by Karina Halle
“You’re a minor,” the officer responded.
I strained against Maximus’s stronghold. “But I’m not! I willingly went with Dex too!”
“But you’re not of your right mind,” I heard a voice say from my right. I looked at the house, past Ada who was marching up to the cops, past my mother, who failed to grab hold of her, and saw Dr. Freedman walking calmly down the steps. “You’re not well, Perry, and you cannot make decisions for yourself.”
“No,” I uttered, and tried again to get away from Maximus. I wanted to run to Dex, pull him away from the cops and run free. I could see from his face, as the cops frisked him, as his head was squished hard against the car, that he felt the same. Panic and indignation flared in his eyes.
“Don’t fight it, Perry, do as I say,” Maximus whispered in my ear. “I won’t let them take you anywhere but you have to play nice and play fair. Calm down.”
I didn’t care what Maximus had to say. There was only one person I was going to listen to and he was being arrested.
Dr. Freedman stopped in front of me and smiled in his condescending way.
“Perry, take a deep breath and look where you are. You’re with us. With your family. We’re going to help you.”
I heard Dex cry out and tore my eyes away from the doctor. Dex was shaking his head, trying to fight and losing as the cops tried to force him into the back of the cruiser.
“Dex!”I screamed. But it was useless. The car door slammed in his face and the two officers got in the front.
The car started and pulled away from the road, leaving me in the dust.
I screamed again and struggled but it was useless. I was trapped.
“Relax, Perry,” the doctor said. “You’re in my hands.”
He stepped closer to me until he was all I could see.
“You’re safe now.”
“You’re safe now.”
I screamed somewhere deep inside.
Look for Old Blood (5.5), an Experiment in Terror Novella coming in July 2012. You know part of Pippa’s story, now’s your chance to learn more. Includes the first few chapters of EIT #6 Into the Hollow
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Read on for the first few chapters of Halle’s Lost in Wanderlust, a rowdy contemporary romance set on the Mediterranean – coming June 2012
1
JAMIE
June 18th
I nearly died last night.
I guess this isn’t the only time I’ve written this down here. And it’s not the only time it happened because I was swept away by some exotic version of Ian Somerhalder (SMOLDERHOLDER).
I ate at this little place near the docks, kind of a busy area but recommended by Hildy and more than a few locals. It was nice; I mean the fish was fresh as could be, but what was really fantastic was that no one seemed to care that I was a blonde, white woman eating alone. It wasn’t a tourist trap either, just a delightfully progressive eatery in Tangier.
OK, so what was even better was that SMOLDERHOLDER (as I shall call him, the harbinger of my almost death) was across the room. Yeah, he was with a woman who was probably his wife but he was still looking my way. Maybe it’s because I nearly choked on a fishbone, or perhaps because I dumped my cup of mint tea down my shirt (why do I wear white?) but he was looking at me. And he might have liked what he saw.
I say this because when I was getting up to leave, he suddenly got up to leave too. I mean, just him, no one else, like he was going to time it so we walked to the washrooms together or something, like you did in high school. But just as I was near his table, radically conscious of my ink blot-shaped tea stain across my boobs, his wife/she-devil woman reached up and snatched him by the elbow, seating him back down.
I couldn’t stop and wait to see what he was going to do next, though, so I kept walking. I walked out of the restaurant, onto the street and saw a cab waiting on the other side.
My thoughts were a mix of planning my cabbie strategy (I am NOT getting ripped off in this damn city anymore!) and yearning for SMOLDERHOLDER when suddenly I heard an American voice behind me. An American MALE voice.
“Hey, you left your book!”
I stopped in the middle of the road. I turned around.
SMOLDERHOLDER was holding my diary. Yes, diary, I forgot you once again.
I smiled and was about to say something witty like “Oh!” or “Ah!” when I was hit by a rickshaw.
Remember when I got hit by that car in Buenos Aires that the landlord’s naughty old grandma was driving? Yeah, this wasn’t as bad. But it was a rickshaw. And that’s embarrassing. It’s, like, a bike.
I don’t know where it came from or how I didn’t see it, but damn, those rickshaws don’t have headlights and the streets in this damn town are poorly lit and that stupid sexy SMOLDERHOLDER had me so flabbergasted that it’s possible I RAN INTO the rickshaw myself.
Anyway, it hit me. The driver and the passenger went flying (and when I say flying, I mean they just kind of slumped awkwardly and swore profusely in French). I bungled up my leg pretty bad. Next thing I kno,w the people from the restaurant are beside me. Turns out SMOLDERHOLDER’S wife is a doctor. Of course she is. They both took me to the emergency room, my body raked with the road, the tea stain now covered by horseshit.
I’m fine, though, obviously. My leg is scraped ugly and bruised as hell but I can walk. Nothing is broken. I was lucky. I always hear that, how lucky I am, how fortunate.
