“It’s okay,” I say casually, but he must know I’m flippin’ out inside, because duh, who wouldn’t be? This is badass.
Rolph and the other masseuse advise us they’ll be back in a few moments, and that we should concentrate on deep, steady breathing while the scene enhances our relaxation.
“You’re one tough customer,” he says. “I pity your boyfriend, trying to find ways to make you happy.”
Here’s where I’m supposed to tell him I don’t have a boyfriend—but is that because he’s probing to find out? Or because he’s seriously taking a jab at me? Even if I can finally admit he’s not as puke-worthy as I thought, he’s still Tristan Helms, and there’s no way he’s hitting on a nobody like me.
Right?
“I was kidding, by the way,” he says.
Is he kidding about poking fun, or about wanting to know if I have a boyfriend? I say nothing, my gaze still fixed on my lunar holiday delight. Easy to avoid eye contact when we’re not facing each other.
Triple shooting stars fly in sequence over the Earth and I watch their light dissolve, my body now relaxed in full gratitude for the weightless position of the massage seat.
“Say what you will about New York, but shit like this’ll always keep me coming back. Nobody does it like Manhattan.” Tristan yawns, loud and lazy. “Your parents ever consider opening up shop here, instead of BFE? They’d have their pick of clients.”
“Not an ideal setting for the time-craft,” I say. “Truth is, my great-grandparents started out here, but found it wasn’t beneficial for optimum performances. And random time ports don’t work like bases. Launchpads and mission controls need lots of space.”
“That’s why you live in the Arctic?”
“Sorta. Agencies like ours work best out of mainstream society, off government radar as much as possible, which obviously didn’t work since we’re being audited right now. But we still need the wide open space, and polar regions work better for conductivity.”
“Like some kind of magnetic power?”
“Right. Makes for a smoother launch. You’ll see when we leave, the port exit here will be jerky.”
“We’re not gonna get back to the port and find out we have a dead battery, are we?” Tristan snickers.
“Funny. But Essence has a self-charging battery.”
“About that,” he says. “I don’t wanna sound stupid, but between take-off and landing, where do we actually go—where are these chutes and ladders? ‘Cause I couldn’t see crap on the way here. Made me sick trying to see outside the time-craft.”
“Next time focus on something stable. You really don’t know, do you?”
I glance sideways at him, but he’s motionless, quiet.
“Science 101.” I admit, I enjoy schooling him and making him feel ignorant a little more than I should. “You can’t have time without space. They’re relative.”
“So the time-craft doubles as a spacecraft, is that it?”
He’s quicker than I give him credit for. “Right. But we’re entering space at warp drive through a vacuum-packed vortex, not a liftoff like the shuttles leaving Earth’s atmosphere. We’re using dimensional technology to play Cosmic Chutes and Ladders with the time tunnels. It’s why you can’t have time travel without locking onto a time port, and for that, you need their locations. Hence, the port maps. Without them, you wouldn’t know when or where the hell you were going.”
I sense a presence behind me and lift my head. My masseuse, Rolph, with the ginormous biceps and tight white tee tells me to relax, keep steady. Feels like a twisted doctor’s appointment suddenly and I’m painfully aware of how vulnerable I am in this backward position with a complete stranger.
“You’re tense,” he says in his thick German accent, which I kind of like, but find strangely contradictory to the relaxed atmosphere of the spa. “Breathe in through nose, out through mouth. Gooot.”
A mild floral scent fills my nostrils—subtle, soft, tranquil—like freshly washed linen sheets in a spring valley. Big hands knead my back, then work in a lather of warm oil. Fingers slide over my muscles, thumbs dig into pressure points. Misty clouds of fragrance circle my head—lavender mixed with something else … cucumber, maybe.
Soon, I’m pudding. Detached and soaring … a ribbon on a breeze … Time? Time for what? Nothing matters. All is well. Life is wonderful, happy, perfect …
“Shit, it’s my fault.” Tristan’s voice jars me.
But I’m not ready to wake from this blissful dream. How long have I been drifting? My eyelids fight to stay shut.
