The Quarry Master: A Grumpy Alien Boss Romantic Comedy Read online

  THE QUARRY MASTER

  By Amanda Milo

  Copyright © 2020 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.

  Edited by LY Services

  Beta read by book heroes!! Thank you Ronika, Dawn, Tammy, Lyda, Bronwyn, and R!! <3 =D

  DEDICATION

  GLOSSARY

  CALLIE’S PANTIES

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  EPILOGUE

  EPILOGUE II

  DELETED SCENE

  NOTE FROM AMANDA

  Books & Audiobooks by Amanda…

  About the Author

  DEDICATION

  To R. I have two words for you: civet coffee. XD

  GLOSSARY

  Blummin’: a mild British curse word, similar to bloody.

  FWB: “Friends-with-Benefits.” Two people who are friends, but who also partake in sexual relations. The linchpin of this relationship, in theory, is that no further relationship ties are made, no territorial feelings grow, and the Benefits can be ended at any time with no hard feelings to either party.

  HEA: “Happily Ever After,” as in ‘the hero and the heroine lived happily ever after.’

  Machaii: roughly approximates to asshole, but there is a strong sense of affection in this alien word. Often used among male friends.

  Na’rith: a particularly mischievous race that excels at the business of obtaining a variety of goods by questionable and occasionally nefarious means, i.e. pirating.

  Garthmaw: Iechyd for The Breaker.

  Narwari: frightfully strong species of land animal native to the planet Vfayr. When the Iechydmaw people were sent to terraform Vfayr, they managed to tame a few of the obstreperous creatures and found them quite useful for riding, carting, and plowing.

  Salkells: The male gender of the Narwari.

  Crite: an exclamation common in some galaxies used for emphasis, especially to express surprise, frustration, or even anger.

  Tevek: an intensifier to give force or emphasis, or to express surprise or alarm or anger.

  Moonring: fetching, to the moon and back attractive.

  Idtrek: similar to idiot.

  Infernofire: mild invective used to express anger or frustration.

  CALLIE’S PANTIES

  Mini Note before you begin…

  The Quarry Master is an interconnected standalone—

  Wait! Don’t go! The characters fill you in on everything you need to know right in this book so you can kick back and enjoy this story of a grumpy alien boss and his human employee.

  I can think of one joke that you’ll benefit from getting the tiniest backstory on though, and I’m going to drop the scene as an excerpt right here...

  Callie’s Panties Scene from Craved by an Alien:

  GRACIE

  Boredom: a dangerous state where I make questionable decisions and say even more questionable things. “Hey, Z! Got anything under your sleeves today?”

  Of course he’s wearing Callie’s thongs. Angie snickers as Callie raises her eyes to the sky.

  I pat the air near her shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with a man who likes to wear women’s underwear, right? We don’t judge here.”

  Callie groans into her hands. “I’m sorry I ever told you.”

  “Nah. It’s given me so much material to work with. Of course, it’d be more fun if your creature felt even a lick of shame over it, but he has no idea it’s abnormal. What’s more? He wouldn’t care if he did.”

  “I’d have thought you of all people would admire that.”

  “Oh, I do!” I nod. “Still gonna give him shite about it—you know, if I could. I’m not a quitter, I have to try.”

  “You really don’t,” she mumbles as Zadeon rolls his sleeve down carefully, making sure he doesn’t snag his claws on the lacy confection he’s proudly sporting.

  “You have the prettiest knickers, Z.”

  Reading my lips easily, and knowing I’m a bit of a shit-stirrer but liking me enough to play along anyway, Zadeon’s tail gives a tiny, puckish wave as he dead-pans, “Thank you. My mate gifts me with the prettiest panties.”

  He enjoys teasing Callie as much as I do. Callie groans again and buries her face into his arm—not the one with her undies, it’s like she’s unconsciously avoiding them or something—and Zadeon wraps her in a hug, with baby Baskian silently enjoying the hug as he’s squeezed between them.

  ~*~

  New Here?—Allow Bash to welcome you as his latest human Hireling with an inspiring message/warning.

  PROLOGUE

  BASH

  You—yes, you.

  No, don’t speak. I know what you are, and I don’t want to hear your voice buzzing in my ears. Let me tell you what you should know.

  I am Rakhii. My name is Bubashuu (‘Bash’ to you, since none of your kind can pronounce my name properly) of the Dark Rift Den, third whelp of Gvobotha and Jyzu. I work this fifth-rock territory, and all of this craggy land is my domain. Here, you will treat my word as law. Here, you’d best believe it is.

  I am the Quarry Master.

  And I despise you humans.

