Rocket to Love - Part 2 (of 3)

Will Roxie have the lady balls to go on a dating reality show?

In our very first chapter, we left our lonely space hauler wishing she had some warm companionship. Too bad that hot bartender, Doran, is such a player… But our heroine is toooo smart to fall for a guy like that. Instead, Roxie Vega is single-piloting her ship, The Oberon Outlaw, back to the Big Rig Fuel and Casino to be a contestant on a new dating show, Rocket to Love.

If you missed reading Chapter 1 Part 1… you can catch up here!

Well, if that memory doesn’t make my thighs shake. Gritting my teeth, I banish all thoughts of Doran and concentrate on guiding my space hauler through the meteorite storm.

BANG!

A final bit of debris dings off the front of my ship. I can see a new dent joining the thousand others on my poor, beaten-up Oberon Outlaw. This ship has seen some tough times, but the old girl keeps kicking. Kind of like me.

I take the wormhole in the Virgo Cluster that gets me back to the Milky Way in hours. To pass the time, I watch reruns of Rocket to Love on the old TV dangling in the flight deck. The show makes me giggle. It’s a speed dating game where contestants complete puzzles with a variety of potential dates. Winners get an all-expenses-paid trip to Earth. I slap my thigh when the couples fight. It’s a hoot to watch.

The contestant experience will be different than just spectating. It might be fun watching on the tube when a couple gets into a knife fight and ends up in a jail cell on the planet of Cattazing. BUT, do I need to expose myself to that kind of risk? I’ve spent time incarcerated, and I’m telling you, being tortured by Cattaz guards with sharp claws and a penchant for teasing their inmates to madness is no fun at all. Bad memories curl my toes.

Not going to lie, I almost turned my ship around and accepted being single for the rest of my life.

BUT, I don’t. Gritting my teeth, I envision that sugar daddy quintillionaire tycoon and stay the course. Though my insecurity makes my hands shake on the wheel.

Am I brave enough to go on this show? In my business, smugglers do better operating in the shadows. Not to beat a dead horse (much like that nag I lost my last $200 bucks on) but the loneliness gets to you. And I’m not getting any younger.

Before I can lose my nerve, I look for a parking spot at The Big Rig Fuel and Casino, only the best dratted betting parlor in the galaxy. A blinking nanotech panel shows a 19th-century cowboy riding a bucking bull, and the facade of the building resembles a Wild West bar from the same era. Cheap rent might be what enticed the production company to film an episode of the show there.

The parking lot is packed, but I manage to squeak my hauler in among the fancy star ships, military bombers, and cargo crafts. Gulping, I’m always conscious of the potentially illegal load in my hold. (Who am I kidding? For sure, it’s hot.)

It’s second nature to keep an eye out for the red and blue of the Interstellar Lawcraft. My shoulders drop with relief when I see the place is clear of the fuzz. In my sleeping compartment, I flip through my wardrobe, looking for the outfit that might win me the love jackpot. A short blue dress sparkles at the back of my closet stuffed full of jumpsuits. Perfect. Matches my hair and shows off my butt, which is just a tad too wide from sitting all the time and munching on fast food.

I take a deep breath and suss out the joint. The Big Rig Fuel & Casino’s old-time western façade is normally coated in the dust that lies thick and heavy over the entire planet of Oberon, but someone took a power hose to the place and slapped some lipstick on it. The bar looks almost respectable. SPACE TV ships are parked right by the entrance, and cameras and studio lighting gleam inside. My hands clench, and my back dampens with sweat. Maybe this was a bad idea. I don’t need the embarrassment of not being chosen. Or, worse yet, someone recognizing me from a wager gone wrong. Well, I’ve come this far, and I’m not a quitter.

I slide out of my hauler and hesitate on the gravel walkway. My waist-length hair is blown into a flurry when a fighter pod plonks itself into the parking lot, blocking some other poor schlep in. A hot-as-hell pilot leaps out of the cockpit. He flashes his white teeth and flicks a gelled clump of blonde hair out of his blue eyes as he gives me a little salute. Expensive cedar cologne tickles my nose. My heart gives a double thump; you don’t get a bod like that by sitting for hours in a flight chair. This guy must lift iron in a high-gravity gym.

He sashays into the bar, giving me a view of an exceptional rump. I take a deep breath, and try and fix my wild, windblown hair.

“You can do this,” I mutter as my social anxiety ramps up.

