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  BETH’S STABLE

  By Amanda Milo

  Copyright © 2019 Amanda Milo ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To R, Lyda, ED, Tammy, and Ronika, the beta team members who helped this book make it across the deep black. Nebulas abound, you all ROCK!

  CHAPTER 1—BETH

  CHAPTER 2—BETH

  CHAPTER 3—BETH

  CHAPTER 4—BETH

  CHAPTER 5—BETH

  CHAPTER 6—EKAN

  CHAPTER 7—BETH

  CHAPTER 8—OQUILION

  CHAPTER 9—BETH

  CHAPTER 10—EKAN

  CHAPTER 11—EKAN

  CHAPTER 12—EKAN

  CHAPTER 13—BETH

  CHAPTER 14—BETH

  CHAPTER 15—BETH

  CHAPTER 16—BETH

  CHAPTER 17—BETH

  CHAPTER 18—BETH

  CHAPTER 19—TIERNAN

  CHAPTER 20—TIERNAN

  CHAPTER 21—OQUILION

  CHAPTER 22—PROW

  CHAPTER 23—BETH

  CHAPTER 24—BETH

  CHAPTER 25—QOLT

  CHAPTER 26—BETH

  CHAPTER 27—BETH

  CHAPTER 28—BETH

  CHAPTER 29—BETH

  CHAPTER 30—TIERNAN

  CHAPTER 31—PROW

  CHAPTER 32—PROW

  CHAPTER 33—PROW

  CHAPTER 34—Oquilion

  CHAPTER 35—OQUILION

  CHAPTER 36—OQUILION

  CHAPTER 37—OQUILION

  CHAPTER 38—BETH

  CHAPTER 39—BETH

  CHAPTER 40—PROW

  CHAPTER 41—PROW

  CHAPTER 42—OQUILION

  CHAPTER 43—PROW

  CHAPTER 44—EKAN

  CHAPTER 45—TIERNAN

  CHAPTER 46—BETH

  CHAPTER 47—BETH

  CHAPTER 48—QOLT

  CHAPTER 49—QOLT

  CHAPTER 50—BETH

  CHAPTER 51—BETH

  CHAPTER 52—OQUILION

  CHAPTER 53—BETH

  CHAPTER 54—BETH

  CHAPTER 55—BETH

  CHAPTER 56—OQUILION

  CHAPTER 57—ENDGAME—QOLT

  CHAPTER 58—ENDGAME—EKAN

  CHAPTER 59—ENDGAME—BETH

  CHAPTER 60—ENDGAME—OQUILION

  CHAPTER 61—ENDGAME—PROW

  CHAPTER 62—ENDGAME—TIERNAN

  CHAPTER 63—EPILOGUE 1—BETH

  CHAPTER 64—EPILOGUE 2—BETH

  CHAPTER 65—EPILOGUE 3—EKAN

  Feels Like I’ve Been Locked in a Room with Five SpacePirates...

  The Thanks Page!!♥

  QUESTION AND ANSWER SESSION:

  TRIVIA FUN!!!

  Cures for a Book Hangover

  Books & Audiobooks by Amanda…

  About the Author

  ~In memory of E.~

  You were one cool lady. A smile for everyone, a sweetheart who took no bullshit.

  You must sparkle brilliantly up there.

  You sure shone like a diamond down here. ♥

  Dedication

  To R: I love you—and I love your brain. Thank you for sparking my imagination with mating rings, also known as stationary seats. You’re my mechanical knowledge unicorn, and you can Bill-Nye me anytime :D

  To the furry convicts in our crew: Yasai, Daenerys, and Teo—thanks for making sure I took breaks from staring at that writing box I insistently tapped at for all those hours.

  To the gorgeous black squirrel who likes to frolic in front of our four-footed fur children: the only thing stronger than your constitution are the remnants of our window screens, you lucky bastard.

  And to my readers, who cheer me on, who support me, and who’ve been asking for Beth’s Stable from the beginning =D. I love you all, and I dearly hope you enjoy! ♥

  CHAPTER 1—BETH

  BETH

  “I loved you in the Predator movies,” I tell the auctioneer as he drags the woman standing next to me into the six impatiently waving arms of her brand new owner.