  Thanks to your planet being visited by slavers, a number of you alien females have been harvested and auctioned. The ruling race of my people, the Gryfala, took an unlikely interest in your welfare, you pitiful creatures, and as you know, they began to collect you, and foster you, and eventually they took on all you refugee aliens as a philanthropic welfare project.

  Do-gooders.

  Gryfala even began collecting you humans from unsavory individuals located all over the galaxy. Ones who did not want to be compensated for their alien purchases because they did not intend to sell their alien pur
chases. Therefore, the Gryfala began employing forceful methods of collection in order to obtain you from certain unsavory individuals.

  To do this, they deployed spare (and by spare, I mean unmated and therefore somewhat disposable males, of which there are a great number because there are more males than females for both races on our planet) hobs and Rakhii to hunt and take all you strange alien females by whatever means necessary. Almost all hobs (the male counterpart to Gryfalas) become besotted with your people at first sight—or first scent—despite the fact that you aliens are significantly smaller, plainer, more vulnerable, wingless versions of Gryfala.

  Unfortunately, Rakhii are just as susceptible to your strange human charms—even though humans appear even less like the females of our own kind than Gryfala do. Our females are like us: horns, scales, dorsal spines, and tails. Our people breathe fire. Our people take one mate and mate for life. For us, it’s natural.

  If I’m forced to be fair, here is where humans present a surprising element: not all of you are soulless alien succubi. Some of your kind prefer to remain with a single partner.

  Creator knows loyalty like this isn’t common with every race. Look at the Gryfala. Each princess keeps a harem of hobs. Many of them even toy with keeping a Rakhii as a rookery guardian. But Gryfalas don’t take ‘mates.’ Not in the sense that Rakhii do. Gryfala will love their males, but their males are expected to happily share, to coexist in harmony where they only get a slice of their female’s time. A princess does not experience the beauty of a true bond to their partners like a Rakhii will matebond to their love. Nor do Gryfala even go so far as to make promises of keeping her males for all of their lifespans.

  Especially not her Rakhii.

  In fact, the act of a Rakhii bonding to a Gryfala has long been an offense punishable by death. And the shame a Gryfala-bonded Rakhii brings to his family sticks for a lifetime.

  Or… it did. You humans appeared, and you’ve changed everything. Rakhii have been knitting their souls with yours like you’re all bald but endearingly freakish Rakhii females, not aliens. Gryfala have been looking at us differently ever since.

  They’ve been watching you too. Your ability to attract mates fascinates them. Even hobs bonded to you. Who knew any of them had the bonding instinct in them?

  And most of the hobs true-bonded: there were males who didn’t want to share their human acquisitions with a slew of their hob brothers. You’ve turned our world upside-down.

  And now you’re everywhere.

  Oh, first it was just a little corner that you humans were to keep to, a little preserve no one was allowed to enter lest we frighten the supposedly meek and terrified aliens. Now I’m told you need a bigger preserve. Now I’m being ordered to build one for you.

  [Bash spits fire. Flames crackle and hiss.]

  If you think you’re in charge of me, I will slap sense into the spot between the malformed sprouts you call ears.

  When your human leader arrived before me, bringing her papers with her drawings of your future village, her litany of specifications a lightyear long, demanding that you be allowed to take part in building your place of refuge, I could have throttled you all.

  But diligent hands make quick work, thus I agreed.

  What I didn’t know was how small human hands are. How feeble all of you are. Some of your number have frailties so debilitating that you spend half your shifts complaining.

  And I already told you how much I don’t care for your buzzing little voices.

  But I’m fair. I’ll give you a chance to surprise me—hells, impress me, if you can manage a decent effort.

  My rules are simple: obey me. I have two imperatives: close your mouth, and put your back and hands to work.

  CHAPTER 1

  BASH

  Prior to the humans’ arrival, I had many hobs in my employ for many solars. Most of the males who worked under my hand belonged to no Gryfala, and they worked tirelessly. I came to appreciate many of them.

  Now the aliens have come and melted my hobs’ brain matter. My once steady and dependable workforce no longer has a stout work ethic. Thanks to humans, their ability to mind my will has essentially liquified. They’re distracted, they compete for females’ attention, and they break into fights over you aliens, for tevek’s sake.

  It’s tiresome.

  And the squabbling and distracted hands takes away from productivity.

  This is irritating.

  Unspeakably irritating.

  I can’t harm the females. But I’m allowed to do whatever I like to the males.

  Consequently, I’ve found that if you grab a hob in each fist and shake them, their leathery wings make surprisingly pleasant crinkles and snaps. As bonus entertainment, initially upon being attacked, the hobs will aggressively emit a hiss. Hobs, like Gryfala, have a wicked bite. They show fang right up until they see who has ahold of them—and then they quit fighting and let me shake sense into their heads.

