My Crazy Hot Interstellar Affair

40. Call Dropped as Alien Tries to Phone Home

Sterling's office filled Andie with nostalgia, love, and an overwhelming sense of dread that curled like icy fingers around her stomach.

The office was a distillation of Sterling's essence—warmth, loyalty, humor, and intelligence.

Yellow-gold satinwood walls, spangled with knots, burls, and cracks, each imperfection a mark of beauty. A story. A history.

Rows of photographs atop glass shelves—ten-year-old Sterling and Andie playing dress-up in the attic. Rachel, Sterling, and Andie in Rice Krispies' Snap, Crackle, and Pop costumes for Halloween. Sterling and Andie at her college graduation. Professional black and white photos of Sterling as an infant being held by her mother, who looked so beautiful yet melancholy.

Sofas, as puffy and pink as clouds at sunrise, ringed one of those floating coffee tables Andie had seen in Oliver's penthouse office. Two potted ficus plants stood like sentries on either side of a large glass desk. The desktop was free from clutter, but there was a globe of the alien moon—colored lights shifting and blinking across the surface. Through the window, a glimmer of sunlight splintered off the red-sequined heel of the giant shoe.

The sweet-cinnamon smell of snickerdoodles emanated from a silver platter on the coffee table.

This was not at all what Andie had pictured for Sterling. She was supposed to be a prisoner. Deceived. Tricked into performing in a reality show for the universe. Living a false life. But this?

Sterling opened her arms wide. "Andie, are you going to stand there and talk to your scary inner voice, or are you going to give me a hug?"

Andie's eyes widened. Did Sterling know about Bad Andie? And the one time she wasn't talking to her alter ego, she gets accused of doing so.

"I'm too busy to talk to you," Bad Andie scoffed.

"I know. Vampires."

"Naw. Their feet are so cold it's like sleeping with a pair of ice cube trays at the bottom of the bed. And honestly, how much blood can a person lose before anemia sets in? No, now I'm into aliens. I know from personal experience aliens are toe-curlingly delicious. And so many great novels to choose from: Probed by the Alien Prince, Stolen by the Billionaire Alien Pirate, My Crazy Hot Interstellar Affair, though the female protagonist in that last one is driving me nuts. Only the hot alien and plucky sidekick make it worthwhile."

"How do you know what a vampire's feet feel like in bed?"

"It's called imagination. Get one. It's an excellent companion. Especially when your alter-ego is a dreary accountant."

"Dreary? In the past few days, I've discovered I have alien zappy powers, I've traveled to an actual mother-ship, disrupted an alien Joining, had my hair burnt off at least twice, been pooped on by hot pink doves, fought my boyfriend's hostile motherclone, resurrected said boyfriend, battled legions of jellyfish drones, bested Marilyn Monroe, been dumped into a dumpster (by said boyfriend), trapped in a stupid chase-scene with Tom Cruise, had my mother kidnapped by an evil secretary, been in a car wreck at a shoe mall, and discovered my best friend might be in charge of an alien TV show. So, sorry if I don't accept your assertion that I'm dreary!"

"Sensitive much? Gotta go. My alien is phoning home."

Bad Andie went to ... well ... wherever alter-egos hang out when they're not driving you insane.

And speaking of aliens. Where was Oliver? Could Sterling help locate him? As impossible as it sounded, Sterling was the Director. The boss of the whole reality show. Now that Andie had accomplished step one of her rescue plan—locate Sterling, she had to find her misplaced boyfriend, procure an interstellar spaceship, and destroy the Star Enquirer. It appeared her goals were fairly doable if Sterling was the head of the operation. Friends in high places!