“So sorry, Mr. Helms, it’s your usual package, I just thought …” another voice.
“I should’ve double checked. You didn’t do the double pack did you?” Tristan again.
Silence. Then, “Yes, sir, I’m so sorry sir.”
The voice registers now: the brunette specialist who set up our Lunar Holiday. I force my eyes open, try to lift my head, but it’s so heavy, wobbly even, my eyes fuzzy. I try to focus on Tristan, who’s standing beside his chair talking to the brunette. Something isn’t right about the way I feel. I’ve been drunk once, and hated it. I know some people love that uninhibited carefree mood, but not me. I prefer having my wits about me at all times. And right now, my wits have drifted elsewhere. Funny thing is, I don’t care. Not now. Maybe not ever again. Except, this isn’t like being drunk. I’m not heavy and sloppy with the effects of liquor. Nuh-uh, I’m light as a cloud, spacey.
“Bianca, you okay?” Tristan asks, and moves in toward me so quickly I wonder if his feet ever touched the ground.
I tug at the terry-cloth wrap at his waist so it slides just below his tan-lines, and giggle. How have I never noticed his chest before? Well, he has been fully clothed up until now. He definitely works out. Like, on a regular basis. His chest and arms have that once-skinny look about them, but now beefed up to just the right muscular tone.
He steps back, gently removing my hand from his wrap. “Listen, you’re gonna be pissed, but I gotta tell you something.”
Again I try to focus on his face, but I’m drawn to his pectoral muscles and the tangle of dark blond hairs between them. My eyelids fall, and I giggle again. “How much does it cost to be so perfect?”
I hear the words come out of my mouth, but they don’t make any sense to my brain. Somewhere in the confines of my mind, I’m lucid enough to know that if my filter’s turned off, I’m up shit creek. Especially with him. My thoughts are much safer locked away inside my head.
I finally get a lock on his muddled blue eyes and grin up at him, my neck still supported by the chair’s extension. “Why do I feel like I’m wasted?”
“Because you are.” Tristan lifts my arm, gesturing me to get up. “I’ll explain later. Right now we gotta shower off.”
I stumble out of the chair and right into him, my chest pressing into his, my face beneath his chin. “Together?”
“Just come on,” he says, pulling me along with more direction than I could possibly muster right now.
“I’m so sorry,” the brunette calls. “I’ll have my manager take care of your next visit.” Her voice changes as she gives a direct order. “System halt!”
In a blink, the lunar holiday scene is gone and the room is black, except for a trail of orange lights along the pathway floor to an opened door. Rolph nods at me from the doorway as we exit. I stop, fling my arms around him in a quick hug. “Thank you, so much.”
He pats my back with indifference, then shuts the door behind us.
“Was I supposed to tip him or something?” I ask Tristan, who stops me against the wall.
I giggle again, my gaze dancing across his face like a vagrant with nowhere to call home, then lingering on his peachy lips, where I could take a full holiday.
“You’re high,” he says finally, his attention focused down the long hallway. “We both are.”
“We are?” It makes perfect sense. “Well, I’m not mad. Feels good.”
He blows a gust of ai
r.
I study his face—the lines of concern on his forehead. “You don’t look high.”
“I am. I have a higher tolerance level, though. But you. You’re loaded.”
“I don’t … get … it.” The words fall out of my mouth so messily they almost get jumbled into wrong order.
“The massage oil they used—it’s an opiate,” he says, now leaning into the wall across from me. “That’s why you’re so relaxed. I used to get that blend with my usual package, even before I got hooked on heliox. They assumed I’d want it again. I forgot …”
I squeeze his shoulder, but more to steady my vision than as an act of compassion. “No big deal. I feel more relaxed than ever.”
“I know, but I fucked up my rehab. And I’ve turned you on to getting high, even though it’s legal. Kind of.”
“So you’re my pusher now.” I giggle again, but Tristan doesn’t acknowledge me, so I say, “This shit’s legal? Awesome.”
He lets out a laugh and I grin to encourage him because I want him to be happy like me.