  I’ve found that shaking all nearby males relieves some stress—more if I toss them like javelins. At high velocity, a hob’s partially folded wings act like feather fletchings. They sail through the air with accuracy.

  Shaking and throwing hobs also has the side benefit of cowing the humans. It terrified them at first, to see the hobs lightly mauled. (As it should. I wanted them next.)

  I’ve been lightly mauling my employees ever since.

  Every time a human gets out of line—back-talking, questioning me, the impudent little pipsqueaks—I start shaking hobs.

  When the humans misbehave, I throw hobs.

  When I want to strangle humans, I wrap my hand around the necks of hobs.

  (Thus far, I have not killed any hobs—but Creator knows I’ve imagined killing cartloads of humans. These aliens are so teveking irritating.)

  And today… this day is still in its infancy, and it’s been trying. Currently, there are no hobs left in my vicinity. Very unfortunately, there are uncowed humans. Two of them sit before me on rocks, none the wiser to my presence as they’re so engrossed in idle chatter that they don’t know I’ve managed to stalk right up behind them. Their knees are touching companionably, their shoulders occasionally bumping—and if I were a male who enjoyed seeing simple happiness on an alien’s plain little face, I’d be pleased these two individuals are socializing so peacefully.

  But I’m not a male who enjoys seeing happiness on an alien’s plain little face. I could not care a teveking tittle less that these two are partaking in socializing, which I’m told humans need to do. Apparently, the little nitwits need to maintain a certain level of interaction with their own kind in order to thrive.

  If that’s so, then they can thrive on their own time. I’m here to work—and so are they.

  After all, the humans begged me to allow them to be here. They want a part in building their human village—and if it means all of these pocket-sized specks of torment gather together far, far away from me in the near future, then I am all for breaking my back to see a proper cage for them is finished.

  As soon as possible.

  Despite the lot of them begging to break their backs with me, begging to contribute to the building of their preserve—they chatter constantly when they could be hard at work. They often stop and take seats when they should be moving. Resting should be done on their own time.

  Not mine.

  Not this quarry’s.

  One of the oblivious humans sitting before me whispers something before nudging her companion with an elbow. They both erupt in ribald-sounding chuckles.

  Meek and terrified is how humans were described to me before I’d ever seen them.

  Meek and terrified my tail.

  Who felt it would be a wise decision to entrust a herd of these alien pups into my care? A Gryfala, that’s who. A female who, like so many of her Gryfala princesshood, have been taken in by—and are entertained by—humans’ antics.

  She should try to get humans to mind her orders. One little flat-toothed whinger
back-talking her, and she won’t be so entranced then. Gryfala love nothing more than to have their every whim obeyed, and these humans couldn’t obey an order if it stood up and slapped them.

  A seductive possibility I contemplate all too often.

  One of the females rubs at the wrist she’s been favoring. “This job sucks. Everything hurts,” she complains in a barely restrained whisper.

  And I barely repress a groan. This is a cog-damned quarry. We expose rock. We cut rock. We haul rock. Can humans break rock apart? No. Can they lift rocks? No. Can they at the very least haul rocks? NO. They’re weak, they’re small, and they injure with frightful ease. If you so much as trip, experience a strong sneeze, teveking cough loudly—across the canyon, a human yowls in pain. This is absolutely the worst work zone for them. Humans have the thinnest, most easily-tearing flesh of any creature I have ever seen, let alone had the misfortune of spitting on. And I spend half the day spitting on all their tiny injuries. My saliva, like all Rakhii saliva, has healing properties. Especially useful when dealing with thin-skinned aliens. They tremble, staring up at me wide-eyed, but coming to me—TO ME—to tend to them, as if I’m their shepherd and they are my dutiful dull-witted herd of micro-sized useless beasts.

  Unfortunately, being that I am this quarry’s master, for now, these are my pitiful excuses for micro beasts of burden, and the fact that I am temporarily their shepherd is an unfortunate truth.

  To break up the cheerful chattering pair currently in my crosshairs, I growl to clear my throat—and take a deeply perverse satisfaction in how high the two females jump. They spin, instantly smelling of terror—and I wish I enjoyed the scent of fear more, but it’s a terrible smell. It’s a travesty that human fear doesn’t smell as enjoyable as the fear in their eyes looks. White shows around their eyeballs, they’re so startled. And their formerly healthy complexions have lost all color. “Can you invent a good reason as to why you’re sitting on your tailless rumps when you should be working?” I ask silkily. My tail snaps behind me, and one of the females gulps.