by L. B. Clark
The pain in his eyes hit me like a fist to the gut. I put my arm around him, and he hugged me to him.
London grasped Brian's shoulder in what seemed to be both more and less than a comforting gesture. He reached his other hand toward the dress, and the second his fingers brushed the fabric his knees buckled and he nearly took us all down. Somehow Brian and I managed to keep London on his feet, and Brian got him to the chair.
"Fuck," London breathed. A tense moment ticked by before he came back to himself. "She's okay."
Brian let himself fall then, sinking to his knees, leaning on London for support. I slid down the wall behind me to sit on the floor.
"What just happened?" I asked.
"Too much emotion," London said. "Strong emotions make it easier for me to...see things."
"That's what the whole touching thing was about," I realized. "Why you put your hand on Brian's shoulder before you touched the dress."
"Yup. Contact helps, too. But I just wasn't ready for that much of a reaction. I was touching both of you, and you both have really strong feelings for Dylan. I didn't think about that.” He pushed the chair back a little and got to his feet. “Didn’t even really realize you were touching me, honestly. At least not until after it was too late to do anything about it."
I replayed the scene in my head and remembered that, yes, the arm I’d had around Brian’s waist had brushed against London when he reached for the dress. "So...um...emotional overload?"
"Yup, pretty much."
"I think 'emotional overload,' is the phrase of the day," Brian said as he let London help him up.
"No shit," I agreed. "So, Dylan's okay. But how do we find her? Have you got some kind of mystical tracking device in your arsenal?
London shook his head. "Not something I know how to do," he admitted. "And I don't really talk to anyone who's involved in that stuff. I think I can find some help, but it’ll take time." He rubbed his eyes. "Right now, I need a drink. It may sound shitty under the circumstances, but I really, really need a fucking drink. And some air. I'm going to find the bar."
"It doesn't sound shitty," I assured him. "It sounds human. You do what you have to do to cope when the shit hits the fan."
Chapter Three
London's coping mechanism involved getting a drink in the bar. Brian's, working out in the hotel gym. Assuring them both I'd be fine, I shooed them out of the room. I still needed to find a place to stay, and I needed to get rid of a day's worth of grime and stress.
Thirty minutes of steamy shower later, I felt halfway human again. I pulled on undies and my PJs - a faded t-shirt and Star Wars boxers - and set my laptop on the desk. I'd find a hotel and the number for a cab company, and then I'd worry about real clothes.
I had gotten about ten seconds into my hotel search when London let himself back into the room. "Find the bar?" I asked.
"It's hard to miss," he said, crossing the room to drop a key card on the desk beside me.
I nodded and tapped a new search into my web browser. For a minute or two the only sounds were the hum of air conditioning and the clicking of laptop keys. Another new search, even though I had a feeling I wouldn't find much in my price range. 'College student' is not a high-paying job.
"Hey," London said, crouching down beside my chair so we were more or less at eye level.
I dragged my attention from the computer to look at him.
"Are you doing what it looks like you're doing?" he asked.
"If it looks like I'm trying to find a place to sleep tonight, then yes."
He reached up to brush a stray lock of wet hair back from my eyes. "There's a perfectly good bed right behind you."
"Yeaaah. I don't think it's big enough for the three of us."
London eyeballed the bed. "I think it might be."
"London..." He cut me off before I could say any more.
"It's not some weird come-on. I just think we should all stick together tonight."
"One of your feelings?"
"Partly. Mainly just common sense. And maybe a little paranoia."
A smile tried to turn up the corners of my mouth, but it ended up as more of a tired twitch.
"If you really just can't stay in here with us - and I'd kind of get that - then I'll go down and see if I can get another room close to ours."
It was a generous offer. I knew the Dolphin's rooms didn't come cheap. And there was no way I was going to let someone foot a bill that size. Especially when I didn't really want to be alone anyway.
"Only girl or not, I'm not sleeping in the middle," I told him. "I get claustrophobic."
