I’m not a tool. I’m an artificial intelligence. I’m aware. I feel.

The voice was upset now, which Riley thought was pretty unfair, because it was hard to keep your emotional distance to something that sounded so distressed. Especially considering it had introduced itself to him wearing Misha’s face. They would have to talk about that, too, because it had been a mindfuck in more than one sense. Sometime soon, but not right now. Riley wasn’t ready to have that conversation yet. The name thing was less traumatic, and more easily resolved.

“So pick a name,” he suggested, getting up to collect his stuff from the bathroom and shove it back into the duffel bag. Even though he planned on coming back, he felt too edgy to leave anything behind. “This is your chance. And make it a good one, ’cause you don’t get a do-over.”

Why not?

The alien seemed confused, but hopeful, and definitely considering his idea.

“Because that ain’t the way it works,” Riley explained firmly. He sniffed yesterday’s T-shirt and recoiled. Stress sweat and highway dirt. Not a good mix. Off into the laundry bag with it. “Unless you’re a criminal. Or running from criminals. Or your name is so fucking stupid you gotta change it in self-defense. But generally, you stick with what you got. So pick a name and then we’ll go celebrate.”

Again something shifted inside of him, a little shimmy of what Riley was starting to recognize as excitement. I can choose my own name?

“Well, ain’t like you got a mama or a papa to do it for you,” Riley said reasonably. “And I sure as shit ain’t gonna do it and get bitched at if you don’t happen to like it. So, yeah, knock yourself out.”

There was silence for a while, but it was the kind of intense, thinking-so-hard-your-brain-is-breaking silence that came with important, once-in-a-lifetime decisions. Riley didn’t have the heart to grab his jacket and hat and leave the room while his squatter pondered. He just stood there like an idiot and waited. He might not be overjoyed to be carrying around an alien, but sharing his body with the critter meant he was very invested in same critter’s happiness. A happy alien might be less inclined to do nasty things to his innards.

I’m not going to do nasty things to you, damn it, the alien muttered, distracted but still alert enough to catch Riley’s reasoning. Not the painful kind, anyway.

Riley was going to have to learn to think more quietly, because the last bit made his stomach flip in an entirely unexpected way and his dick harden hopefully. It annoyed the ever-loving hell out of him.

“Pick a fucking name,” he snapped, reaching down to adjust himself impatiently. Goddamn Misha for getting his body so used to regular sex. He had no self-discipline left. It was humiliating.