Luca

#AliensInKansas

 

Yap. Yap. Yap.

I crack my eyes open as a wave of nausea washes over me. What the fuck? Where am I? The sun is bright and I’m convinced I’m in hell. The yapping is in tune with the throbbing in my skull.

Yap. Throb. Yap. Throb. Yap. Throb.

“Chandler,” my crotch whines. “Hush your mouth.”

My crotch?

What kind of fucking hell is this?

Yap. Yap. Yap.

“Listen, Bing,” my crotch growls. “I’m going to put you in puppy time-out for this if you keep at it.”

My crotch has a sexy, feminine voice.

My cock is a woman?

This is hell.

“Behave, demon dog,” I warn.

My crotch bites my thigh.

Ow!

What. The. Fuck?!

“I’m his mother, so I’m allowed to talk to him that way, but you…”

I peek open my eyes and am met with a beautiful face. Not my cock. Not hell. Now that I’m looking at her, I’m pretty sure it’s a fucked up realm of heaven. Frannie. Beautiful fuckin’ Frannie.

“Hey, squirrel,” I rumble out, my voice hoarse from a night of bad decisions.

Her hair is messy and her eyeliner is smudged. Plump lips are parted as she stares at me. A smile tugs at her lips.

“I’ll forgive you,” she preens. “Being an angel and all.”

I blink away my sleepiness and frown to see a giant drool spot on my jeans. Nice. Lifting a brow, I smirk at her.

“That wasn’t me,” she lies, her eyes shifting away to focus on her furry hellion.

Reaching over, I swipe the saliva from her chin. “Right. Must have been the mutt.”

“He is not a mutt! Apologize to Mr. Bing. Right now!”

Chandler, ever the dramatic like his human mother, gives me the widest, buggiest Chihuahua eyes and I swear to fuck he frowns.

“Ahh, Jesus, Bingman. I was kidding. Everyone knows you’re a princess.”

He yaps happily and runs around the front of the car, wreaking havoc. It’s too early for this chaos. My head agrees, but my heart thinks the madness is a little fun.

“Where the hell are we?” I demand.

“Last night was sketchy,” she says, her brows pinching. “I remember you paying some teenager to drive us to Taco Bell after we blew out of that hotel.” She pats down her messy hair. “You ate a lot of tacos. A lot, Luca. Like how are you so fit?” Her head cocks to the side, her gaze trailing up my front.

“Then what?”

“Rude much?”

Chandler yaps, tilting his head to the side as to agree with her.

“Good genes,” I grumble. “Now get to the part where we ended up in the middle of a field.”

“That’s where it gets sketchy…”

“How sketchy?”

“Aliens.”

A pause.

“Aliens?”

“Dennis said—”

“Wait? Who’s Dennis?”

“Someone say my name?” Dennis chirps from the back seat.

What. The. Fuck?

I whip around to meet said Dennis. A huge guy with kind eyes and face tattoos. He lifts his arm, sniffs his pit, and then shrugs.

“Did you do this, Bingy?”

Chandler yaps.

“He says you did,” Frannie says, not meeting my glare.

Right. This has Francis written all over it.

“Taco Bell retweeted our crop circles,” Dennis says, thrusting his phone between us.

“They what—” I start as Frannie squeals out, “They think it was aliens!”

Chandler loves this and practically does fucking somersaults.

“Hashtag aliens in Kansas,” Dennis and Frannie both say in breathless fascination.

“We’re in Kansas?” I ask, dumbfounded.

“Don’t worry, compadre,” Dennis says. “I drove Blanche like she was my own.”

“Her name isn’t Blanche, it’s Miss Russ—” Frannie starts, but I don’t have time for this madness.

“Why are you with us, Dennis?” I blurt out.

“Rude much?” Frannie grumbles again.

I feel like I’m in some bad remake of The Hangover. Instead of some random baby, we have Dennis. Fucking crop circle making, face tattooed, armpit sniffing, Taco Bell tweeting, Golden Girls lovin’ Dennis.

“Oh,” Frannie cries out. “I still have it.” She wiggles her wrist at me. “It’s all coming back to me! We made these friendship bracelets and—”

I didn’t make shit—oh. I’m wearing a fucking friendship bracelet too. Dennis waves a meaty arm, showing off his. And fuck if the dog isn’t wearing one tied to his collar.

Hell is preferable to…this.

Whatever the fuck this is.

“Right, so before we go down The Yellowbrick Road to Fucking Crazyville, I need coffee. A shower. A toothbrush. Dennis, my man, point the way.”

“Truck stop in three point two miles,” he tells me. “Oh, and hashtag aliens in Kansas is totally trending right now.”

“I feel bad about leaving our bestie,” Frannie says. “I miss Dennis already.”