"Duly noted," London said, standing up.
I turned back toward my computer, not because I wanted to look at it but because I didn't want to look at London. Or, well, because I wanted to not want to look at London. I managed to ignore him as he moved around the room, doing who knows what. When I heard the shower running, I knew it was safe to look up. I shut down the computer and crawled into bed. Sleep probably wouldn't come any time soon, but maybe I could pretend well enough to avoid any more weirdness.
I'm something of an insomniac at the best of times, but it had been a long day. Worry and travel both take a lot out of a person. I faded into sleep before I could finish my bedtime prayers, and even though voices and other sounds dragged me near the surface a time or two, hours passed before I woke.
I might have slept the night through if someone hadn't stolen the duvet, but the room was colder than a walk-in cooler and I woke shivering. The soft glow of a laptop showed me London sitting at the desk. That left Brian as the blanket thief. Sure enough, there he was, wrapped up like a human burrito. Dylan had the same annoying habit. The bedcover tug-of-war between those two would be epic.
Shivering, I climbed out of bed, hoping there might be a spare blanket stashed in the closet or the dresser. I lucked out, finding one on the closet shelf. London barely spared me a glance as I twirled the blanket around me like a cloak and headed back toward the bed. I stopped behind him, curious what had him up on his computer at this ungodly hour of day. The bluish light lit his face in an otherworldly glow.
Otherworldly.
Is that what London's powers were? Or were they just another talent, like drawing or doing math in your head? I shook off the question and sat down on the end of the bed.
“Can’t sleep?” I asked.
“Haven’t tried. I wanted to try to figure out our next step.”
“Wouldn’t our next step be filing that missing persons report tomorrow?”
London pushed back from the desk a little and turned the chair to face me. “About that. Turns out that the whole twenty-four hour waiting period thing is a myth. That’s the good news. The bad news is, we can’t file a missing persons report.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Since Dylan lives in Dallas, the report would have to be filed there. In person.”
“Well, damn,” I said.
“Yeah,” London agreed turning back to the computer.
“So now what?” I asked, looking over his shoulder.
"I tracked down my old mentor," he said, gesturing at a chat window with the mouse pointer. "Turns out insomnia is pretty common for us freaks."
"You say 'freak' like it's a bad thing. Can...." I looked a little closer. "Can Shelley help us find Dylan?"
"Not directly," he said, logging out and shutting down the browser. "But she knows a lot of...practitioners, is the word she uses. She's gonna make some calls in the morning and get back to us."
Patience is not my strong suit, but I knew that calling people in the dead of night wasn't a good way to get them on your side. So we'd wait.
London swiveled the desk chair away from the desk, rubbing the back of his neck. "You've gotta be shitting me," he said, his eyes on the Brian-burrito.
"Why do you think I'm awake at four in the morning?"
He just shook his head.
Twenty minutes later, he'd managed to get Brian awake enough
to unass the duvet and we were all snuggled under its downy goodness, close but not touching. I turned my back to the boys and tried to sleep, but I just couldn't shut down my brain. The first thin, grey light of dawn peeked in around the curtains before my jumbled thoughts gave way to even more jumbled dreams.
Chapter Four
At first, I wasn't sure whether I was awake or still dreaming. The soft sounds of someone strumming an acoustic guitar drifted through the room, and someone - presumably not the same someone, but you never know in dreams - was using me for a human teddy bear.
Reality asserted itself slowly, and I eased out from under London's arm, trying not to wake him. I gave Brian a little wave as I passed him on the way to the bathroom, where I spent a good few minutes splashing water on my face, trying to wash away my sleepiness.
I was drying my face when I heard a cell phone ring. It wasn't my cell; mine plays the Imperial March. This one sounded like the mating call of some kind of robotic alien. Let it be Dylan, I thought as I dashed back into the room.
