Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 110600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 553(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 553(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
It doesn’t help that the other women that follow along are sending me messages, asking where the next chapter is. How do I tell them I have writer’s block because I’m waiting for a kidnapper?
Doubt creeps in, too.
What if Bethiah is the wrong person for this job? She comes highly recommended from someone who said if I needed a person to “get things done,” Bethiah was the one to call. But…what if I’ve asked for too much? Perhaps I should have put another personal ad out with the port datagram, the Risda version of a local newspaper. I’ve tried that twice so far, to disastrously bad results.
The first man that showed up to my ad for a husband didn’t like my face. Or my body. He was a handsome mesakkah—the big blue sort—and the moment he saw me, his face fell. He asked me all kinds of invasive questions about the human body and how it “holds up” over time and it was clear he’d been expecting someone much younger. Probably bustier, too.
I’d never thought that being in my thirties would be considered over the hill, but on Risda, it seems I’m an old crone.
I wasn’t sad that the mesakkah said we wouldn’t work out and promptly left. A second mesakkah had shown up about a week later, and he was nice and charming to my face and seemed very interested in my land. Never came back, though.
I got the hint after that. Took my ad down and sent a message for Bethiah.
It takes four excruciatingly long days for the bounty hunter to get back with me. A message pops up on my datapad with a bright, happy DING! I nearly drop the fresh bowl of noodles I’ve prepared and barely manage to set them on the counter before grabbing my datapad and scouring it.
Shit!
Bethiah—because that must be who’s contacting me—has sent a message in a language I can’t read.
I stare at it for a long, awful minute, then frantically tap buttons, trying to get the datapad to dictate the message back to me. I only know what a few buttons do on the piece of alien technology, but eventually I’m able to get it to respond, and it starts reading the message in a clinical, detached voice.
<<
Tonight?
A nervous flutter sets up shop in my belly. Oh god. Tonight is too soon! I’m not ready! I look around my small house, and even though I’ve been cleaning for days, it doesn’t feel like I’m prepared. Where am I going to keep a guest? What will I serve him?
Oh heck…what am I going to wear?
I read the message over one more time just to make sure I have it correct—that Bethiah really is coming by tonight—and then I set into a whirlwind of activity. I clean. I mop. I scrub. I change the sheets and hang a fresh towel in the bathroom. The big bouquet of flowers I keep on the table is wilting, so I toss them into the compost pile and pluck fresh blooms to brighten the small house up. When the kitchen area is scrubbed and the noodle casserole put away since I’m far too nervous to eat, I pick through my clothes.
I know this poor man isn’t going to be here willingly, but I hope if I’m an appealing enough host, he decides to stay. I dig through tunic after tunic, and while none of them are particularly low-cut or sexy, I pick out one that shows my figure off. I fuss with my shoulder-length hair for a bit and impulsively pull it up into two pigtails, just like Baby Spice. After all, it made her look younger, didn’t it? I pick through the settings on a cosmetic machine, but all of them are for non-human skin. Something tells me that eye-shadows in various shades of blue and vibrant purple probably look great on someone like Bethiah, but not for me. I do dye my lashes a dark black, though, and gloss my lips with a concoction a neighbor made that adds just a hint of pink to human lips.
I stare at my reflection, nervous. Do I look like I’m thirty-six to alien eyes? Twenty-six? Twenty-nine? My gaze strays to my pigtails. They look incredibly stupid, but maybe it’s enough to fool an alien into thinking I’m young and nubile and desirable.
“Fingers crossed,” I whisper to my reflection, and then I go into my small living area to wait.
6
KIM
As I sit in my now-sparkling house, waiting for my kidnapped husband-to-be to be delivered, I start to get nervous.
Perhaps I should have given Bethiah a few more guidelines? Should I have specified that my husband will need to be into farming? That he’ll need to stay on Risda III? That I don’t want to share with several wives if he’s from one of the cultures where polygamy is encouraged? What if…what if he’s diseased? What if he doesn’t like flowers?