Page 12 of Grumpy Alien Billionaire (Mates of Veritas #2)

CHAPTER 12

LANZ

M y compad buzzes again, and I glance down at the screen. Another text from Tyler.

"I can’t stop thinking about last night. When can I see you again?"

A warmth spreads through my chest, something I’m not used to feeling. I’ve had plenty of women in my life, but none of them ever made me feel like this. None of them ever made me want to feel like this.

I tap out a quick reply. "Soon. I’ll make time for you, Tyler. You’re worth it."

The response is almost immediate. "You’re worth it too, Lanz. I mean, Alonzo. Sorry, I’m still getting used to the whole secret identity thing."

I chuckle, leaning back in my chair. The office is quiet, the hum of the city far below a distant murmur. My desk is cluttered with intel on Fishy Joe’s Cannery—blueprints, surveillance footage, and a list of known Grolgath operatives. But my mind keeps drifting back to her. To the way she looked at me last night, the way she trusted me enough to let me in, both physically and emotionally.

Another buzz. "I have to get back to work. Lunch break’s over. But I’ll be thinking about you."

I set the compad down, running a hand over my face. Focus, Lanz. You’ve got a mission. But it’s hard to concentrate when all I can think about is the way she moaned my name, the way her body felt against mine.

I force myself to look at the intel spread out before me. The cannery’s defenses are formidable—automated turrets, motion sensors, and a network of cameras that make it nearly impossible to approach undetected. I’ve already tried a direct assault, and that didn’t end well. I need a new strategy.

My compad buzzes again, smile. "Just one more thing—I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I just wanted you to know that."

I stare at the message for a long moment, my chest tightening. This is dangerous. I’m not supposed to get attached. But Tyler… she’s different. She’s not just another conquest, another part of the playboy persona I’ve crafted. She’s real. And she’s making me feel things I haven’t felt in centuries.

I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. I need to focus. The Grolgath are a threat, and I can’t let my personal feelings get in the way of my mission. But as I stare at the blueprints, my mind keeps drifting back to her. To the way she looked at me, the way she trusted me.

I pick up the compad and type out a quick reply. "You’re special, Tyler. More than you know. I’ll see you soon."

I set the compad down and force myself to focus on the task at hand. The cannery’s defenses are formidable, but I’m a Vakutan warrior. I’ve faced worse. I just need to find a way in. And I will. For Tyler, and for the mission.

I stare at the ceiling. Fishy Joe’s Cannery is a fortress, and I’m not stupid enough to charge in again without a plan. But I can’t exactly hire a human contractor to scope it out. The last thing I need is some PI stumbling onto Grolgath tech and blowing the whole “aliens from the future” secret wide open. No, I need someone who already knows the score. Someone who won’t ask too many questions. Someone who’s already neck-deep in this mess.

And that means Gordo.

I groan, rubbing my temples. Gordo. The Fratvoyan is a walking disaster—loud, obnoxious, and perpetually drunk. But he’s also one of the few extraterrestrials in Sunny Cove who’s not actively trying to kill me. Plus, he’s got that Fratvoyan indestructibility going for him. If anyone can survive poking around Fishy Joe’s, it’s him.

I grab my jacket and head for the door. “Hold my calls,” I tell my assistant as I stride past her desk. “And if Pyke checks in, tell him I’m… handling something.”

She nods, already used to my vague excuses. I don’t bother with the elevator—I take the stairs, my boots echoing in the concrete stairwell. The dock district isn’t far, but it’s a world away from the polished glass and steel of Truth-1. Down here, the air smells like salt and rust, and the streets are lined with dive bars and pawn shops. Perfect hunting ground for a Fratvoyan.

I hit the first bar, a dimly lit hole called The Rusty Anchor. The bartender, a grizzled human with a face like a crumpled paper bag, gives me a once-over as I step inside. “Looking for someone?” he asks, wiping down a glass with a rag that’s seen better days.

“Short guy. Bald spot. Probably drunk,” I say, scanning the room.

