Submission Games

  Submission Games © 2018 Francesca Baez

  www.francescabaez.com

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or use of this work in any part is forbidden without the express written permission of the author.

  The Author of this Book has been granted permission by Anna Zaires and Dima Zales to use the copyrighted characters and the world of The Krinar Chronicles created by Anna Zaires and Dima Zales in this Book; all copyright protection to the characters and the worlds of Anna Zaires and Dima Zales are retained by Anna Zaires and Dima Zales.

  It’s been one year since my best friend ran away with an alien.

  One year since Ari officially moved to the Costa Rican alien compound. Eight months since I broke up with my loser ex. Five months since Ari left Earth completely, blasting off to a happily-ever-after on the other side of the galaxy. And three months since I quit my dream job in New York City and moved back in with my parents.

  Is this what they call a downward spiral? Either way, I’m fairly certain that a twenty-eight-year-old woman working a minimum wage job and living in her time capsule of a childhood bedroom is definitely rock bottom.

  I sigh loudly, eliciting an annoyed sidelong glare from a patron browsing at the end of the stacks. I smile politely and get back to silently shelving.

  I used to work for a high profile magazine, one with elite readers all across the country. I used to get paid to eat expensive meals at luxury Manhattan restaurants. Now, I’m part-time help at this tiny public library in small town West Virginia, and I can’t even seem to do that right. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

  Why, exactly, did I do this to myself? It’s a question I ask a dozen times a day as I trace and retrace the same routine through the library. Sure, I miss my best friend like crazy. I wish she would call more often, but I can’t blame her. I’ve never seen anyone as in love as she is with Verit, her hunky alien cheren. I’ve certainly never been that in love myself, not even a little. If I were, I would probably forget all about my old life too. Still, would it kill her to reply to a text once in a while?

  But no, that’s not why I up and quit everything I’d worked my ass off for. And it sure as hell wasn’t because of Robbie, either, although that’s a couple years of my life I’ll never get back. I’m not sure exactly why I’m back here, honestly. Everything in New York City just kept slowly falling apart, and suddenly, I looked up and realized my dream life had become a lonely, depressing nightmare. I needed a fresh start, and while most people go to New York for that, I had to leave it. Maybe LA or Vegas would have been a more exciting choice than Buffalo Creek, West Virginia, but sometimes you just have to go home and cry on your mom’s shoulder for a little while.

  “Tell me again about Beso,” my coworker Sabine asks, twisting in her spinny chair as we sit uselessly through another dead shift at the check-out desk.

  “Beso was amazing,” I say, feeling a smile grow on my face just at the thought of my old life. “Of course, before K-Day, I hear they had the most delectable steaks, real melt-in-your-mouth shit. But the grilled portobello was still pretty great. And the tiramisu, oh my god…”

  This is our favorite game, when we have no patrons to attend to, which is pretty often. Sabine loves hearing about all the amazing places I’ve eaten, all the exotic meals I’ve had. The petite girl, with her edgy pixie cut and nose piercing, is pretty much me a decade ago. Fresh out of high school, never having left West Virginia, thirsty for any kind of escape. I don’t know how she’ll fare out in the real world, if I’m honest. After all, the real world is twice as scary as it was when I was her age. There are dangerous aliens, and all their crazy technology, overbearing laws, and weird vampire kink. After spending time with Verit and seeing how much he cared for Ari, I’ve softened ever-so-slightly toward the invaders. But that’s just one creature among many, and if anything, being back home has undone any good work his friendship did. In big metropolitan areas, or cities near K compounds, humans have become somewhat accustomed to the aliens that now live among them. But no K has ever set foot out here in the boonies, and as such, all anyone cares about is the wild rumors online and the terrifying footage on the news. It certainly doesn’t help that shortly after K-Day, in their big attempts to force us into saving our own planet, the Ks ordered the shutdown of the local coal mine, Buffalo Creek’s biggest employer. I can’t really blame the townsfolk for holding a grudge against the creatures that effectively pulverized our local economy.

