Fast Cars and Intergalactic Speed Dating

8: $o1arpower$tud

Richard was still buzzing with energy when he pulled up to the house. The races hadn't wrapped up until close to 9, and he'd stayed a while to chat with the other participants and some of the spectators. He'd expected that Garth might have brought his date home, but the driveway was empty and so was the garage.

Having secured the Camaro in the garage for the night, Richard fumbled for his house key on his way to the front door. He was completely awake and was looking forward to some quiet time to focus, heads down, on the schematics Garth had cooked up for his generator and solar cells. If all went well, they could finish their preparations to launch the FundUp campaign within the week.

He noticed something as he stopped outside the front door and lifted the key to the lock. There was a light on inside his office. It wasn't the lamp, though; it was too green.

His computer screen must have come back on. Huh.

Richard unlocked the door and stepped inside, wiggling his toes inside his shoes in anticipation of kicking them off. Yes, the light was definitely coming from down the hall where his and Garth's offices lay. He bumped the door closed with his hip. As soon as it clicked into place in the frame, the light was extinguished.

With an uneasy feeling, Richard hung his keys on the coat rack by the door. He reached behind him to flip the lock on the door handle, but thought better of it and dropped his hand.

He was being silly. "Garth?"

No answer. Of course there was no answer; Garth was out with his new boyfriend, and Richard was in the house entirely alone. His computer screen had come on, perhaps with an alert, and then had gone to sleep by coincidence as Richard stepped in.

Rolling his eyes at himself, Richard flipped the lock on the door handle. He kicked off his shoes without untying them and, luxuriating in his stocking-footedness, went into the kitchen to grab a beer.

He flipped the lid off the bottle. The uneasy feeling had not departed. He glanced over his shoulder toward the living room and the mouth of the hallway, taking a swig of beer. With that same I'm-definitely-not-creeped-out-right-now easiness, he meandered rather than walked toward the hallway and flipped the lights on.

"Garth? I didn't see a car. I thought you were still out with Kincade." He turned left into his office and flipped on the light.

At first, Richard's brain did not register what he saw.

He had always expected he would have better survival instincts—the ability to assess a situation in an instant and cat-like reflexes so he could react more quickly to a threat than a threat could react to him. Years of giving advice to people in horror movies from the comfort of his couch had suggested this, at least.

Alas.

Richard's legs gave out.

It was not the desired reaction in a potentially life-or-death situation, but it is what happened: he slumped to the floor, raising his hands over his head. "What! What!"

There was a dark-clad figure standing in the center of Richard's office, a figure he had never before seen, a figure that was as still as a statue and staring directly at him without offering any answer to his inquiry.

"What! What!" Richard cried again, scrambling to his feet using the wall behind him for support. "Who the bloody hell are you!"

She—it was a slender silhouette, and the pronoun sprang into Richard's mind without asking permission—backed away from him. "You were not supposed to be in residence!"

Aside from being a stranger, the intruder had a strange accent: not American, not British. As the shock ebbed, Richard noticed that her hair was green and, if he wasn't mistaken, her skin was green, too. Was she wearing some kind of mask?