“Only if you know the right people.” He stomps his foot. “Four months down the drain. Shit. I was on a roll.”
“It’s not your fault.” I concentrate on getting each word out correctly.
His vision must be steadier than mine because he stares at me a moment, his gaze drifting to my star tats again.
“How come you’re always looking at my tattoos?” I ask, because yeah, my filter’s pretty much gone right now.
“I like them.”
His face is so serious, a chill crawls up my spine in slow motion splendor. He likes them? Unexpected. My head falls to the right like a pendulum til I pull it back up again, blinking to maintain my gaze on his face. Like I’ve got control of myself or something.
“What time is it?” I ask, then remember my watch. It takes me a few seconds to see the numbers clearly. “Holy hell, we’ve been here two and half hours.”
“Plenty of time to get back.” He motions me forward down the hall to the dressing rooms. “Get dressed and we’ll get outta here.”
He stops at my changing room and waits for me to go in. I pause at the door. “How long will I be like this?”
“I dunno,” he says. “Different for everyone, but probably another few hours.”
I move in closer to him, tugging my wrap up under my arms again. Cool air from the hallway swirls in from underneath and my nipples go rock-hard. My eyes find his lips again, and I wonder if they taste as luscious as they look.
“I can’t pilot Essence like this,” I finally whisper.
“Right.” He looks at his feet, then towards the end of the hall. “Well, we can’t go back to my place to sober up.”
I’m about to suggest a hotel because the idea of sprawling out on a king-size bed is super enticing, but what will he think if I do? I’m high. And he’s Tristan Helms. And right now I can’t keep my lazy peepers off him. Last thing I need is to be alone in a hotel room with him.
But we’ve gotta do something, because if I show up back at home like this and Garth catches me, she’ll slap me with piloting under the influence so fast my pilot’s license will be revoked before I ever get my Induction Day.
Chapter 10
It’s 1600 hours EST, four hours from port exit and I don’t have a care in the world.
We’re at least ten people back for the next taxi at the corner stand. Tristan’s shuffling his feet, his arms folded over his chest, hat and shades on. I can’t seem to rid my face of this perma-grin, and I’m guessing I look stupid-cheerful right now, which is ridiculous since I know the shower washed off all my makeup.
“What?” Tristan asks, his voice low to my ear, his attention always on our surroundings, even though no one seems to be interested in us.
“I don’t even remember.” I slap his arm. “I’m thirsty though. Really thirsty.”
“Yeah, me too. Should’ve snagged some extra bottled water at the spa.” He checks the front of the line again.
It’s moving, but slowly. There’s a hold up with one of the taxis.
Tristan’s still the one doing all the guiding, and normally it’d bug me, but right now, I’m all warm and cozy inside. I know he feels responsible for me, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or racked with guilt because of it. Doesn’t matter. I’m more concerned with the blinking LED billboards on the building across the street. Two holographic dancer girls appear larger than life—stepping offscreen in projected holo-form, dancing in the air with skin-tight jumpsuits and go-go boots reminiscent of retro-Bond girls. They point out at the streets like they’re inviting the world to join them, then disappear again. Behind them, the name, Studio X, flashes in neon.
“Studio X,” I read, then repeat it a few times, letting the syllables roll off my tongue.
Tristan’s still monitoring the line progression. “What about it?”
I shrug. “Dunno. Two girls just came out of that building and told me to come dance at Studio X.”
He looks up. “Oh, yeah. Almost forgot it’s a regular nightclub on most nights. You had me stumped for a minute.” A grin stretches across his face with those deep smile lines that look chiseled and manly.
We move up a few places, third from the front now.
“Why is that, Golden Boy?” I ask, giving the bill of his cap a playful tug.
He pulls back a little. “FYI, the patronizing lost its cuteness a few hours ago. Anyway, it’s nothing.” His voice lowers at my ear. “Just so happens on this very night, Studio X is closed for a high-profile private party.”
“Private as in, A-listers?”