  “And what about Kamikaze?” Sabine interrupts my train of thought, leaning forward in her seat.

  “Best sushi I’ve ever had,” I say, grinning at the young woman that has somehow become my closest friend here. “Well, second best, of course.”

  Sabine lets out a guttural moan at the mere thought, eliciting a confused glare from our supervisor. We both smile apologetically at her, and turn back to the desk, each lost in our own reverie.

  My conversation with Sabine inspires me to stop by the local Kroger on the way home. I grab the least off-putting plastic tray of sushi—today it’s crunchy imitation crab—and pay with loose change. Outside, I sit in my parked car and break open the cheap chopsticks, mentally bracing myself for the lecture Mom will give me tonight about ruining her homemade dinners in favor of grocery store swill. I pop the first bite into my mouth and close my eyes, throwing all my energy into imagining that this is at all comparable to even the worst New York sushi. It’s a hard game, but I’m getting good at it.

  When I open my eyes again, something across the parking lot catches my eye. Someone, rather. The humid summer day and the A/C I’m blasting are fighting for dominance, fogging up the windows and blurring my view of the still figure that seems to be looking right at me. I set my food aside and wipe at the glass with the side of my fist, but when my view finally clears, the figure is gone.

  Weird.

  A buzz from my purse distracts me from this new mystery, and I dig my phone out. The caller ID shows Robbie’s name, and an old photo of us lights up the screen. I really need to change that. Scratch that, I should really just block his number. He kept his distance after the breakup, but ever since I moved back south, he’s been blowing up my phone more than I’m cool with. Still, I can shamefully admit that I find a small comfort in knowing I at least have some kind of fall-back plan, even if it’s just weird-beard, can’t-do-his-own-laundry, too-much-tongue Robbie.

  I groan loudly and return to my sushi, though now I’ve lost all interest in the treat, if you could even call it that. Despite my lost appetite, I force myself to eat it all, gulping it down pleasurelessly. I hate wasting food. It’s a habit my mother drilled into me and my sister as children, and has stuck through adulthood, at least for me.

  Tossing the empty tray and sticky chopsticks back into the plastic grocery bag, a weird feeling at the back of my neck makes me freeze. It’s nothing tangible, not really. Just an odd tickling sensation, something disquieting that makes the pale hairs on my arms stand on end.

  For some reason, it feels like I’m being watched. I unsubtly twist and turn in my seat, trying to pin down the voyeur. There’s a woman dragging two unruly children into Kroger, an older gentleman rolling his groceries down the sidewalk, and a young couple tossing bags into their trunk, but none of them are even facing my direction.

  It’s probably just the cheap sushi wreaking havoc on my body already, I tell myself, and shake off the weird feeling. There’s no reason to be paranoid, none at all. Still, there’s a small tremor in my fingers as I crank the car into reverse, and
start the drive back home.

  You’d think I was about twenty years younger than I actually am, the way my mother lays into me for “ruining” my dinner. It’s not my fault that my aging parents eat at the absurd hour of 5pm, but I let her have at me, the way I usually do these days. I figure it’s the least I can do. After all, she’s giving me free room and board. Besides, with time, her rambling tirades have really lost the terrifying effect they once had on me.

  “Sorry, Mom,” I mumble, taking another big bite of venison, ignoring the protests of my already-full stomach. “Won’t happen again.”

  I chew the juicy meat as my parents turn back to some meaningless gossip about neighbors I don’t remember. The biggest perk of being back home is the easy access to meat. I have to hand it to the good people of Buffalo Creek, they’ve played their hand well. They keep their endless gripes about the K invaders purely talk, drawing no attention to themselves, as they continue to quietly hunt for game in the woods, and produce other animal goods from local small farms. No, I can’t enjoy the same luxury meals as I could back in Manhattan, but I find small solace in being able to enjoy technically-illegal meats and cheeses.