The bartender snorts. “You just described half my clientele. But if you’re talking about Gordo, he was in here earlier. Tried to pay his tab with a handful of bottle caps. I kicked him out.”

“Charming,” I mutter, tossing a twenty on the bar. “Thanks.”

The next bar is a step up—or maybe a step down, depending on your perspective. The sign outside reads The Salty Dog , and the interior is a chaotic mix of neon lights and sticky floors. I spot Gordo almost immediately. He’s slumped over a table in the corner, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His human disguise is slipping—his bald spot is more pronounced, and his pot belly looks like it’s about to burst out of his shirt.

“Gordo,” I say, sliding into the seat across from him.

He looks up, squinting at me through bloodshot eyes. “Lanz? That you, big guy? Or am I hallucinating again?”

“It’s me,” I say, resisting the urge to grab the whiskey bottle and pour it over his head. “I need your help.”

He laughs, a wheezing sound that turns into a cough. “My help? What, you finally realize you’re not invincible? Need someone to hold your hand while you go pick a fight with the Grolgath?”

“Something like that,” I say, leaning forward. “Fishy Joe’s Cannery. I need intel. And you’re the only one I can trust not to get yourself killed.”

Gordo takes a long swig from the bottle, then sets it down with a thud. “You’re not wrong about that last part. But what’s in it for me?”

“Name your price,” I say, already regretting this.

Gordo leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and takes another swig of whiskey. He sets the bottle down with a thud, his eyes narrowing as he looks at me. “A job,” he says, his voice steady despite the alcohol. “That’s my price. A real job. Permanent. With benefits and everything.”

I blink, caught off guard. “I’m giving you a job,” I growl, leaning forward. “You’re helping me with Fishy Joe’s. That’s your job.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. His bald spot glints under the dim bar light. “I mean a real job. Something that doesn’t end when you’re done using me. Something I can count on.”

I snort, leaning back in my chair. “Gordo, there’s no place in my company for an unreliable drunk. You’re not exactly what I’d call a model employee.”

His face darkens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to throw the bottle at me. Instead, he slams his fist on the table, making the glasses rattle. “You just asked this unreliable drunk for his help,” he snaps, his voice rising. “You think I’m good enough to risk my ass for you, but not good enough to work for you? That’s rich, Lanz. Real rich.”

I wince, realizing I’ve crossed a line. “Alright, alright,” I say, holding up a hand. “I’m sorry. That was… uncalled for.”

He glares at me for a moment longer, then slumps back in his chair, the fight draining out of him. “Why do you want a job, Gordo?” I ask, my tone softer now. “You’ve never been the hustle and grind type. What’s going on?”

He looks down at the table, his fingers tracing the rim of the whiskey bottle. “I’m tired, Lanz,” he says quietly. “Tired of living in the gutter. I came to Earth to escape my problems, but they just followed me here. I’m stuck in this… this cycle. Drinking, fighting, scraping by. I need a change. A new lease on life.”

I watch him, the weight of his words sinking in. Gordo’s always been a mess, but there’s a sincerity in his voice now that I’ve never heard before. “Surely there’s something you need done,” he continues, looking up at me. “Even if it’s just working in the mailroom or scrubbing toilets. I’ll take anything. I just… I need a chance, Lanz.”

I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. I’ve never seen Gordo like this—vulnerable, almost desperate. It’s unsettling. But it’s also… honest. And I can’t deny that I feel a pang of guilt for the way I’ve treated him.

“Alright,” I say finally, nodding. “You’ve got a job. I’ll find something for you. But you’re on probation, Gordo. One screw-up, and you’re out. Got it?”

He looks at me, his eyes wide with surprise, then breaks into a grin. “Got it,” he says, raising the whiskey bottle in a mock toast. “You won’t regret this, Lanz. I promise.”

I hope he’s right.

“This had better be worth it,” Gordo grumbles, shifting in the passenger seat. “My liver needs a break, not a nature hike.”

