Wired (22 page)

He set me on my feet, and when I actually had the courage to pull my face away from his jacket, I looked around. I was in a hole. On a piece of chain link that was keeping all the dirt from caving in hung one of those supersimplified architectural renderings of the building, with a
FUTURE SITE OF
 . . . sign and a company symbol. It didn't take a rocket scientist to determine that we were in the excavated portion of a construction project.

I didn't even consider asking Leonardo to explain,
because I already got it. The building I was just in with the security I'd just breached didn't exist yet.

“It's all right, Roxanne. I've got you.”

I clung to Leo, shaking, crying. “It's over, right? I did what you said. I put it back. It's over, right?”

The look on his face said it all. There was genuine emotion there. He looked a bit stricken, really, and I knew that he didn't want to have to say anything. It
wasn't
over, because somebody got in the way.

“Mason,” I said. “Because of Mason.” I just about collapsed. Leo captured me in his arms and held me like he meant it, while I sobbed into his shoulder and let all the fear I'd worked so hard to tamp down come out.

The dirt on my face smeared into his delicate linen collar, my broken fingernails snagged the wool of his suit. I could feel his mouth, his lips against my ear, and it was all too much. All this emotion. I was so exhausted. So exhausted, and filthy, and my heart was practically exploding with the adrenaline.

He walked me out of the construction area. My dress was in shreds, my stockings nothing but runs. Stumbling as I walked, I buried my face in Leonardo's shoulder as he helped me toward the limousine.

“I just want to go home,” I wept more than said.

Suddenly, Leo stopped. He lifted my chin and looked me in the eye. “I'm going to take care of you, Roxy.”

He'd never called me that before. But I didn't dwell on it. I just closed my eyes and let him lead me out.

I wasn't even conscious of the drive home, simply faded in and out of a kind of groggy haze. He carried me up the steps to my apartment and brought me inside,
then carried me up to my bathroom. The house was quiet. I guess Kitty was out.

He sat me down on the edge of the bathtub. I said, “This is too much for me, Leo. I can't do this. My brain was not designed to process all of this. I'm tired of crying. I'm tired of blacking out. I'm tired of trying to keep an open mind and accept the impossible.”

“Shush, Roxanne.” That's all he said. He turned the water on in the tub and let it begin to fill. Then he took a towel, ran it under warm water, and gently wiped the dirt from my face.

“Shush,” he said tenderly, wiping my arms next. His fingers ran over my dress. I grabbed at his hand as it touched my side.

He looked in my eyes and shook his head a little, then smiled. It felt good to have him touch me this way. To have
someone
touch me. Concerned, caring, attentive. I had somebody's full attention—Leo's full attention—and it felt incredible.

I let my hand fall away from my side and he slowly pulled on my dress, revealing more of my skin by the inch. I stopped being self-conscious or afraid or angry or anything, and I just let myself feel.

“Come,” Leonardo said, holding out his hand. I stood up and my dress slid off my body. He pulled slightly on my hand and I stepped out of the fabric.

He led me to the bathtub and supported me as I climbed into the warm water. I eased back and let the warmth overtake me, the water stinging the tiny cuts and scrapes on my exposed skin. Leonardo rolled up his sleeves. He pulled a clean cloth from the towel rack, rubbed it with soap, and began to wash me clean.

He murmured things to me, words of encouragement,
words of comfort. “You did well, Roxanne,” was the last clear thing I heard. I felt him press his lips against my neck, and then he wrapped me in a towel and carried me to bed. All things considered, this was not a bad way to get over a guy. I just wished that, with all Leonardo's attention and care, my last thought before drifting off hadn't been of Mason.

Kitty came home from work the next afternoon, rattled about in the kitchen, then walked into the living room with a vase and a bouquet of flowers. She looked down at me where I slumped back on the sofa pillows in surprise. “Roxanne, what are doing?”

“I'm sitting in the living room.” It was what I'd been doing all day, somewhat shell-shocked. I hadn't seen Leo.