  “Did you hear about Gloria, the Evans girl?” Dad is saying, when I tune back into their droning conversation.

  “From Oak Street?” I ask, suddenly interested. “Her mom knits those funny little sweaters every winter? I think she was a year or two below me in school.”

  “Yup, that’s the one,” Dad drawls, nodding enthusiastically, happy to have my captured my usually unattainable attention. “She was going to med school out in Huntington, fixing to be one of those fancy cancer surgeons. Do you remember that, Amelia?”

  My mother nods pleasantly, scooping a punishingly enormous blob of mashed potatoes onto my plate, ignoring my pleading expression.

  “Turner was telling me this morning, he heard at the diner the other day that she went off to Mexico for a summer vacation with her friends,” Dad goes on, and my over-stuffed stomach starts to twist, already sensing where this conversation is heading. “It’s been weeks since she was supposed to come home and her parents haven’t heard a thing from her. Word has it, they think she might’ve gotten stolen away by one of those Krinars.”

  Mom tsks, shaking her head faux-sadly. I tune back out, focusing on the torturous amount of food on my plate. I know how the rest of this rant goes. I’ve never heard such a blind blend of pitying the poor, innocent woman who surely must have been stolen against her will, while simultaneously shaming and blaming the slut who must have been all too eager to spread her legs for the monster. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

  It’s a tired stereotype, that rural people are all ignorant and prejudiced, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t some truth to it. Even I asked Ari when I first met her if she was a K, just because her coloring was darker than mine. I’ve learned and grown a lot since then, if I do say so myself.

  An image of the nights before Ari and Verit left New York flashes in my mind, of us joking and laughing together, over one of Verit’s deliciously exotic homemade meals. Unbidden, another image overtakes that memory, this one of the night before I left New York. Flashing club lights, hazy music, skin on skin. I shake the image away quickly, cheeks already flushing at the memory. There’s no need to think of that night right now, especially not in front of my parents. No need to think of that night ever again, actually. It was a one-time mistake, a reckless decision induced by one shot too many and the overwhelming adrenaline of standing at the precipice of my own life, about to tumble over into the unknown.

  A mistake, I remind myself fervently, desperately trying to ignore the shameful dampness in my panties that accompanies the memory of that night, even after all these months.

  After dinner, I volunteer to take Baby out for her nightly walk. The name barely fit the big bloodhound when she actually was a baby, and now that she’s tottering around at almost twelve years old, it’s nearly comical, but that’s what happens when you let your teenage daughters name the new hunting dog. Baby’s been out of the business for a couple years now, preferring to curl up and watch Mom knit on weekends rather than running around in the woods with Dad. Truth be told, it’s probably about time Dad followed suit. I see the way he winces when he stands, and groans when he carries in heavy groceries. But my father is nothing if not stubborn.

  “Hey guys, it’s me,” I yell, letting myself into my sister’s house a couple blocks away. Baby is panting and glaring at me for forcing her out of bed, but perks up when my tiny nephew, Gavin, all but apparates into the den and launches himself at her.

  “Baby!” he cries out, putting the giant dog in a chokehold. Baby wags her tail patiently, slobbering nearly as much as the toddler is.

  “You have got to stop bringing that stinking dog into my house,” my sister says when she enters the room, hands on hips.

  “And you have got to start locking your stinking door,” I say with equal attitude in my voice.

  Jo says nothing, twisting her lips to the side to avoid smiling at me.

  My twin sister looks nothing like me, what with my long blonde hair and petite figure, and her short brown bob and tall, modelesque silhouette. Well, usually modelesque. These days, she could only model for maternity catalogs, and she might even be too big for that now. I like to tease her that she’s having twins, maybe even triplets. She really fucking hates that joke, but that’s what makes it fun.

