Cutlass: Motor City Alien Mail Order Brides: Intergalactic Dating Agency

C
utlass never thought
he’d be stuck on some backward planet in a solar system with only one sun. Earth wasn’t his home, but he’d find a way to survive there if it meant finding a mate. He could put up with their ancient mechanical devices and a name that wasn’t his own for the right woman.

Chloe never imagined she’d sign up to be some sort of modern-day mail order bride. But too much wine and an internet connection were a bad combination, especially when the life she imagined seemed so much greater than the life she was living. Everyone stretches the truth on those dating websites, right?

One ad in a space station, one night of too much drinking, and one hotel room that will never be the same. What would you do if you found out the man from your fantasies was actually the man from your science fiction?

Y
ou ever do
something that year-ago-you would have refused? Something so horrible and terrifying, you never would have thought you’d even think about trying it? Yeah. That was my day.

“Welcome to the IG Dating Agency, Chloe. Ms. Ampetheia will be with you shortly.”

I did my best to smile, though it felt way forced and tight. As if I was showing my teeth to a dentist I knew was going to be all root-canal crazy. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

The lady behind the desk’s face fell, and she sniffed. Visibly sniffed like a dog scenting something on the wind.
Crap.
I hurried across the room to one of the chairs along the wall and curled into myself, trying to be subtle as I ducked and inhaled. God, I really hoped I didn’t smell like hot dogs. That particular predicament was something to worry about whenever I had to go someplace directly from the Coney Island where I worked. The scent of hot dogs, fried onions, and grease tended to follow me around.

Everyone loved the smell of greasy food, right?
I wish
.

Ugh, this whole dating agency thing was such a bad idea. Who the hell would match to someone like me? As much as it killed me to admit, my life was shit. It might always be shit. And my love life? Ha. Such a joke. I hadn’t even been on a date in almost two years, let alone had any sort of love in my boring, shitty life. To be honest, I hadn’t even tried, not after my last boyfriend cheated on me with his boss. Working late all the time, my ass.

But I’d agreed to try this bullshit agency thing, even though I thought it would never work. I was going to kill my best friend Amelia for pushing me into it, too. Not that I could blame the girl for trying, though. Happy people in good relationships tended to want to spread that joy around. After two years of listening to me complain about battery-operated boyfriends and the craziness of multiple servings being listed on the side of a pint of ice cream—because let’s be real, those little things aren’t making it back into the freezer once they’re opened—Amelia had talked me into trying a matchmaker service. I’d scoffed at first—and scoffed hard—but with Amelia living some sort of happily-ever-after crap with a man she met through the service and me only hanging out on the weekends with Ben and Jerry, I figured I didn’t have anything better to do. So one night, under the covers as if hiding from the imaginary people who might possibly see me, I looked up the IG Dating Agency. And then I almost fell out of bed. Two weeks. That was what they gave you to accept or deny a match. Two weeks of being together every day, then you had to get married or…not. And the best part? I would be matched to my very own Mr. Right based on a letter I had to write.

Some real, honest to goodness mail order bride shit with a two-week shelf life.

“This is crazy,” I’d yelled at Amelia when I’d finally crawled off the floor. Dealing with a matchmaker and only getting fourteen days to get to know my future husband? What year was I living in? Besides, with my luck, the guy they picked for me would have sweaty palms and a micropenis even if he did write the prettiest words I’d ever read. So not appealing.

But Amelia had sworn these people were experts, and her new husband treated her like a princess, so I got a little tipsy and wrote up a wonderful story about my life. Well, really, a life that would have been great had it been mine—everyone exaggerated on those types of things.

I’d clicked the send button with my eyes closed, as if the internet would explode under the pressure of my stretched truths. Sadly, nothing that exciting happened. Well, unless you count my inbox pinging like a slot machine in Vegas.

Yeah, my letter and fake life were a winner.

Within a few hours, I had fifteen emails from the agency, all with letters from possible matches attached. I didn’t know any of their names, but I knew they were all new to the area and adjusting to the culture. My brand of culture featured hanging out at the Eastern Market on the weekends and arguing over whether National or Lafayette had the better coney sauce. I doubted that would be part of their adjusting.

“Chloe? Ms. Ampetheia will see you now.” The lady at the front desk smiled, her head at an angle that made her seem somehow friendly and inquisitive all at once. Interesting. Was there training for stuff like that? Some sort of union for pretty, intelligent employees with the ability to put even the most skittish of customers at ease? Professional Head-Cockers United?

“Chloe?”

Get it together.

“Sorry. Just…lost in my thoughts.” About head-cocking. Brilliant.

I followed the head-cocker down a long hallway that reminded me a bit of
The
Shining
. Not for the décor, merely for the fact that it scared the shit out of me. All over the walls, on just about every surface, pictures of happy couples doing the things happy couples did seemed to mock me. As if I couldn’t ever be as happy as they were. Why were they so smiley, anyway? It couldn’t be because they’d found the loves of their lives. No couple I knew grinned that hard. The pairs in the pictures looked more like models for dental upgrades than real couples.

Meet a man, get veneers!

“Pardon?”

Shit. I must have said that out loud. “Nothing. Just…thinking of my dentist.”

An eyebrow furrow joined the head cock, and I knew I was done. Ugh, I should have grabbed a cup of coffee before this meeting. I was too tired to use my verbal filters. These people were going to throw my application in the trash when they figured me out.