He makes a sound that crosses between a snort and a chuckle. “Only everybody who’s anybody in the music industry—if they were in Manhattan, anyway.” He pauses, recalling details, his hand to his chin. “Matter of fact, it was a bad-ass Techno Mad Hatter theme. Whole place was decked out like Wonderland on acid.”
All at once, I’m dying for him to tell me more, which is weird because I don’t usually care about that stuff. “So you went then?”
He stares off into space for a moment, squinting as if trying to see some distant memory. “Nah. Ended up getting into trouble with Declan. We never made it.”
My thoughts are all a flutter right now. The idea that anybody could be at that club tonight makes my brain buzz. I’m no social butterfly, but a celebrity party in Manhattan would be magic. “So when you say anybody, you mean like all kinds of performing artists?”
“Yeah, Butterman. Your kinda stuff too,” he says casually. “Hard hitters like Sporniker, and oh, Frozen Solstice—”
“Frozen Solstice?” I grab his shirt, pull him closer. Those are the magic words. “You’re joking.”
He removes my hands gently. “Dead serious.”
“So Dirk Stiles was there?” I just squealed his name. I know I did and I still don’t care.
Tristan’s having a good laugh at me. He ushers me into the next taxi and shuts the door behind us. I hadn’t even noticed we were next in line—my mind is still conjuring images of Frozen Solstice’s sexy lead singer Dirk Stiles—his long dark locks, angular face, rust-colored eyes.
“Wow.” I lean back onto the headrest.
Tristan’s punching in an address on the GPS. “You’re a Dirk groupie, aren’t you?” He sounds half-amused, half-annoyed.
I’m too blitzed to cover up my weakness. Truth is, I’m as bad as Kayla obsessing over U-Turn when it comes to Frozen Solstice.
“Not really,” I say. “Okay, maybe a little. But, um, he rocks the house. Duh.”
“Ever met him?” Tristan asks.
Of course he’d assume everyone meets rockstars every day, because in his world, it’s normal. “No, I haven’t met him. Not like he hangs out in northern Alaska for kicks. But I’ve been to their first concert ever. Time trip with my dad four years ago. I was fourteen. It was magic.”
“Huh. Shame you never actually met him.”
“They can still be my favorite band e
ven if I haven’t met them.”
“Wait a minute, you were into Solstice’s hard shit at fourteen?” He finally finishes his GPS entry, which took an unusually long time, and leans back beside me. “You are one messed-up bettie, you know that?”
His tone is playful, but I concentrate too hard on the meaning of his words and lose my train of thought, look around. Even at 35 MPH the images outside are blurring.
“I don’t think the shower washed the drugs off,” I say. “Are you as wasted as I am?”
“Doubt it,” he says. “But I’m not sober either. Just trying to keep us on track. Once opium sinks in it’s hard to get out of your system. They used a double pack, which means a shitload of oil.”
“You like it,” I say, not accusing, just stating a fact. Can’t blame him for liking it.
He removes his shades, looks me in the eye as he speaks. His pupils are dilated like a baby doll’s. “I do. Too much. I know it sounds like just another way to get high, but you gotta remember, there’s another whole level of stress when it comes to—”
“Being a superstar? I believe you, you know. I’m sure it’s stressful as hell having people bug you all the time.”
I almost feel bad for the guy—the way he’s looking at me right now with those big sad eyes, like he just wants someone to understand him, tell him it’s okay. Maybe I’m that person. I wouldn’t mind so much.
“You’re not such a Butter-dud when you’re loaded,” he says, cocking a half smile.
I blink my gaze away. I really don’t care for that name, but I can’t bring myself to respond when the headrest offers such sweet support for my now spinning head. I want to keep the conversation going, lose myself in those swirly blue irises again, but I just … can’t … keep … my eyes …
* * *
My vision comes to and I find my arm draped over Tristan’s shoulder, him guiding my sloppy gait up a flight of indoor stairs. He hoists me up, step by step, til my motor skills return in a kind of half-ass coordination.
“Where are we?” I ask. “Is this the port alley?”
Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars Page 49
