The Alien's Little Sister (Stolen by an Alien #8) - Amanda Milo Page 0,3

damn phones with shots and selfies.

And… I don’t blame them.

A lot of escape rooms nix phones and photos, but I don’t have that policy. Right now, I’m super glad I don’t. Just wait til social media sees us with our brand new alien. She’s rocking her look. She’s also charming as hell.

So charming, I’m raring to capitalize on it. There’s a nerd convention that goes on about twenty minutes from downtown. Every year, we set up a booth. We get decent traffic from it.

This year? I’m so plunking down Inara, my new favorite employee. Without a doubt, I know she will single handedly rake them in.

As I’m thinking this, she poses for a new round of photos, and for this shot, she brings her tail up to curl around the guy’s shoulder.

He flips out, loving it.

But I’m staring at her tail, suddenly questioning what kind of FX-electronics are this sophisticated.

I’ve bought a lot of effects supplies over the years. I get to see just about everything the industry offers, all kinds of suits and gear. Where did this woman get gear of this quality? No joke: her costume had to cost some serious cake. We’re talking not hundreds, but thousands. I should know. I don’t skimp on the employee suits here.

But nothing I’ve ever splurged for is as seriously detailed as what Inara is sporting. Her look is movie-level good—better than, because movies use CGI, and here she stands in the flesh, able to move this tail appendage without any hand controller or anything.

What the hell?

***

“Have a seat,” I tell her, and I watch her adjust her tail so that it swings out—not like a dead weight swings, but like a prehensile limb can be manipulated to move. You’d swear there was muscle, powerful muscle, in this costume limb of hers. “Someday, you’ve got to drop the details on your costume. If it doesn’t break the bank, I’m ordering one for every employee from here on out.”

I also want the secret to her heels. She walks on her toes, her dainty heels in the air, like she’s wearing sky high fuckin’ stilettos, ‘cept there’s no spike to even pretend to offer support. I don’t know how she does it, but she’s kept on her toes all night. She must have serious practice time in—and her calf muscles attest to this I guess because damn. ‘Shapely’ doesn’t touch these motherfuckers. This woman is all kinds of attractive.

Great for business.

Big red ‘STAY THE FUCK AWAY’ for me.

At my comment, Inara tosses back her leathery dreads and blinds me with a dazzling smile.

“Got it,” I mutter. “It’s break the bank-priced.” I clear my throat, stalk to my own seat, and drop my ass into it. “Okay, hang tight for a sec…” I jerk open drawers, grab the forms and paperwork I need, then straighten and slide a pen to her along with the first sheet she needs to sign. “I need your driver’s license and sosh.”

“My… what?” she asks, blinking at me.

Dammit. Gobsnacking fucking dammit. “Sweetheart, you’ve saved the day here, and I’m half in love with you for that, but you gotta know? I run everything government-friendly. I gotta have your ID.”

“What’s… ‘sosh’?” she clarifies.

“Oh. Social? Social security number?” I frown at her. “Where are you from?” She’s got an accent, but she speaks English flawlessly. I can’t get a bead on what her accent is, all I know is it’s nothing short of hot and she’s going to do great things for every investor/stockbroker/men’s retreat group we push through her room. I need her to be legal because come hell or high water, she’s staying with me forever. With her makeup skills alone (and she’s got serious skills—even her eyelid rims match her exotic (and by exotic, I mean metallic) coloring—she’s a professional and if I don’t lock her up in my basement (not that I have one), she’s probably going to get hired for the Stan Winston School of special effects artists tomorrow) she could easily turn herself into any room attraction I can market as long as I furnish the materials.

If I can afford the materials. Shit, what does her getup cost?

“It’s my understanding you aren’t familiar with my sector of the galaxy, so my location won’t mean much to you,” she answers glibly.

I blink at her, thinking, Well, fuck.

She’s nuts. She must be one of those dead-serious-all-into-it method actors who live in their game.

But… do I care?

Could she be any more perfect for the alien room with her