Like a good best friend, Dennis led us to the nearest truck stop, bought breakfast, and made us promise to follow him on Twitter. Now that he’s gone off to do whatever the fuck it is Dennis does, we’re back on the road just outside of Kansas City. With full bellies and having cleaned up, I’m feeling better. Still have a goddamn headache, but the scenery sure is nice.

My eyes drag over to Frannie as she absently strokes Chandler behind the ears. At the truck stop, Dennis hooked us up with more best friend gifts. I’m wearing a Kansas City Chiefs T-shirt and ball cap. Frannie, though…

Fuck.

“I keep thinking about death,” she says absently.

Morbid little thing. Fuck, her legs are smooth. The car bounces when I go off into the median and I jerk it back onto the road. “Why are you thinking about death?”

“Not like real death. Like Mr. Death. I feel like he’s a mystery we need to solve.”

“This isn’t one of your sexy mafia novels,” I grumble. “He’s a bad guy, babe. A real one.”

She flashes me a shy smile that wakes my dick right the fuck up. “I know, but we can figure out who he is. Get the jump on the guy.”

I get the weird feeling of being watched and I glance down to see Chandler with his head cocked. Reaching over, I pet his head and accidentally-on-purpose brush against Frannie’s tit that looks all too good in her tight Chiefs tank. The little red and yellow shorts she’s wearing quite possibly might have me meeting the real death soon because they’re distracting as fuck, which makes it hard to keep my eyes on the road.

“Eyes that way, buddy,” she scoffs, pointing at the windshield when she catches me checking her out.

I smirk but continue watching the road.

“I should Google him.”

“Google who?” I ask, frowning.

“Duh. Death.”

I laugh. “Not that easy, babe.”

She smiles shyly again. Noted. She likes it when I call her babe.

“We don’t know until we try,” she tries. “I mean, how many bad guys in LA could there possibly be?”

“It’s LA,” I say with a laugh. “Probably most of them are.”

“Let me see your phone.”

Before last night, I might have hesitated. Not anymore. I hand her the phone and she starts scrolling through the texts from last night.

“Looking for clues,” she says absently. “Aww, Billy really is a handsome guy. When this is all over, I’m stealing him. Juniper too.”

“I’m sure Ross will love sharing the spotlight with Buddy and June.”

“Chandler. Billy. Jun—whatever. You’re distracting me.” She gasps. “Oh. Ohhhhhh. Ohhhhhhhh.”

I look at her expectantly and Chandler cocks his head, yapping. “And?” I implore.

“Billy has the same collar as Mr. Bing. Looks like a PetSmart special to me. Should I call all the PetSmarts in California? Do you think—”

“Focus, squirrel girl,” I tell her, my eyes glancing in the mirror at the suspicious black vehicle a half mile back or so. “Calling all PetSmarts to hunt down a collar is a waste of time. What did your bad guy Google search pull up?”

She stretches her legs out and rests them on the dash. Chandler, no longer comfortable, comes to sit in my lap. Now I’m free to stare at her pretty legs for the remainder of the drive. She’s tapping away, searching for clues, when I get the strange feeling again. When I glance in the mirror, the car is closer.

I don’t like it.

Last time we were followed, we were nearly killed.

Slowly, I accelerate as not to alarm Frannie. I like her looking relaxed and happy in the passenger seat. I’d like to keep her that way. I’d like to keep her…

“Oh my,” she gasps. “Mr. Death is Andy Garcia.”

“What? Like the famous actor?”

She shoves the phone my way to show me a picture of some older gentleman on Wikipedia.

“You know that’s not a reliable source. You said so yourself—”

“Says right here, ‘Vincent Lamberto shakes hands with the mayor.’”

“Right because shaking hands with the mayor proves guilt.”

“Oh! And, fun fact, Vinnie boy here has connections with…” She gasps. “Everyone.”

“Jesus. Here we go…”

“Fun fact, he actually is friends with Andy Garcia. Vinnie, you found your doppelgänger.” She laughs.

“His what—”

“Owns a bunch of restaurants in downtown LA—”

“Fuck, we’re being followed.”

“A Rolls Royce—”

“Who are these guys?”

“Ooh, fun fact, Queen played at one of his restaurants before. I know the perfect song to fit the mood,” she chirps, her fingers flying all over the screen.

Seconds later the phone starts thumping out “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen. The dog bounces around the fucking car like he’s dancing and Frannie bobs her head to the bass.

“Another one bites—”

“Stay down.” I accelerate faster.

“The dust—”

“They’re gaining on us!”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The car behind us gasses it.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Another one bites the—oh, wow, and fun fact, a vineyard! Vinnie owns a vineyard!” She cackles with laughter, head still bouncing to the music. Thump. Thump. Thump. “Slow down, buddy—”

“Goddammit, more of Arlo Rossi’s men!”

