Sixx: Dakonian Alien Mail Order Brides (Intergalactic Dating Agency): Dakonian Alien Mail Order Brides, #4

Chapter One

Moxie

If I hadn’t been forewarned the Stellar Dust Bin in New Los Angeles was an extraterrestrial hangout, I would have sworn it was cosplay night. The bar could have been a scene from Star Wars or Star Trek with blue men, green women, lizard people, and enough wiggling antennae to signal passing spaceships—and those were the servers. The bar’s patrons were even more…intimidating. Could I handle this?

I would have turned tail and run, except a group of eight-foot-tall dragon men barreled in behind me, so I scooted to a small, out-of-the-way table and slid into a seat.

What can I get ya? A cocktail waitress slapped down a napkin and licked the tip of her pencil with her bright-blue forked tongue. I tried not to stare at her three breasts, the cleavages revealed by a low-cut tank reading, Try a star flight…it’s out of this world.

Uh… Was I going to stay? To say I was having doubts about signing up with the Intergalactic Dating Agency would be the understatement of the year. The understatement of the light-year.

I didn’t come this far to back out now. I’m no quitter. What do you recommend?

Well, the star flight—the waitress glanced down at her shirt—is the special. It’s pretty popular with humans.

I’ll have one of those. I craned my neck to peer at the bar. Aton working tonight?

Nah, it’s his night off. You know him?

His wife, Toni, is an acquaintance. I thought I’d say hi. I’d wanted to get a peek at him so I’d know what a Dakonian looked like. Did they have tails? Scales? Multiple appendages? I’d met Toni and her sister Lexi at yoga class. Both had connected with their Dakonian husbands through the Intergalactic Dating Agency. Because they seemed so happy, I had decided to give the IDA a try, but dating an alien was a big, scary step. Aton and Darak might be good guys, but that didn’t mean all Dakonians were.

Are you alone, or are you expecting someone?

I am meeting someone, actually.

The waitress pulled another napkin from her apron and set it on the table. You want to order for him?

I’d better wait. I don’t know what he would like.

"Gotcha. My name’s Yvffnkn, but you can call me Betty. It’s a little easier to say. She winked. Be back in a flash with your drink."

I’d pegged back in a flash as a figure of speech until Betty dematerialized into a cloud of vapor, streaked across the room, and rematerialized at the bar.

All righty then. I dug out my phone to check for a text from the Intergalactic Dating Agency canceling my date. No such luck. Only the original message. Meet Sixx at 8 p.m. at the Stellar Dust Bin. Fifteen minutes to go. I wished now I hadn’t been so early. Better to arrive a little late, and not leave time to develop a bad case of cold feet.

I’d been given the option of allowing the IDA to arrange the first date. Deciding to rely on the organization’s expertise, I’d checked that box. Then I’d been given the choice of lunch, cocktails, or dinner. I’d figured cocktails offered the best chance for escape if the date didn’t go well. I could fake an embarrassed yawn and claim an early-morning work session.

That wouldn’t be a lie. All my mornings were early—balanced out by late nights.

I did have two new texts. One from Miles, my boss at Ellison Game Group, and one from my mom. I grimaced and opened the former. What’s the progress on the Zephyr issues?

Seriously? Why did I bother to email project updates if the EGGhead didn’t read them?

Tomorrow would be another long work day, but then I’d have an entire weekend to recover—unless I went into the office on Saturday.

Having started at 5:00 a.m. like I did most days, I’d skipped out at 6:00 p.m. to get ready for my date—but not before I’d emailed my boss a very detailed report on Zephyr 1.0. I had no reason to feel guilty for leaving early. Team lead on Zephyr, EGG’s latest game, I worked my ass off. At the best of times, my boss, Miles Ellison—EGGhead we called him—micromanaged his staff to the nth degree, requiring frequent updates and virtual hand-holding, and Zephyr was his latest and greatest baby, expected to be a blockbuster propelling EGG into the Fortune 500. Like a new dad, Miles was a bundle of nerves—and his anxiety turned the rest of us into basket cases, too.

I put up with the irritation because the gig paid pretty well—although if you averaged it by hours logged, the salary wasn’t that good. However, it enabled me to sock away a decent nest egg toward starting my own gaming company.

Still on track. Details in the email I sent you, I texted back while gritting my teeth. I was entitled to a life!

I opened the message from Mom. Good luck tonight, honey. Hope you meet the man of your dreams.

I wouldn’t have told my mother I had a date at all, except she’d invited me to go shopping and out to dinner. My mother loved being in love. Falling hard and fast, she believed every guy she was interested in was her perfect match. They usually turned out to be controlling jerks. Cheaters. Deadbeats.

Learning from her mistakes, I approached relationships with a healthy dose of caution—not that my attracto-meter scored any higher. My last relationship had ended with a restraining order, but at least I took decisive action and got out of bad relationships. I didn’t ride a wave of hurt and disappointment to the bitter end while hoping things would magically improve.