But I’m not sure I can. Maybe I should just give Doran another try…

Ignoring the bile burbling in my throat, I follow him in. The inside of the Big Rig is looking pretty spiffy. I’ve spent too many afternoons gambling here and know the place like the back of a winning card hand. They fixed the broken tables and swept up all the torn betting chits. My nose wrinkles; it still stinks like rancid beer and desperation. There ain’t no chemical in the universe that can mask that smell.

A table of Martians stare at me as I enter, their green skin awash with oily sweat. All the bright lights are making the place hot, and big rings of perspiration stain my armpits. I’ve never seen the place so packed. Not even on strip-metal poker nights. The TV crew has cameras set up all over the bar, and little droids rush around serving drinks.

The clinking of the iridescent drinks brings a flood of saliva to my mouth. I’m crazy thirsty. And might even have a touch of the DTs.

A tiny robot made of three balls and a screen for a face rolls over with my usual. An icy vodka, or what passes for vodka in this dump. There are benefits to being a regular. Though this little server is new and wouldn’t know my drink yet, so Doran, the bartender, must have given him the early pour. That’s one thing the muscled barkeep never screws up on. Don’t trust his betting advice, but he always gets your drink right. Also beware of his charm… but that’s another story.

I’m not surprised to see a new guy working the floor. The owner, Dana the Damalian, is hard on her staff, and there is a rotating roster of help. I should know. I also work for her.

A retractable arm holds up a tray, and the adorable server beeps. I pick up the drink and take a deep gulp. It chills my throat and burns the belly. Dang good.

“Thank you, and you are?” I pat his head.

The robot gives a chirp, flashes “ABACUS” on his face screen, and rolls to his next customer.

Doran catches my eye from behind the bar, waves one of his four arms, and winks. He’s been asking me out for months, and he almost got me with the Kentucky Derby bet. Memories of that one night I did kiss him makes me gulp. Never trust a guy who fills your gut with butterflies.

Sometimes, a loss is a win. It’s super NOT smart to roll around with the man who feeds your habits. Don’t poop where you eat, right? I nod back and assess the situation. Instead of the usual row of die-hard punters lined up at the bar, their eyes glazed on the big screens showing races, the place is transformed. And I’m not just talking about the missing mess on the floor. Men of all species, maybe twenty in total, sit at numbered tables facing empty chairs. Did I mention this is the cis-gender inter-alien version of the show? A box of 4D puzzle pieces sits in the middle of each table. Ladies mill by the band stage with slips of paper clutched in their hands.

None of the assembled men appeal to me, so I scan the crowd for the parking lot fighter pilot. At least he’d be nice to look at on some of my long journeys across the galaxy. There he is, strutting back from the men’s room like he owns the joint. All the ladies in his path visibly swoon.

I watch him settle in at table number four and order a drink from ABACUS. The robot flashs a checkmark on his screen, “✔️” and zips to the bar. A grin tickles my lips. That little server is on the ball. Literally, his lower ball spins so quickly, it’s a blur.

Dana, a curvy Damalian, has a stack of numbers in one paw and approaches me. “Well, Roxie Vega. Who thought the prettiest smuggler I know would need a dating show?” She flicks her tail.

As I mentioned earlier, I’ve worked with Dana a few times. She’s the one who found me the client for my latest load. She’s dangerous, wealthy, and has her claws dipped into every money pot. Bar owning is the least slimy of her businesses.

I slip her some cash. “Give me table four.” I’m not above bribery.

She glances over at the muscular pilot sitting at my chosen table. He's drumming his fingers impatiently, looking for his drink.

Dana growls, “You’re interested in Buzz? He’s a bit of a firecracker.” She gives me my number.

The host of the show, Peppy, a famous Plutonian dressed in an outrageous feather gown, hops onto the stage. “It’s time to begin our challenge! Thank you all for playing Rocket to Love. The cameras are rolling, and the show is live!”

Peppy is pleasantly plump, but to be fair, all Plutonians are round and well-insulated, as it gets pretty dang chilly on that planet.

The bar explodes in cheers.

“Now, ladies, you’ve all been given your number for your date. How well can you play with a stranger? The rules are simple. The two of you work on the 4D game on the table. The last pair to complete the puzzle is eliminated. If you succeed you move on to the next round with a different partner, or you can choose to stay with your current one if you’ve made a love connection. The final two win a romantic trip to Earth all expenses paid!”