  The auctioneer turns sharply and sneers down at me—all of his eyes hard, mean, and small—and I become distinctly aware of the fact that I shouldn’t be antagonizing him. I have no way to protect myself—and my little cargo—if he retaliates. As far as we can tell, he can’t understand us, but having his attention focused on me makes me shut my mouth right the heck up, just in case we’re wrong.

  ‘Us’ being the bunch of us humans in this pen together. All women.

  Plus a guide dog.

  What was that? You’re wondering how a passel of terrorized women—and a canine—ended up in an alien auction?

  Yeah, right with you! We’re more than a little curious too.

  We just woke up facing a mass of aliens, all bidding on us—therefore, I deduced that we’ve been abducted and shuttled across space in some sort of cryogenic sleep/stasis.

  Hey: I read sci-fi, and I know things.

  At least, that’s my best guess considering the last thing I remember, I was way, way less pregnant than my unbelievably large, protruding belly currently is.

  I have to keep telling myself don’t panic.

  (Cue the Toy Story scene where Buzz is attempting to reassure the local sheriff that there’s no time for panicking—and the sheriff explodes that their circumstances are the perfect example of when it’s acceptable to panic.)

  Their dialogue flits through my head, and on a normal day, it’d make me smile. I collect movie quotes. I love movies.

  Oh, but to back up to the pregnancy thing: if you’ve seen V, or heck, any alien-themed movie in the history of alien movies, I can guess what you’re wondering. Thankfully, unlike every terrifying sci-fi plot ever, the no-vacancy state of my womb is not due to alien-interference. I am not a space-creature’s incubator—I’m not having an alien-implanted baby—I almost, almost might prefer that, but my condition is the result of trying to run away from my abusive stalker ex, and not succeeding.

  Ugggh, that was an ugly altercation.

  As were most of them, where he was concerned. My life was not good once he entered it, and my efforts at trying to get him out were not as successful as I needed them to be.

  Initially, when I’d realized I was pregnant, I’d thought that if Hot Mess was in the dictionary, my name must definitely be sitting next to the entry.

  Now this. I got snatched by aliens? Seriously?! This is a winner. Perhaps I was a bit premature about my Hot Mess status. Either that, or I’ve upgraded to Steaming Hot Mess.

  As I glance around, I wonder how many of the rest of the women here also thought that their lives were racing to the crapper, only to wake up to the reality of having been abducted by aliens.

  Probably all of us. Plus, no matter what shitshow we were dealing with in our lives, being taken to another planet and put up for sale kind of puts a whole new perspective on things. My current concerns have nothing to do with keeping safe from Richard—or the nightmare of the court system. (Should the legal system fail us during future custody
battles, and if he gains any rights or access to her, that is true terror.)

  I’ve been feeling the stress in a big way. To suddenly wake up and have all my worries just *POOF!* gone? It’s such a relief that it’s almost a welcome development... except for the whole being-sold-to-aliens part.

  Yeah. ‘Cept that.

  I tug at my shirt—my favorite shirt, which reads ‘WARNING: I speak in Movie Quotes’—trying to pull it down far enough that the slight breeze doesn’t tickle over my brand new ‘outie’ belly button (when did THAT happen?)—but just like every time I’ve tried, my shirt pops back up like one of those old school (in both senses of the word) classroom maps that used to roll up over the chalkboard.

  At least my yoga pants are stretching like a boss. These things are amazing. My bra, however, which had been loose and comfy when I put it on, feels like I’ve been molded into it. It’s one of those stretchy, cotton-spandex sports numbers that can fit an apple in each cup or a cantaloupe—and that’s exactly the size range they’ve been forced to support on me. Last I was aware (i.e., my entire post-pubescent life prior to waking up on this planet) I’ve had apples, but now my breasts, for the first time ever, are cantaloupes. They’re so ridiculously plumped that they’ve outgrown the height of the bra, and it’s causing serious quad-boob. I’ve got spare tit puffing over the tops of the cups like marshmallows that got nuked.

