The alien made another of those little shrug-movements. Riley was almost getting used to those. The lick… okay, the lick had been good. And disturbing. Good in a disturbing way.
Focus, McClane told him.
“Don’t lick me again,” Riley ordered, rubbing his chest to get rid of the lingering impression of that touch.
The alien promptly repeated the move. You liked it, it purred when Riley shuddered in reaction. Then it added, more seriously, I don’t care he’s a movie character. I like the name. I like having a name. It makes me more than just a chunk of metal. It says I get to have choices, like everybody else.
It was getting passionate about this, and Riley found he couldn’t blame it. I don’t want other people to decide I’m gonna be destroyed because I didn’t meet their expectations. I’m alive. I’m real. I might never be completely free, but I can pretend.
Hard to disagree with that.
“McClane’s a good name,” Riley admitted, giving in gracefully. “And I swear we’ll find you someone who’ll treat you right. In the meantime…”
He stood up, donned his hat, and grabbed his bag, “I’ll buy us a drink.” Or ten. Having a conversation with McClane was like arguing with a drunk Russian.
You liked it, the alien repeated, smugly. You like me . I’m awesome.
“Don’t lick me again.”
THEY left Riley’s bag in his truck and found a bar on Mesa Street, a grungy roadhouse long past its prime. The neon letters in the window advertising Budweiser beer were buzzing weakly and the plaster was peeling from the
façade to show the cheap flake boards beneath, but it was within walking distance from the motel, the music flooding through the door into the street was good, and the smells coming from the kitchen even better. Riley took a moment to scan the parking lot, taking in the scattered crowd of bikes and battered trucks. Looked like it was his kind of place. Better yet, it was the kind of clientele that would make Misha’s men stick out like a sore thumb.
Those Russians were East Coast city boys; all understated chic and expensive shoes. One step in here and everybody would be staring at them.
Best early-warning system available. Misha could go fuck himself; Riley was getting shit-faced tonight.
You gonna tell me about Misha sometime? McClane asked as Riley stepped over the threshold into the dim, smoky barroom.
“Nothing to tell,” Riley murmured, distracted. Kitchen to the right, bar in front. Restrooms in the back, behind two scuffed pool tables. Wooden dartboard in the left-hand corner, peppered with slotted knife marks. Booths along the walls, tables clustered haphazardly throughout the room. Not much space to maneuver, but then this wasn’t a dancing kind of place. It was clean enough, meaning there were no obvious cockroaches scuttling about and the air was thick with the smells of smoke, food, and spilled beer rather than puke and piss. Johnny Cash was playing on the jukebox at a decent volume. It was still early and most of the customers were busy eating, which suited Riley fine. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until he smelled the grease.