Pressing my lips together, I consider this. Connecting on a brain level instead of a pheromonal one. I could do that. Game on. Pulling my dark hair into a ponytail, I smile at the fighter pilot as I sit down. “Hey, I’m Roxie, More of a gambler than a puzzler.”

Buzz scowls at me, his charm gone. “I haven’t got my dratted drink yet.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. Uh oh. As someone who occasionally has too many drinks, I recognize a fellow imbiber... but at least I’m a happy drunk.

The buzzer goes off, and the other couples dig into their boxes of multi-dimensional pieces. With a flick of my wrist, I empty the puzzle pieces onto our table, but Buzz ignores them.

His hands shake. “Where the hell is that droid?” Tremors of an addict. I was only joking about my getting the DTs. This fellow has a real case of them.

Ignoring him, I start the puzzle on my own and curse my choice of partner. I’ve never been one for choosing the right guy. Most of my relationships only last a night before I sneak out, space boots in hand. What I hope could be a meaningful connection ends up being a good time instead of a long time. A few daddy issues going on with me, but now isn’t a good time to head down the dark path of memory lane. It’s not sex I’m after anyway; what I’m really looking for is more of a soulmate. Enough of the introspection–

There’s a game to win, and I’m nothing if not competitive.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a few couples have already completed the puzzle. Buzz better get his drink pronto if we don’t want to get eliminated. I didn’t come all this way and put on this uncomfortable dress for only one round.

At the bar, I see ABACUS trying to get Doran’s attention. Poor droid is having no luck. Doran ignores him, too busy watching a female Damalian slap a male Oberian when he knocks over their puzzle. Exclamation marks flash on ABACUS’s face screen ‼️ and he steals a beer from a distracted patron. I silently applaud his ingenuity.

The little robot balances the drink on his tray and is almost back to Buzz when the couple beside us completes their puzzle. The Martian pumps his fist as he jumps up and knocks ABACUS over. The beer goes flying.

Buzz leaps from his chair and kicks the little server. “You clumsy bit of bolts, I needed that.”

Anger boils in my belly. “You bully.” I punch Buzz in the jaw.

He falls onto the Martian and the two of them take out a table of spectator Damalians. Drinks go flying and a full-fledged brawl breaks out. I rush over to the android while dodging flying chairs and puzzle pieces.

ABACUS is smoking, his screen face cracked, and his serving arm severed. A sick feeling curdles in my belly. The poor little guy might not make it…

He’s taken a beating worse than the one I endured at the hands of that Cattaz guard, Kross.

The next chapter drops on Wednesday, August 20th! For this week’s 💪💥, keep reading below. (For now I am offering the PAID content for FREE — this is to get ya’all hooked.)

I’m having the worst nightmare… dreaming I’m in a dank, smelly Cattaz jail cell on the Planet Cattazing, and shivering on one of their moldy pet beds. My eyes flutter open to the sound of a rusty metal screeching on an unoiled track.

Damn it. It was no nightmare. I am in a jail cell, but I’m no longer curled up on the smelly, round bed. Instead, I’ve jumped to the back of the 10 by 10 cell and wedged myself in the corner as I try to get my hyperventilating under control.

The sound of screeching metal? That’s also real, and there is a set of slanted yellow eyes pinning me to the spot. The sheer animosity in them has me frozen like a mutant mouse. An enormous Cattaz guard slips through my partially opened door, and the stench coming from his matted fur is enough to make me gag. In my opinion, there is no scarier alien than the Cattaz in our entire galaxy. Part man, part feline, they are natural sociopaths, vicious killers, and the self-declared law keepers of this part of the universe.

Not a great combination.

I try to slow my breathing as this renegade guard manages to wedge his fat, thick body all the way into my cell. All Cattaz guards are intimidating, but this fellow is terrifying. Think an alley tom from back on Earth—on steroids—and walking upright like he’s auditioning for Cats: The Prison Edition. Sharp little ears, chunk missing from the left one, one fang busted, and a face like he’s gone a few rounds with an oversized Doberman.

He snarls at me, all whiskers twitching. “Roxie Vega. I always knew I’d get you alone someday.”

That’s when it clicks. Kross. Used to be an intergalactic cop and pulled me over more than once when I was hauling “totally legitimate” cargo. He never managed to find my stash—probably because his busted little nose was too busy sniffing his own ego.

“Well, well, Kross,” I say, eyeing his new uniform. “Going up in the world or down? Prison guard’s not exactly a career glow-up. What happened to your badge?