  As for my stomach… just wow. I peek down my shirt and yep, there’s my birthmark, so I’m really still me—but I feel like this is not my body. I’ve woken up… what? Four months pregnanter? I feel huge—I LOOK huge: I have to be six months along, easy.

  Or… what if I’m more? I could be due any minute—how do I even know? They didn’t exactly cover an ‘I don’t know how long the aliens have had me in stasis’ scenario in the birthing class that I prematurely signed up for. Everyone else in class was a month from their due date—and then there was me, barely pregnant but cramming information like I was about to be tested on my diagnosis of a life-altering illness.

  Not that I thought of this little girl as an illness. The moment I met her on the ultrasound, I was wholly, irrevocably in love. But life-altering? Without a doubt, yes. I place my hands over my stomach, softly—struck dumb at the instantaneous changes in my body.

  Except there's no way they happened in an instant. I was abducted and have no memories for months and months of my life.

  Before panic can consume me, I remind myself that I’d been certain my ex was going to catch me and actually manage to kill me the next time he got ahold of me—so on the scale of ‘what’s worst?’ ...An alien abduction? Let’s just say aliens just did you a favor, Beth.

  I choke on a hysterical-sounding snigger.

  A loud shout comes from my left, and my head snaps up sharply. The interruption of my racing thoughts works to distract me from my advanced condition, at least for the moment. From the sounds of it, this alien crowd we’re surrounded by is excited, and with every one of us that gets hauled out of here, the remaining members of this mob start to sound more and more desperate. Yiiiiiikes… I do not want to go anywhere with an alien—not any of them. But unless I gain some magic powers in the next few minutes—or an invisibility cloak—it’s obvious from watching the others’ fates that I can kiss my freedom goodbye.

  Walking carefully, getting used to the size of my new stomach and the sudden inflexibility of my middle, I circle around the huddle of humans standing with me, and come to the gate I spied earlier when I first came to. Maybe it leads to some holding room or sale barn or ship berth—whatever’s on the other side, at this section of fence, it doesn’t have aliens drooling over the top portion of it, and that’s good enough for me. Because the other side is where buyers are waiting for us to get shoved through the hatch and into their hands. I know I don’t want to be there, so I’m going to try my luck here. With the rest of my fellow humans blocking me from the aliens’ view, I hunker down and take a closer look at the locks.

  There are three, old, simple pin tumbler-type locks.

  Repeated viewings of MacGyver and Burn Notice episodes have drilled in the assurance that all one industrious person ever needs in a pinch is a hairpin. Sure, advice fed from television escapes might be too coated in Hollywood to be trusted as reliable sources, but it’s not like I have MythBusters here to show me how it’s really done if it can really be done.

  But I have to try something. In all likelihood I’m about to become an alien’s plaything; I need to be able to tell myself that I didn’t just stand here and wait for it.

  I slide my fingers into my hair, which feels ratty and flat—though not dirty. It just feels like I’ve slept hard on it. My fingers snag and bump into metal, and I blow out a relieved breath that I pinned back my bangs on my illustrious abduction day. If Angus MacGyver and Michael Weston were real people and not television characters, they’d be cheering me on right now because I’ve got the magic TV-escape ingredient: bobby pins.

  I may not know what the next step in the plan is, but this first part is solid: I’m getting out of here.

  CHAPTER 2—BETH

  BETH

  When a ballsy alien joins us inside the pen and the auctioneers don’t stop him from looking us over, it starts freaking everyone out. He’s strutting in front of my fellow humans, making them press back on me like wary wild horses avoiding lassos.

  Someone trips on me and I curse the new alien under my breath for scaring them. But it’s not all bad: I’m inspired to work faster.

  The alien parades back and forth, his steps confident—arrogant even. Like some ego-inflated rooster.

  “What a jerk!” I try to ignore the increasing crush of legs pressing against my back as the women crowd me, and I concentrate on my goal. I’m almost on the last lock, and I’m so close, so close, spring for me, come on—

  A hand closes over my arm.