Maybe joining the dating agency had been a dumb idea. If you couldn’t find a good man on Earth, what were the odds a relationship with an alien would work?

Thanks, Mom. I’ll fill you in later. I texted a white lie. I had no intention of telling her anything. If things went well, which I doubted, talking about the date too soon would jinx it. And if things didn’t go well, Mom would find all sorts of reasons to overlook screaming red flags and suggest I give the guy a chance.

Coming here, doing this had been a big mistake. What was I thinking? Just because the agency had found great matches for Lexi and Toni, didn’t mean the program would work for me. And I had never met either of their husbands—maybe they weren’t as awesome as the wives claimed.

Here you go. Betty returned with a hurricane glass billowing with vapor. She set it on the table along with a small basket.

I eyed the steaming drink, but compared to dating an alien, how much of a risk could a star flight be? I peered into the basket containing round brown things. Could humans digest alien food? What are those?

Peanuts.

Oh. I flushed. Thanks.

You haven’t been here before, have you?

First time, I admitted.

No worries, hon. Nobody here bites, except for the Zurelians, and they’ve been banned.

Good to know, I said.

Well, give a shout if you need anything. I’ll keep watch for your date.

Leaving a contrail in her wake, Betty zipped off to another table. Frost coated my glass filled with a lime-green concoction. White smoke poured over the top like a witch’s brew. I should have asked her what was in it. Maybe it was something mundane like vodka and lime juice. Sometimes a peanut was just a peanut.

I’d offer to buy you a drink, but I see you already have one—although from the look on your face, you don’t like it much, said a well-modulated male voice in perfect English.

I looked up. A man stood in front of my table. His face more or less resembled a human’s—two eyes and one nose, but his mouth was lipless. How do you kiss a guy who doesn’t have lips, I wondered, and then noticed his, uh, appendages. Tentacles. Three on each side, a frosty mug of beer clutched in one of them.

Are you Sixx? I asked, re-counting tentacles. Yep, six of them.

Is that who you’re waiting for?

Yes.

Then I’m your man.

I had no idea what a Dakonian looked like, but Lexi and Toni never mentioned tentacles. Surely they would have said something. Oh baby, what he can do with all those hands… You’re Dakonian?

I’m a Lorexan.

The nerve! He was trying to slide into another guy’s place. Is Lorexan anything like a lounge lizard? I said in a sticky-sweet tone and then snapped, You’re not Sixx! I grabbed my star flight and took a gulp. Despite being pissed off, I was pleasantly surprised by tropical flavors of pineapple, coconut, and lime. The alcohol was rum, if I wasn’t mistaken.

Hey, when I see a woman sitting all by her lonesome, I figure it’s worth a shot.

I believe this little lady belongs to me. Dressed in animal skins, seven feet of muscled perfection shouldered up to my table. My gaze traveled up, up, up over a barrel chest and broad shoulders to a forceful chin, chiseled cheekbones, and a nose with a bump in the middle. His expression and posture were hostile as he scowled at the Lorexan, but when he glanced at me, the heat in his gaze nearly melted me in my panties. Near-black hair swept back from a high forehead shadowing dark-brown eyes and skin the color of chocolate ice cream. As a plus, he had lips. Full, sexy, kissable lips.

But, little lady? Belong to him? Apparently sexism was alive and well in the galaxy. Were there no enlightened aliens? This little lady didn’t belong to anybody but herself, and I wasn’t so little. Long work hours prevented me from getting to the gym as often as I should, and I derived my diet from fast food a wee bit too much. Hence, my hips carried a little extra baggage, but I was more than capable of taking care of myself in any situation. Like this one.

However, my annoyance with the newcomer ran contrary to the sudden wave of heat coursing through my body. Tentacle Guy left me cold, but, at the appearance of Mr. Buckskin, my heart and stomach started fluttering like crazy, and I had a strong urge to wrap myself around him like a dancer humping a stripper pole. Dormant erogenous zones lit up like the Las Vegas strip. Holy crap, he was hot.

I stood up and found myself caught between two men about to butt horns—literally, since the late arrival sported two cute leathery dark-brown nubs from his nicely shaped skull. He glanced at me, and the horns pulsed.

My stomach cha-chaed. So did my heart. And my womb. And Miss Priss.

She hasn’t been stamped and tagged, Tentacle Guy said. He was blowing up like a puffer fish. Not attractive in a tentacled guy. Not. At. All.

Hold it, boys. First of all, on this planet, nobody stamps and tags anybody. I glanced around. Where was Betty? Did they have bouncers in this place?

"No, because she’s my mate," Buckskin continued as if I hadn’t spoken.

Who says? Tentacle Guy set down his beer.