Kitty put the vase down and looked at me for a moment, then started to remove the plastic from the flowers. “How was your night?”

I would love to tell you all about it. Not
.

I sighed. “We . . . talked. Went to a party.” It was too much work to explain, and she'd just think I was crazy.

“Oh.” Kitty wrinkled her nose. “I guess I hoped you two would come up with something more exciting.” She cocked her head and looked at me, and I guess she read that I wasn't in the mood to share. “Any plans for tonight? I was thinking about ordering a pizza.”

I turned my head. “Sounds good to me. I'll buy if you fly.”

“Duh. You never fly.”

I sat up straight, inexplicably angry. “What does that mean?”

She looked a little startled. “Uh . . .”

“I don't do dinner? I don't go out? I don't fly?”

“You don't fly,” she repeated with a rather deer-in-the-headlights look.

God bless her, but I just totally lost it. I jumped up and grabbed her by the shoulders, causing her to nearly fling the flowers away, scattering water droplets everywhere. “Kitty! Stop telling me what I don't, can't, or won't do. Because I'm doing it, okay? You wouldn't believe what I'm doing! And going forward, I'm going to do even more. I'm gonna pick up that goddamn gun and I'm not going to let people make decisions for me or tell me what to do!”

I had her in shock—in almost as much shock as I was. I removed my hands and stepped back from her, holding my palms out in the air like I'd just touched electricity or something. She didn't speak. I thought she was going to slap me at first.

“You didn't deserve that, did you?” I realized, my face flaming.

“Not really,” she said. “I'm sorry. I just thought . . .”

“What?”

“You're different. You're really different. Something's changed and I don't know when or how, but you're really different. I'm confused, but the thing is, Roxy . . .”

“Yeah?”

“It's better.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just . . . think you're better,” she repeated, waving her hand in the air to suggest there was no other way to explain. She tapped her finger against her temple and studied my face. “Yeah. Different. Better. But hard to get used to.”

“Look, I'm sorry I . . . manhandled you,” I said sheepishly.

She broke into a smile. “No harm, no foul. Can I ask you a question, though?”

“Go.”

“What gun?”

“What gun? Oh. The ‘goddamn gun.' I totally should have told you. I'm keeping a gun in my closet now. For protection.”

“Holy-moly. Do we need protection again?”

“Well, someone did break into the house and lift all of my computer equipment,” I groused.

She started in surprise. “When was this?”

Oh, right. That was in another version of my life. The one in which you weren't my friend anymore
. “You don't remember?”

She frowned as she thought about it. “No. Ohhhhhhh. Ohhhhhh.” She looked at me meaningfully. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I wasn't sure what she thought she'd figured out.

“Yeah. No problem. As long as it's not loaded. Oh, and one more thing,” she added, turning back to the flowers she began arranging in the vase.

“Fire away.”

“What's with the handcuffs?”

I'd forgotten. I'd been wearing them so long I'd gotten used to them. “Well, with Leonardo here last night—”

I was stopped by a full-blown, high-octane screech as Kitty wheeled around, her mouth wide open. “Oh. My. God. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!”

“What?” I asked, starting to totally freak out. “What happened? What's wrong?”

“Oh. My. God. You did more than talk. You slept with him! Bondage on the first go? Those European men are so advanced!”

Sigh
. What would any commonsensical person do in my shoes? They'd say,
Yes, Kitty. Actually, Leonardo was here last night and he stripped me naked and there were feathers and handcuffs and all kinds of . . . straps . . . and things
. Or maybe,
Gee, Kitty. Actually there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about regarding the fact that lately I've been experiencing my life in several different dimensions of time, one of which being where we don't even know each other anymore
.

I didn't relish either explanation. I didn't think my eardrums could take it.

“Well?”

“This is not going to be easy.” I gestured to the chair facing the sofa.

She froze in mid–flower arrangement, seeing my face. “What? What's wrong?”

“Sit down,” I said.

