Kolya laughed at him and handed him a bottle of a sports drink, his favorite brand, because Kolya was awesome and knew evading government agents was thirsty work. “You’ll get over it.”
Yeah, he would. He had to, because the smug little alien shit was clearly there to stay.
“SO WHAT now?” Andrej asked once he’d drunk his fill and grabbed his own guns. He tugged on his shoulder holster until it was set just right and inched closer to the driver’s side door of the muscle car. It was pretty, for all that it also was a redneck’s wet dream. He wanted to drive it. Judging from the indulgent smile on Kolya’s face, he might even have a shot at that.
“Road trip,” Misha told him, eying the truck with a certain measure of resignation.
“Awesome.” Andrej studied Kolya’s slacks, looking for the telltale key bulge. “Where are we going?”
“Kansas,” Riley said stoically.
Andrej interrupted his hunt for the keys to stare at him. “What the fuck are we gonna do in Kansas?”
Riley shrugged. “McClane wants to find Superman’s crash site.”
“Superman’s crash site.”
“Superman’s crash site,” Misha confirmed.
Andrej looked at Misha. Misha was smiling, loose and relaxed next to Riley, who was outright laughing now at something none of them could hear. They still had plenty of issues, all three of them, but by this point Andrej was reasonably sure they’d find a way to make it work. They were certainly willing to do whatever it took. He looked at Kolya, who’d dug the car keys from his back pocket and tossed them to Andrej with a challenging smirk. Andrej snatched the keys out of the air and let go of his old life with a helpless little chuckle.
Road trip with an alien. This should be interesting.
He slipped behind the wheel of the ridiculous muscle car and watched Misha and Riley get into the truck, then waited patiently until Misha was done kissing the laughter out of Riley’s mouth. Honeymoon phase. Again.
Yay. This could take a while. He glanced at Kolya, who was trying to tease a package of chewing gum out of the glove compartment without dislodging the big-ass handgun wedged in there.
“Hey,” he said, feeling his lips stretch into a shit-eating grin. “You heard this one? So a cowboy, an alien, and three hit men walk into a bar….”
About the Author
J. FALLY is a dedicated if somewhat involuntary multitasker who’s gotten used to juggling two day jobs, her writing, and her pride and joy, the Old Man, a 23-year-old gelding who loves mud, carrots, and being pampered, and scorns other horses. She currently lives near Vienna, Austria, but loves to travel and explore new places. She also enjoys comic books, action movies, and pizza. Her stories tend to develop a life of their own, which occasionally leads to loud arguments between her and her muses. She’s sad to say that eight out of ten times, the muses will win. They are stubborn bastards.