  Honestly, Jo is glowing. I didn’t really get the expression until I saw my sister pregnant for the first time, and this time around is no different. I totally get why her hubby Brett waits on her hand and foot when she’s knocked up. Even when she complains of her swollen ankles and bizarre cravings, she emanates pure light and life. Secretly, I’m flooded with a bittersweet mix of genuine joy and quiet jealousy every time I see her these days. When I had my fancy Manhattan life, it was easy to feel fully satisfied with waiting patiently for my turn at happily-ever-after. But now that I have nothing, the stark absences in my own life are so much harder to stomach.

  For a moment we both watch the old dog and young boy play clumsily, until Jo groans and shifts on her feet, gesturing me back into the kitchen.

  “Mom and Dad getting on your nerves again?” she asks, taking a pint of homemade ice cream out of the freezer as I grab two spoons from a drawer.

  “Aren’t they always,” I deadpan, joining her at the worn wooden table.

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you can always come stay here with us,” Jo says, punctuating the statement with a giant mouthful of butter pecan.

  “Mom and Dad would guilt me to death,” I say, the same reply I always use. Truthfully, I know Jo and Brett can’t afford to prop me up while I get my life back together, not with the new little one (or two, or three) on the way. Still, I know my sister’s offer is genuine, and I love her all the more for it.

  We hear footsteps on the front porch, and the door pushes open. I give Jo a look that says, see, that could be an ax murderer busting into your house, and she tosses back a look that says, you lived in New York for too long.

  “Daddy!” Gavin shouts loudly, confirming that the intruder is indeed not an ax murderer. One of these days, though.

  After a few minutes of tussling with his son, Brett enters the kitchen, dropping his bag in the hallway.

  “Joelle, Noelle,” Brett says, kissing my sister’s forehead first, making her smile, and pecking my forehead next, making me roll my eyes.

  My brother-in-law is the only person who calls Jo by her full name, at least not since we got to the first grade and realized having rhyming names past infancy was getting us nowhere fast. I still don’t know what our parents were thinking. So Jo was Jo and I was Noelle, until we went off to our separate colleges, and Jo met Brett. He thought it was sweet to call her by her full name, and it kind of is, at least as long as I’m not around.

&n
bsp; Jo and Brett chit chat about their days, and I smile and nod along, chiming in when it seems expected. I stay until they start getting ready for dinner—it seems unnecessary to rope myself into a third meal in as many hours.

  As Baby and I walk home in the setting summer sun, I’m once again struck by that bizarre tingling at the base of my scalp. I can’t explain why this seems like what being watched must feel like, as I’ve never been stalked or anything before, but I can’t shake the sensation of eyes on me, no matter how many times I check to make sure we’re not being followed. It doesn’t help that Baby seems unnerved too, whining and pulling at her leash, anxious to get home.

  Maybe there’s just a big storm coming, I tell myself, shrugging off my paranoia.

  And in a way, I’m right.

  Two days later, I’m standing in line at Buffalo Creek’s only coffee shop, wishing not for the first time for the modern convenience of the drive-through Starbucks that every other town in America boasts. I’m supposed to be at the library early today, instead of my usual afternoon shift, and I’m already running a little late. I probably should’ve resisted the siren call of a latte, or at least just made a cup of Folgers at home, but I desperately need the pick me up. I haven’t been sleeping well lately, still plagued by that odd, inexplicable feeling that something is coming, something bad, something worse than the relentless sheets of rain that haven’t stopped since yesterday afternoon.

  The barista, a girl named Kelly whose big brother I dated for a week in the tenth grade, slides the paper cup across the counter at me, grinning too widely for this time of day.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, dropping some loose change into her tip jar and taking my latte. I hesitate at the door, inwardly groaning at the gray sleet outside, then pull up my big girl pants and prepare to make a mad dash to my car. I’m parked just halfway down the block, so I can probably make it without getting too soaked. Should I have grabbed an umbrella before leaving home? Yes. Should I have stopped for coffee, knowing it would cost me precious time and two trips through this rain? No. Are these my biggest problems right now? That remains to be seen.