He smiles—more fang than charm. “One little corruption probe and here I am. For now. But it looks like it’s my lucky day.” He tilts his ugly head and gives a low yowl. “And an unlucky one for you.”

I try to edge even further away and feel my calf press up against the toilet. The damp condensation on the filthy metal object sends a shiver from my leg up to my brain. This isn’t good. There’s no way I can beat this guy in a hand to paw fight, and I don’t like the lecherous way he’s licking his whiskers.

As fast as only a feline can move, Kross lunges in, mouth open, aiming that fish-breath tongue at my cheek.

“Whoa!” I slap his spiky cheek, the big, bony cheekbones hurting my palm. “Boundaries, fuzzball.”

He hisses and swipes a claw, but I grew up dodging switchblades and broken beer bottles in back alleys. I duck low, hook my foot behind his ankle, and shove his knee sideways. He stumbles, tail lashing, and I grab it, desperate to knock Kross off balance. He’s at least double my size. I won’t have the advantage for long.

“Here, Kitty, Kitty,” I say as I loop the tail around his neck.

He drops to all fours, gagging, and I know he’s about to spring. If I end up under him, I’m a goner. Not taking even a moment to think about what grossness I’m dipping my hand into, I scoop up some water from the toilet (please, let it be water) and fling it into his face.

“You bitch!” His yowl could raise a million corpses from the dead, and I hear the inmates around me wake up.

“What the hell?”

“Shuddup out there!”

More assorted shouts join the melee, and I know I am running out of time. Kross is sputtering and trying to dry his face with his paws while I’m still strangling him with his tail. Even alien cats don’t like water, but this is a time-limited distraction. My human arms aren’t strong enough to cut off his airways, but my entire body weight might be able to… I had been hitting the intergalactic fast food joints before I got arrested.

Using the ledge of the toilet as a step, I flung my body into the air and flipped backward, keeping a tight hold of Kross’s tail.

“Nighty-night, kitty.” I say as I land on my feet and give the furry appendage an extra yank.

He thrashes, gurgles, and finally slumps forward, all big-muscle-deadweight. I let go, panting, shaking out my sore fingers.

The other inmates are yowling, barking and shouting. I’ve got microseconds before a whole herd of Cattaz guard show up. I gotta get out of here.

Now all I need to do is get out of here before his cat buddies show up. I slip through the open cell door and run down the hallway, ignoring the cat calls and wolf howls from the incarcerated. Usually, the worst end up in this pit of prison correction hell, and I’m thankful bars are separating me from the scarred, vicious thugs who used to be my roommates. I pass the security desk—empty. Huh. Guess the midnight shift has a skeleton crew, my second bit of luck. I grab a set of keys from the drawer and let myself outside, the blackness of the Cattaz night only broken up by a few stars strong enough to glow through the constant smog.

It’s easy for me to creep along the fence to the impound lot, and I spot her—my dented, oil-leaking, garbage hauler: The Oberon Outlaw.

She’s wedged between a sleek racing ship and a fortified organized crime tanker, like the poor cousin of the parking lot. Which, I guess, makes me the black sheep’s owner. I scramble over the barbed wire fencing, cringing as some blood trickles down my forearms. I hear nails clicking on the broken concrete, and I duck behind a row of confiscated hover-bikes. A guard with striped fur and a laser pistol strolls by, tail swishing. I grab a loose wrench off the ground and toss it across the yard. It clatters against a storage bin. The guard drops to all four and sprints over.

I jog the last stretch to the Outlaw, and am thankfully the locks have been broken for eons on the old girl. The hatch creaks open. I slide inside, sealing it behind me.

The pilot’s chair feels like home—ripped vinyl, grease stains, and all. I fire her up and the engine spurts and dies a couple of times and my heart crowds my throat, fighting for space with the bile of fear rising up.

Bad enough to be caught and put in a Cattaz prison. You’d rather be dead than caught breaking out. Through my rear port, I can see that patrol guard running back this way…

Sweat mixes with the blood dripping from my cuts onto my fingers as I give the starter button a last desperate stab.

Thankfully, the Outlaw rumbles and then growls into full power. Out in the yard, a klaxon finally wails. Looks like they found Kross. I punch the throttle and the Outlaw surges forward, smashing through the fencing as metal screams, sparks fly, and we’re airborne.

As the prison lights fade behind me, I take a deep shuddering breath.

I’ve got to find a better career.