“It’s him! Vinnie is Mr. Death!”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Not now, babe, not now,” I growl as I swerve, whipping around a minivan.

She topples my way and Chandler hits the floorboard.

“Stay down,” I bark out.

Of course she doesn’t fucking listen, peeking her head up and looking behind us. “Just one car. We can outrun them!”

I gas it hard and then the wheel jerks.

Pop!

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me right now. A blowout. It takes everything in me not to wreck the big mauve boat of a car. I’m forced to pull it off to the side of the road as metal screeches across pavement.

“When I stop, you stay down. I’ll wait until they get close and then I’ll attack,” I instruct. “Just stay in the fucking car, babe. These men are dangerous.”

“No,” she whimpers, turning the music off. “Don’t leave me.”

The car rolls to a stop and the car behind us stops a hundred feet back. I grip her jaw and draw her to me, kissing her pouty mouth hard. She tastes like syrup and a little bit of heavenly hell. If that’s the last thing I taste before meeting the real death, it’ll be a great parting gift.

Boom!

The car shakes and we break from our kiss to see the black car no longer a car at all. It’s a giant ball of flames.

What in the h—

Knock! Knock! Knock!

I jerk my head toward a black gloved hand rapping on the window.

“We don’t want any trouble,” I say to the man through the glass.

He peers down and narrows his gaze. “Get out of the car.”

His accent is foreign and he looks like your typical—

“Belgian,” Frannie hisses. “I knew it! It’s him.”

“Who?” I demand.

“Out of the car,” the man barks out.

She elbows me, making me groan. “Him. Him. Jean-Claude Van Damme.”

Chandler yaps in agreement.

“Stay here,” I grit out. “I mean it, Frannie. Please.”

She pouts and so does the fucking dog. I don’t care. I slide out of the car and slam the door shut, keeping them safely inside.

“Please don’t hurt her,” I whisper to him. “I’ll give you whatever you want.” Except them.

His eyes narrow as he nods at his motherfucking RPG in his hand. Fuck. Piss this guy off and he’ll just blow you up like he did the other guys. With his other hand—the one not holding a motherfucking RPG—he dials a number on his phone. “I have them.”

He doesn’t blink or move as the person on the other line barks stuff out at him.

“I understand, sir.” He hangs up and nods toward a black Range Rover parked across the road. “I need you both to come with me.”

“Sorry, man,” I grunt out. “No can do.” Before he can argue, I rush him, ramming my shoulder against his chest. We hit the ground hard and his RPG clatters to the pavement. As we grapple, I hear it.

Yapping and screeching.

“It is you! I knew it! Jean-Claude Van Damme, why are you trying to kill us? We’re the good guys, silly! Oh, you won’t be needing this, big fella!”

She stumbles back, dragging away the heavy-ass RPG that was just in his grip as though she’s a fucking outlaw. “Let go of my boyfriend or I’ll shoot your stupid hand off!”

Boyfriend?

And his hand of all things?

If she shoots that thing, we all die, her and the dog included.

“I do not want trouble,” Not Really Van Damme says. “I offer escape.”

I scramble off him and put myself between him and Frannie, making sure to pull away the massive weapon from her grip. Chandler circles my legs, his tail wagging wildly.

“You’re helping us?” I clarify, confusion warring within me.

“Duh,” Frannie huffs. “We’re the good guys and Van Damme knows it. Right? Do I call you Jean? Jean-Claude? Mr. Van Damme? This is awkward.”

He rises to his feet and dusts off his suit. “I am Paul.”

“You don’t really look like a Paul,” Frannie argues and Chandler agrees.

“Not now,” I grumble.

“Paul is my American name. I chose Paul because Paul sounds strong.”

“Like Paul Bunyan?” she asks.

Paul’s face contorts into what I think is an attempt at a smile. “This is correct.”

She giggles. Of course she fucking does. “That’s sweet, but between us, you should just go by Jean-Claude. It suits you.”

“I deal with the vermin,” he tells her, tossing his keys at me. He points at the black SUV across the road that sits with its door open and waiting. “You escape with the female captive. But I will need the RPG in case more come.”

More?

Fuck, he can have his big gun.

I hand it over and give Frannie a small shove to get her moving away from this psycho.

“You will find an envelope of money in the glove box. Use it wisely,” he says as though all this is normal. It’s so not fucking normal.

He stiffly walks toward the blazing ball of fire, his RPG in his grip. Why? I have no fucking clue. I don’t have time to figure it out either. Not interested in hanging around when he blows more shit up.

“Quick,” I bark out. “Grab your shit and let’s bail.”

“We can’t leave Miss Russet,” Frannie cries out. “She’s a family heirloom!”

“She’s a busted-up piece of shit car, babe. Your mom would want you to leave her if it meant keeping you safe. Material things don’t matter. You fucking matter.”