Page 22 of Aliens Love Curves

"Problems with the comm system, Stryker?" Harlan asks innocently. "You seem... distressed."

"The frequencies are clear," Stryker grits out, professional mask slipping. "Though there appears to be some unnecessary chatter. Casey needs to focus."

Harlan chuckles, the sound deliberately provocative. "Casey doesn't mind our little chats, do you, dear? After all, a pilot and her sponsor should be... close."

I watch Stryker's claws flex against the control panel. Harlan is baiting him, and we all know it.

"Focus on the inverse roll," Stryker cuts in, his voice clipped. "The gravitational stabilizers need—"

"Casey knows exactly what she's doing," Harlan interrupts smoothly. "Don't you, my star? The way you handle pressure... it's intoxicating to watch."

The tension in the observation deck is palpable. I execute the roll perfectly, trying to keep my voice steady as I respond. "The stabilizers do need adjustment. Perhaps we should focus on the technical aspects."

"Always so professional," Harlan sighs dramatically. "Though I prefer our... private discussions. Speaking of which, I'm looking forward to our dinner tomorrow. Just the two of us, away from any... interference."

Stryker's tail lashes violently, and I hear something crack under his grip. Harlan's smile turns predatory – he's achieving exactly what he wanted.

"But before we finish for the day, try it again," Harlan continues, "but this time, push the gravitational drift to maximum."

I notice Stryker's shoulders tense at the suggestion. The manoeuvre is risky – potentially lethal if miscalculated. But that's exactly why I need to master it.

As I execute the roll, Harlan approaches the simulator, his hand trailing along its surface almost... possessively. "Beautiful," he murmurs, close enough now that I can see his golden eyes watching my every move. "You were born for this, Casey."

A flash of pink in my peripheral vision tells me Stryker has moved closer too, his protective instincts clearly warring with his need to maintain our cover.

The simulation ends, and I emerge from the cockpit on shaky legs – fatigue from the intense training finally catching up with me. Harlan is there immediately, his one hand at my elbow, steadying me, the other wrapped around my waist.

"Careful now," he says softly, his touch lingering longer than necessary. "We can't have our star pilot injuring herself before the big race."

"I can handle it," I assure him, though I notice how his other hand has also slipped to my waist. His long fingers circle it and almost meet. Through my sweat-dampened flight suit, his touch feels cool, almost predatory.

“Wow. How small your waist is compared to Equanox females.”

Stryker’s growl is barely audible. I hear it and I wonder if Harlan does too. It quickly changes to a noise clearing his throat. "Perhaps we should call it a day. Casey needs rest to maintain peak performance."

"Nonsense," Harlan dismisses. "She's just getting warmed up. Aren't you, my star?"

The endearment makes Stryker's tail lash once, hard. I catch his eye, trying to convey reassurance. We need Harlan to trust us, to let us deeper into Quickening Gliders' operation. Even if it means enduring his increasingly intimate attention.

"Actually," I say, forcing a smile, "I'd like to run through the emergency protocols one more time. Stryker, would you mind assisting?"

Harlan's expression flickers with something—annoyance? Suspicion? Before his smooth mask returns. "Of course. Safety first. I have some business to attend to anyway." His hand trails down my arm as he steps back. "Dinner tomorrow? To discuss your progress?"

I feel rather than see Stryker's tension. "I'd like that," I reply, hating how the words taste like betrayal, even though I genuinely look forward to it.

After Harlan leaves, Stryker and I work in tense silence, running through emergency scenarios in the simulator. The space feels smaller somehow, more intimate, with just the two of us.

"You don't have to have dinner with him," Stryker says suddenly, his voice tight.

"It's part of the mission," I remind him, though my heart races at the possessive undertone in his voice.

Before he can respond, the lights flicker and die. The simulator's emergency systems kick in, bathing us in a soft red glow.

"Power outage?" I wonder aloud, reaching for the exit handle. It doesn't budge. "We're locked in."

Stryker moves closer, his body radiating heat in the confined space. "Emergency override should—" He stops as voices drift through the ventilation system.

"...next shipment tonight..."