared at me.

When our eyes connected, I felt something zing through me, a spark, a hint of recognition. Something warm and lovely that drew me to him, that made me want to get out of this chair and curl up in his strong arms. What would a four-armed hug feel like? I was jerked from that fantasy when he moved and placed the white apron on the table. He wanted me to take it, to take the job. Right then, noise from the doors leading into the bar picked up—laughter, raucous and alien.

I flinched back, got to my feet, and before I could really make up my mind, headed for the door. Intellectually, I knew that was a mistake. This guy didn’t want to hurt me; he wanted to help me, but I remembered the lessons from Ker: trust no one. All aliens wanted to harm a fragile, helpless human like me. I wanted to trust my chef, but he was asking me to put on an apron and face a whole crowd of aliens as a waitress.

I’d done enough waitressing jobs for extra income while in college to know that no job was the same and it could get a little risky for a person in a place like this. That Asrai had looked shady; he’d even talked about a dead creditor, for crying out loud. No thanks.

But my feet hurt from the blisters when I crawled back into my hiding spot, and it was getting colder, the desert night taking hold. The kitchen had been toasty warm, cozy. I resigned myself to another cold night in front of the vent and hoped that tomorrow, the offer still stood and that I would be less scared to take it. I couldn’t go on like this.