But Brian had gone back to picking out notes on his guitar. It was London who had answered his cell. Mumbling into the phone, he fought his way free from the duvet and wandered out into the hall in his pajamas.
"The girlfriend?" I asked, gesturing toward the door.
Brian shook his head. "His mum, maybe. He's between mistakes right now."
"Ouch."
"It's just the truth. It's like he goes out of his way to find girlfriends who won't stick around."
"Some people are like that," I said, making my way to the desk chair.
"He wasn't always. It's like he's given up on finding anything real."
"That's kind of awful," I said. "Is it the whole 'rock star' thing?"
"It's the whole 'magic' thing. He actually told a couple of his exes about it. Girls he was serious about. The first one thought he was mental, wanted him to see a shrink. But Julia was worse."
"What's worse than having your girlfriend think you're psycho?"
"She believed him. She wanted him to learn how to control his powers. She said he'd been given a gift and he should use it to help others. She wanted him to be a superhero.”
"But he just wanted to be himself," I guessed. "And that wasn't enough for her. And she broke things off."
"Yeah. But even worse, she made him doubt himself. Made him feel guilty for not being the hero she wanted him to be."
"What a bitch," I said. "No one has a right to tell someone else what to do with his life. Who the hell died and made her God?"
Brian flashed me a smile and went back to playing his guitar. Guess story time was over.
"It's too early in the morning for Pink Floyd."
"No such thing," Brian disagreed. "Besides, it's past noon."
I sighed, resigned to listening to him play one of the most depressing - and beautiful - songs in the history of rock music. Leaning back against the wall, I watched Brian for a moment while I gathered my thoughts. I knew I needed to fill him in on what London had learned during his internet search, but I wasn’t sure where to start. I followed the advice I’d given London the night before and opened my mouth to see what came out.
“Turns out we’re in the wrong state to file a missing persons report,” I said. Tact and I are not friends until I’m fully awake and often not even then. “It has to be filed back in Dallas. In person.” I watched varied emotions flit across Brian’s face before he settled on resignation. “I’m going to have to talk to my brother at some point today and tell him what’s going on. I’ll see if he can work on things from that end,” I added.
Brian gave me a solemn nod and then turned his attention back to the guitar.
I grabbed my laptop and went back to bed, propping up on a giant mound of pillows. In the first rush of panic, I hadn't been thinking clearly. I still wasn't, but sleep had blown a little of the fog away, and it was time to play P.I.
Starting with Dylan's email accounts, I combed through every internet source I could think of, looking for some clue. Email first, then the social networking sites. I took another look at the airline info, even though I trusted London to know his way around a computer. Then I moved on to Dylan's bank account.
"Well, Dylan made it to DFW, at least," I said.
Brian stopped playing and looked up at me.
"$3.56 charged to her debit card at Hudson News, DFW. Probably water and a Goodbar for the plane. Nothing after that, though." I leaned my head back against the headboard, looking up at the ceiling.
"Means she made it through security there," Brian said, setting the guitar aside.
"Yeah. Which means she probably was on that damned plane. Which means she had to have made it to Orlando."
"Then where the hell is she?" Brian rubbed his hands over his face.
I didn't know what to say. A knock on the door saved me from having to think about it. London had staggered out of the room without a key, and I didn't even get the chance to give him a hard time about it.
"We gotta go," he said before the door even closed behind him.
"Go where?"
"No time. I'll explain in the car. Just get dressed," he told me, digging through his suitcase. He started dragging off his PJs right then and there, not the least bit shy about it. Not that he had any reason to be.
I grabbed my suitcase and hid in the bathroom to change. I pulled on real clothes, ran a brush through my hair, and then stopped. Why the hell was I jumping to do what London said without any explanation? I was getting pretty damned tired of all the mystery and lack of communication.
"Where exactly are we going?” I asked as I stepped out of the bathroom.
"Catching a flight to Key West," London answered, shoving what looked like a passport into his back pocket.