She did, her eyes wide, swallowing continuously as if her mouth were going dry.

“It's like this . . .” No, that wasn't a good way to begin. “The thing is . . .”
Shit. Okay
. “I think it would be fair to say that I've been acting a little . . .”

She leaned forward, waiting for the adjective.

“Um.” I tapped my index finger against my temple, trying to figure out how to put it in the least bizarre terms possible. In the face of my silence, Kitty decided to fill in the blanks.

“Strange? Abnormal?” she suggested. “Whacked out? Left of center? Marching to the beat of your own truly one-of-a-kind drummer? Souped up?”

Jesus
.

She frowned. “No, that's not what you were going to say, was it?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Preoccupied. I was going to say preoccupied.”

“Ohhh. Right.”

“Yeah. So, I think it would be fair to say that I'm a little preoccupied with . . . things . . . these days.”

“Yes. I think it would be fair to say that,” she said encouragingly.

“And it's for good reason.”

“Yes?”

“Leonardo is not my boyfriend, and I do not have a handcuff on my wrist from any bondage he might have been . . . performing on me.”

Her face fell. “Bummer.”

“Yes, well . . . I think there will be plenty of time for that in the future.” I then felt ill. I could no longer use phrases like
in the past
or
in the future
with any suggestion of certainty.

Kitty reached out and patted my handcuffed wrist.
“I find that the best way to handle difficult things is to just come out and say them.”

“Great. Here goes. Leonardo Kaysar is an agent from the future who has the ability to ‘cross wires,' by which I mean splice reality, alter the course of fate. Sometimes I seem to go back in time, sometimes forward, and sometimes I seem to start over. Frankly, I'm never quite sure who I am. Leonardo says that Mason Merrick is a villain. Mason says Leo is. Apparently, one of the pieces of code I've been working on is really important to both guys and happens to be a major factor in the outcome of my fate. Since Mason was willing to kill me in the past, as you saw, I have to say that I have fewer qualms about siding with Leonardo at this point. And—”

“Roxanne?”

“Yeah?” I asked hopefully.

“I really have to pee.”

“What?”

She stood up. “You know I don't mind listening to your theories. I just really should pee first, and then I'm all yours.”

I stared in horror as she got up and disappeared. My “theories”? As in, weird conspiracy theories? Was this a usual ramble for me in this reality?

I went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of chilled white wine. I pulled the cork and poured two glasses.

Kitty came back and picked one up. “Excellent idea,” she said. She made a big scene of settling in for the long haul, plumping up the backrest of her chair, arranging her clothes, and then clasping her hands in front of her. “Much better. Now, what's that you
were saying about Leonardo being a sexy agent from the future?”

“I didn't say sexy.” I took a giant swig of wine, exactly the way you're not supposed to drink it, and sat down at the kitchen table. “I'm not joking. This is not a theory, conspiracy or otherwise. This is real.”

And, of course, I then proceeded to ruin my own case by bursting out with insane laughter.
This is real? Did I actually just use that phrase?

Kitty winced.

“Sorry,” I said, pulling myself together. “Sorry about that. I'm just nervous.”

She studied me intently, less of that let-me-humor-you-my-little-friend air about her. I remembered then that
she
was usually the one who believed intergalactic space travel was only moments away, in the existence of angels, and who was open to the possibility that algae scum had feelings. If anyone was going to believe me, it was my old pal Kitty.

“Can you prove it to me?” she asked.

“That,” I said, “is a perfectly reasonable question, and in fact . . . I cannot.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, when you can, let me know.”

“I'll do that.”

“Great.” She smiled.

I stood up and pushed my chair in.

“That's it?” she asked in surprise.

“Yeah. Until I can prove it, I see no reason to say anything more.”

“Oh. Okay.” She pointed at my wrist. “What do you want to do about that?”

I looked at my wrist, looked over at the electric
carving knife on the counter and then back at Kitty. “Wanna bet there's a Web site that'll show us how to pick the lock?”