I pull up to the curb, a good half-mile from Fishy Joe’s. “Stealth, Gordo. Remember?”

“Stealth? You’re parking a block away! I’m not exactly built for marathons, Lanz. My legs are shorter than a Grolgath’s attention span.”

“Consider it a warm-up for your new job,” I say, cutting the engine. “Besides, you’re practically indestructible. A little walk won’t kill you.”

He grumbles something about unfair labor practices, but he gets out of the car. He fumbles with his image inducer for a second, then drops the human disguise. His furry form, a bizarre mix of ape and anteater, fills the space he previously occupied. The transformation never ceases to amuse me.

“Don’t forget about the motion sensors,” I remind him.

“Relax, big guy. With my height and fur, they’ll think I’m a deer. Or maybe a mountain lion.”

“Mountain lion is a bit of a stretch,” I mumble.

“What was that?”

“I said, go get ‘em, Lion.”

Gordo grins, showing off rows of sharp teeth. “Go get ‘em? I thought you just wanted me to look around, but I’m always up to snap some Grolgath necks.”

I stifle a laugh. Gordo, a cold-blooded assassin? The image clashes violently with his usual persona of drunken buffoon.

“Just look around, please,” I clarify. “I need a general layout of the defenses. And an idea of how many Grolgath are holed up in there. Intel, Gordo. That’s the mission.”

“You got it,” he says, and starts creeping toward the cannery, his short legs surprisingly stealthy. He melts into the shadows, a furry blur against the rusting metal of the abandoned factory.

I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, checking my watch for the tenth time. Gordo's been gone twenty minutes. To distract myself, I pull out my compad and browse through an upscale chocolatier's website.

Tyler deserves something special. The finest Belgian truffles catch my eye - dark chocolate with hints of sea salt and caramel. I add two dozen roses, deep red ones that'll match the blush that spreads across her cheeks when she's flustered.

The delivery address pulls up Tyler's apartment automatically. My finger hovers over the confirm button, but I pause. Cindy. That spitfire roommate of Tyler's has been surprisingly supportive of our relationship. I add another box of chocolates to the order, these filled with champagne cream.

"Thank you for being such a good friend to Tyler," I type in the gift message. "- Alonzo"

I'm just finalizing the delivery time when something slams into the passenger door hard enough to rock the whole car.

"Drive!" Gordo's voice cracks with panic as he yanks the door open and dives inside. "Drive!"

I don't ask questions. The engine roars to life and I slam the accelerator, tires squealing against pavement. In my rearview mirror, two black SUVs burst through the cannery gates, their engines growling as they accelerate after us.

"What did you do?" I demand, taking a hard right onto the coastal highway.

"Less talking, more driving!" Gordo yelps, gripping the dashboard as we fishtail around a curve.

My supercar's engine screams as I push it harder, the speedometer climbing past a hundred and twenty. The coastal road twists ahead like a serpent, each curve more treacherous than the last. In my rearview mirror, the SUVs maintain their distance, their heavy frames better suited to these mountain switchbacks.

"What kind of defenses are we dealing with?" I ask through gritted teeth, wrestling with the steering wheel as we take another hairpin turn.

"The plasma guns?" Gordo's claws dig into the leather dashboard. "Those are just on the first level. Window dressing."

"Window dressing?" The back end fishtails and I counter-steer, tires squealing. "Those nearly took my head off last time."

"That's nothing compared to what's inside." Gordo's voice drops. "There's at least two hundred Grolgath in there, Lanz. Maybe more."

My blood runs cold. "Two hundred?" The wheel nearly slips from my grip. "That's impossible. They never gather in those numbers. The risk of detection-"

"Well, they have." Gordo glances back as one of the SUVs gains ground. "I counted them myself. Three levels of the cannery, packed with shape-shifting lizards. They're planning something big."

My mind races faster than the car. Two hundred Grolgath. An army. This is way beyond what I can handle alone. The thought of calling in Veritas, of admitting I need help, tastes bitter in my mouth. But if I survive the next ten minutes, I might not have a choice.