"We're doing what?" Brian asked. I was glad he'd spoken first. My own question wouldn't have been nearly so polite.
"Shelley found someone who can help us, but he lives in Key West. And he refuses to come to the mainland, so we're going to him."
I flopped down in the desk chair and reached for my shoes. "And we're all going why?"
"We don't need anyone else going missing," Brian said. "We stick together."
"I knew you were going to say that," I said with a sigh. I gave my backpack a once over, making sure I had my ID, money, and iPod.
"Grab Dylan's dress, too," London told me.
I did as I was told, carefully rolling the dress into a cylinder and tucking it into my backpack. Fussing over wrinkles seemed like a silly, girly thing to do right then, but I couldn't seem to help myself. That done, we trooped out, headed to Key West to see a man about some magic.
London used his phone to book our flight online while Brian wove his way through Orlando toward the airport. We still had to deal with the ticket counter to pick up our boarding passes, and that small delay nearly made us miss our plane. My relief at making the flight turned to near-panic as I followed Brian up the jetway, visions of turboprops and seaplanes dancing in my head. Key West is about the size of a postage stamp, and I wasn’t sure the airport could handle jumbo-jets. My panic faded as we stepped onto the plane; we were flying to Key West on the airborne equivalent of a VW Bug, but at least it didn't have pontoons or propellers.
The boys had sprung for business class seats, the closest thing the baby jet had to first class. A glance back into economy, and I knew it was a good thing. I'd have felt a little cramped in those seats, but London-the-giant would've been riding with his knees against his forehead. Brian took a seat next to a grey-haired man who looked like the CEO of somewhere important. London and I were in the row behind them.
"You want the window?" London asked.
If we'd been stuck in steerage, I might have taken the window seat to give him the extra legroom. I'm nice like that. But I figured he'd be okay in these roomier seats, especially since we'd be on the ground in Key West in about an hour.
"It's all yours," I told him, and he didn't protest.
T
he flying Bug began to taxi before I'd even gotten my safety belt fastened. We hit a bump, and I grabbed for the armrest. I made myself let go, forced myself to breathe and relax. We were still on the ground, still just driving around the airport toward the runway. There'd be plenty of time to panic after we were cleared for takeoff.
Logically I knew we probably wouldn't encounter anything worse than bad turbulence. I don't know the exact odds of being in a plane crash, but it’s probably about as likely as winning the lottery. With the lotto, you can't win if you don't play. I looked at flying the same way: you can't die in a plane crash if you stay on the ground. Odds against us dying or not, I couldn’t change how I felt. Phobias aren't about logic. They aren't about anything really. They just are.
The attendants finished their safety instruction spiel, and the pilot came over the intercom, telling the crew to get ready for takeoff. That's always my cue to flip out, though I'm pretty ninja about it. Dylan can always tell that I'm freaked, but the flight crew and other passengers remain blissfully ignorant.
Sending up a silent prayer for a safe journey, I gripped the armrests again and squeezed my eyes shut. For some reason, I always think I'll be less aware of leaving the ground if I can't see it happening. It never really works, but it does help some.
"Hey," London said, his voice quiet and calm the way you'd talk to a spooked animal. "You okay?"
"No." Not even a little bit.
London touched my hand, and I jumped. I made the mistake of turning to look at him and saw the runway rushing past outside the window. I closed my eyes again, only to open them a moment later in surprise as London took my hand in his. He smiled at me and gave my hand a little squeeze. Last night, I had offered him this small comfort while he told his story. Now he offered it back to me. I took it.
Soon enough we were safely in the air. The pilot gave the all-clear, telling us it was safe to move about the cabin and turn on electronic devices, and I shifted down out of panic mode. London let go of my hand, and I felt a pang of disappointment that I wanted to kick myself for. I dug out my iPod and my headphones, just as London was doing. Headphones on and mellow playlist chosen, I settled back against the seat and tried to pretend I was on a bus.
