Delighted, I clutch Zakoar's metallic arm and squeeze it tight, beaming up at him.
He grunts, but I can tell by the way his expression softens that he's pleased at my reaction. "Tell her what colors you like."
"Something bright, to complement her skin?" the ooli suggests, pulling out a soft-looking garment. "Here, try this sheath."
By the time we leave the booth some hours later, I have six tunic-like dresses in my arms, all of them varying shades and so delicate that they make me want to cry. They actually fit, too, the seamstress able to modify the dresses with a few tucks here and there, adjusting the flimsy material and then expertly sewing the spots needed with a hand-held needle gun. I feel like a real person, not a castoff, as my dress swirls around my ankles. My feet are still bare, but I don't care. The floors here are dusty metal, but it's not so cold that it hurts my skin, and I haven't worn shoes in so long that it'd probably feel weird to put them on. "Thank you," I tell Zakoar for the dozenth time. "Thank you so much."
"You can't walk around naked, much as I might like the view," he grumbles. "You're mine to look at and no one else's."
Wandering around naked wouldn't bother me—I got past my shyness ages ago—but I like that he's so protective. My mood is light as air as we head toward his shop, and I deliberately avoid looking down the hall at the cantina. I don't want to see who's dancing in the window, because that means they're still trapped in that hell, working for Nhaoan. I'll have to look at some point, but I'm not ready.
Right now, I'm far too interested in seeing Zakoar's shop.
The exterior—with which I'm very familiar—is plain and unadorned, but inside, Zakoar's shop is a masterpiece of clutter. There's metal junk everywhere, on every surface and every shelf. It hangs from the ceiling and stacks up between the aisles. I've never seen so many loose parts in one place, and it's fascinating to me because I don't know what a single one does. I touch one that's vaguely star-shaped and behind it, there's another that looks a lot like a hubcap. I know from hearing Abuar complain that new parts and equipment are at a premium due to the galaxy's population outpacing the available resources, so metal is scrapped and re-used, and every machine from the food dispensers to the air recyclers all use replacement parts. Zakoar's cluttered shop must be a wonderland to those in need, and I see a slim, orange-skinned alien digging through a bin of random bits in the back of the shop.
Amidst all the clutter, there's a long, glass-encased counter at the far end of the shop, and a door behind it. The case is filled with data pads (which I recognize) and other small electronics (which I don't). Behind it is a male alien with bright blue skin and a pair of shiny chrome horns that sweep high above his head. He's mesakkah, but so different from Zakoar that he might be another species. There's no prosthetics, no metal jaw, no tattoos, no skin grafts of colors that don't quite match. It makes him look…really young. I find myself comparing the two and decide that I like Zakoar's look better. I don't mind the metal, and to me, I prefer a guy that's survived the shit the universe has thrown at him and come out stronger on the other side. It makes me feel like he can do anything, and he can protect me better than anyone else.
Plus, I'm addicted to the way his eye crinkles up on one side of his face when he smiles at me. I live for that small movement.
The alien behind the counter looks up as we enter and promptly fumbles with the data pad in his hands. "Oh. You brought the human," he blurts. "I didn't think…" He trails off, letting his statement fall into silence.
If Zakoar notices how flustered his employee is, he doesn't say anything. He puts a possessive hand to the small of my back and leads me to the door. "Is my client here?"
"Inside," the big alien agrees, his gaze flicking from me to Zakoar. "In your office. Do you need anything from me?"
"The roasting skewers smell good," Zakoar says. "When you pause to eat, get enough for myself and Tessa." He thinks for a moment, and then adds, "And something sweet for her."
"Of course," the male says, and he sounds completely baffled.
Zakoar leans close to me. "Come. I'll show you where you'll sit while I work." He pushes the door open to his office and ushers me inside. It's crowded in here, too, but not because of parts. It's just a small office with a few chairs, a large desk covered with light-sources to brighten the otherwise dark room, and a big, scarred mesakkah with a shock of white hair sitting in a chair across from the desk. He wears a big visor over his eyes and his tail flicks back and forth, his head lifting as we enter. "You my client?" Zakoar asks him.