  To describe moments like these, everyone says, ‘And my heart stopped’—but yeah, no. Nope, if your heart actually stops, you’re literally having a heart attack. There’s no skipping beats without tripping into big problems.

  Logically, I know this. But I’m telling you, when a big alien hand slowly closes his fingers over my wrist, my heart actually tries to die.

  I’m caught!

  Bracing myself, I look up at him.

  And stare.

  I’d been expecting the mean auctioneer—but that’s not who’s touching me. It’s the ego-rooster, the overconfident alien who’s been peacocking for everybody. He’s crouched next to me—so tall I have to crane my neck—and this close, I see he’s like a reverse Medusa from legend. He’s so beautiful, I’ve gone still as a stone statue, caught in the stunned stupor that hits you when insanely hot guys set their focus on you.

  “Jarekt, narra,” he says.

  Whatever he’s just said to me? It sounds exotic and beautiful. But I’m pretty sure this guy could tell me I’m a cockroach and it would still sound attractive, so...

  His eyes mesmerize me, and they may as well be dancing like snake charmers—I cannot look away as the corners of his lips curve upwards in a detonation of a smile.

  Good. Heavens. This knowing curl of his lips is danger, danger, danger. This is a creature so handsome, he’s stunning my wits right out of my head—and as his smile slowly grows, it’s clear he’s aware of this fact.

  I’m so shell-shocked by his appearance that I’m not even the tiniest bit embarrassed when I catch my gaping reflection in the black of his pupils. How can I help myself when my heart (metaphorically) trips as I focus on the mesmerizing grey of his laughing eyes?

  I pull back, trying to find something on him that’ll make him less potent to me… but there’s nothing to turn me off. This creature is alien perfection. And he is alien—despite the fact that he has skin and hair much like me, his ears—his ears are not human. They actually look a little elfin, but not in a cute-elf way: with sharp points at their tops and an angled grace that’s only accentuated by the natural hollow to
his cheeks, they give him a rakish air of danger, somehow.

  And I’m staring. Somebody should save me from myself. Maybe if he spoke, it would break the spell, but, still smiling, he only stands up and holds out his arms, almost like he’s inviting me to look my fill.

  And then I realize: that’s exactly what he’s doing.

  I relax my hands—which I’d been holding into defensive claws—and finally, I can break away from his gaze. I take him up on his offer and look more of him over—which is only fair, because he’s most definitely doing the same to me. From what I can see, he’s got the kind of body and toning that only the sleekest-muscled athletes possess. His hair is so dark it’s almost black. His jacket is black, looks leather, and if ever there was a hybrid between a seventeenth-century captain’s coat and the Rocketeer jacket—this is it.

  It’s pretty badass.

  His pants are also black, and although they look like a sturdy fabric, far be it from me to guess what kind of materials aliens use. A multitude of pockets and straps are concentrated on the upper thighs in deliberate asymmetrical patterns, and the effect is downright cool.

  By comparison, I have to wonder what he must see when he looks at me. I’ve got an oval face with chestnut-brown hair, styled into a bob with fly-away bangs so that I look like a lionhead bunny up top. It’s a cute style, and it flatters what I’ve got to work with—or at least it did the last time I saw myself in a mirror.

  Cautiously and against my better judgement, my eyes travel back to his face, and his smile widens, making his lips lift. His teeth... all end in points.

  Not like horror-movie vampire or werewolf teeth. Maybe hot-zombie: I think his hotness is rotting my brain—because even his pointy teeth look sexy.

  The auctioneer gets impatient enough to slap the looped-up leather of his whip against his thigh, sick and tired of watching me moon over my buyer, apparently. As a side note, only Indiana Jones-looking men should wield a bullwhip. Harrison Ford-type guys can pull off the commanding-hot look.

  This alien cannot. He shouts something rough, sounding irritated, and he reaches out for me.

  Before he can touch me though, the ego-rooster shoves him. It’d almost look negligent, but he does it with enough force that the auctioneer stumbles back.