Head-Cocker just shook her head as she ushered me into an office in the back. It was small but neat, with a high ceiling and nice, thick carpeting. The perfect place to discuss your nonexistent love life without being humiliated by other people with nonexistent love lives overhearing.

“Ms. Ampetheia will be here in a moment.”

“Yeah,” I said as she hightailed it back down the hallway. “Great.”

Ridiculous. This was totally and utterly ridiculous. I was going to kill Amelia for letting me do this. I should go home instead of—

“Chloe, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Trapped.

Ms. Ampetheia swept into the room and directed me to a chair before taking the seat across the desk. I recognized the paperwork the lady laid out—my application, copies of my ID, and
the letter
. The very good, very not-quite-accurate letter.

Did the heat suddenly kick on?

“Don’t be nervous,” Ms. Ampetheia said, as if the thought of being nervous wouldn’t make me even more nervous. “We’re almost done with the process. Just a few things to go over.”

Oh God, I was going to be sick. That stupid, stupid letter. I’d wanted to write something that would attract a man—or at least not scare anyone off—so I’d really put my heart into every word. My drunken heart. My lying, drunken heart. Most of the letter was accurate, but I may have fibbed a bit on income and where I lived. On what I did for a living.

Ms. Ampetheia made a noise like a purr as she read over my information. Odd, that sound, but not as odd as the muddy, baby-poop color of her beady eyes. I’d swear she was wearing brown contacts over light eyes if I didn’t think that’d be ridiculous. Who wanted baby-poop brown eyes? “A photographer. I love matching creative types—you’re never limited by what you see before you, but you’re freed by the possibilities instead.”

Okay, so fibbed was being gentle. I’d lied right through the skin of my teeth. If they found out…

“Good, good.” Ms. Ampetheia nodded with a look on her face that set me slightly at ease. “Your health scans came back fine. No diseases or genetic markers for anything that would cause us to deny your request.”

Huh…bonus. Still. “You deny people?”

The woman smiled, which made me recoil on instinct. The slight squint of her amber eyes and the baring of her teeth were a bit too spidery for me. An odd sensation for sure, considering the woman I sat across from was dressed in a brown cardigan. Who could be dangerous in a librarian’s sweater?

Apparently a mail order bride matchmaker, that was who.

“Our gentlemen expect the best.” Ms. Ampetheia leaned over the desk, growing more serious and looking only slightly more dangerous. “We don’t set a match unless we’re sure the union can last. These aren’t dates, Chloe. They’re full relationships with commitments guaranteed within two weeks. These men want a partner, someone to share a life with, to have a family with, and they don’t want to wait.”

Partner…family. Yeah, I hadn’t found a man who wanted either of those things on my own. My last boyfriend claimed he saw forever with me, but apparently, he’d only wanted his cock sucked in the copy room. Lucky for him, the woman setting his raise every year was more than happy to do that while I sat at home alone. Ugh, what the hell. Maybe these guys
were
a different breed, after all. Amelia was superhappy with her match. Like, Disney-princess happy. It couldn’t be all bad.

“Okay,” I said, unable to stop my eye from twitching. “If you think you can find me someone, I’m ready.”

“Good, because you’ve picked the perfect time to apply. Our flyers have been a huge hit! I’ve got a load of new males coming to apply this week and the letters from the women are beginning to clog the mailbox. You beat the rush for sure, you lucky gal.” Ms. Ampetheia slid a piece of paper—a contract by the looks of it—across the desk. “We don’t want to make you wait through the crowd, though. So if you can just sign the acceptance letter today, I’ll get you all set up for what is potentially your last first kiss.”

Oh, God. Hand shaking just enough for me to notice, I signed on the dotted line to accept the terms of the contract.
Sold to the highest bidder
…sort of.

“Excellent,” Ms. Ampetheia said once I was finished, almost hissing the word. “We’ll call you with the details once we find your perfect match.”

“Yeah. Okay.” I hurried to my feet, suddenly ready to escape. I was doing this. Diving headfirst into a full-blown relationship with a man I’d never met who was matched to me based solely on a letter. A letter filled with lies on my part.

This was going to be such a failure.

“One more thing,” Ms. Ampetheia called, stopping me in my tracks half in and half out of the office. “We’ve found that a full immersion in the beginning of the relationship is really the best way to handle the partnership.”

“Full immersion?”

“Yes. To keep the territory neutral, we set you two up for a weekend at a hotel in the city. You’ll be alone enough to really get to know one another, but someone from IGDA will be nearby just in case.”

Well, that didn’t sound ominous. Nope, not a bit…so long as you didn’t watch the nightly news.

“In case of what, exactly?”

Her smile didn’t falter, though there was definitely something close to a warning in her unusually colored eyes. “In case the match doesn’t take.”

“And women do this? Go off and share a hotel room with a man they’ve never met? Because, really, that’s like the perfect setup for a horror movie.”

“Our applicants are fully vetted, as are you. You’ll be safe with your match.”

Fully vetted?
With a degree in chemical engineering, I probably should have gone into some sort of manufacturing, but the call of my true love was too strong. I found myself behind the lens instead.
I had no degree, I failed high school chemistry, and I had no idea why I’d picked a photographer for my faux profession in the first place. Yet I’d been matched and was being sent off to start a relationship with some man I’d never met. We were fully vetted all right.

I’d better remember to pack my Mace.