How lucky am I really, though? The night spent in the crazy emergency room with MR. and MRS. PHD SMOLDERHOLDER was …I don’t know how to explain this, but for once, I actually felt CARED for. Like I was a soul worth paying attention to. Last nigh,t I almost lost my life and it made me realize that I – jet-setting travel writer Jamie Cooper - really don’t have that much of a life to lose.
How sad is that?
2
CHRIS
There is nothing more terrifying than a blank page.
Scratch that. There is nothing more terrifying than a blank page when you have a deadline.
And there is nothing more piss-your-trousers, fetal-positioning, terrifying when you have a blank page, a deadline, and a boss called Joe Bradley.
I have all three of those things. I haven’t pissed my pants yet, but if I have yet another cup of coffee this becomes more of a possibility. As for the fetal position, I’ve learned there is just enough room for that under my desk. Unfortunately, crawling under your desk rarely makes your problems go away. It only worked that one time when I faked having a delirious fever and Marilyn sent me home from work. God bless that woman; there’s a special place in heaven for secretaries who know you’re lying and still go along with it.
The article I have to finish is a piece on the economy. Oh, I know. How unique. Another exposé on how screwed Britain is and how the whole world is screwed and how the newspaper is screwed because no one buys newspapers anymore because of the damn economy (and Internet of course, but Joe’s Jurassic way of doing news is about as useful as the arms on a T-Rex). But for some darn reason, people like to hear about how fucked up everything is and these articles keep coming out. And I’m the one writing them, which leaves me tremendously depressed every time I hear an investor talk about the sorry state of affairs. Actually, they aren’t sorry. They are the ones with the money. But the rest of us suffer.
Especially me. Because if I don’t produce the article in the next 20 minutes, that’s one more excuse for Joe to kick me out on my arse. Then I’d be out of a job. And without a job, I wouldn’t be able to save just enough to buy Alexa her desired engagement ring and I certainly wouldn’t be able to afford the holiday we’re supposed to be taking tomorrow.
Ugh. The space u
nder the desk is starting to look particularly inviting now.
Somehow though, I manage to pull myself out of my nightly spiral of shame and loathing and the article gets done. It’s not my best work…actually I’m pressed to find any of my best work lately. But it is something and something is what The London Herald needs. Or, at least, gets.
I eye the clock. It’s already one minute late.
I hop out of my chair and walk past the row of cubicles across to the other side of the office. It’s amazing how something so large and open, with buzzing fluorescent lights everywhere and blinking computers, can feel exactly like an oppressive, dank cave.
As usual, I’m the only one here working late. Well, me, Joe and Marilyn. We used to have a few beat reporters who would put in the long hours but Joe sacked them a few months ago. Was a real shame too; one of them, Pat, lived just down the road from me and would often give me a ride home. Now I see him on the way to the tube in the mornings and he won’t even look at me. Losing your job can make you pretend to forget a lot of people.
I pause in front of Joe’s office. Marilyn sits to the right of the door, eyebrows furrowed as she types furiously at her computer.
I reckon Marilyn would have been quite a stunner back in the day. For someone in her 60s, she’s quite a stunner now. She’s gained a few kg over the years I’ve known her, but the weight keeps her looking youthful and smoothes out the “beak-face” older women get when their noses get longer but they pull their cheeks back with plastic surgery. Marilyn just has a warm, if somewhat anxious, visage, with friendly eyes that she denies behind cat-eyed glasses. She keeps her grey hair a rich brown and dresses in thick materials that seem opulent and itchy at the same time.
She pauses in mid “clackity clack” and glances up at me with a stern, motherly face.
“You done?”
“Just emailed it to him.”
“You know you’re late.”
“One minute late.”
“Two minutes late. You know Joe wants it printed out.”
I sigh and look back at my computer. I know he wants our work printed out and handed to him, the old-fashioned way. But it seems like a waste of time when he can just read it on the computer. You know, like the rest of the planet.
“Joe can print it out himself if he needs to.”
She rolls her eyes and resumes her symphony of keyboard sounds.
“No, he can’t. I’ll be the one printing it out for him.”
“I just don’t understand why you’ve figured out how the printer works and he hasn’t. Weren’t you both born around the same time? World War One?”
I grin at her and scoot over to Joe’s door before she has a chance to whack me with her hand. Her nails are fake and sharp. I’ve learned the hard way.
I raise my hand and am about to knock on the door just beneath the gleaming plate that reads JOE BRADLEY – EDITOR-IN-CHIEF when he barks from the other side. I’m sure there were words attached to the noise, but to me he just sounds like a dog more often than not.
I open the door cautiously and poke my head in. As usual, Joe’s office looks like a bomb went off in it. The desk is piled high with folders and files that I haven’t ever seen him move, and his blinds are so jumbled that it gives one the impression he spends half his time peering out of them with keen paranoia. Perhaps Joe’s been in the Witness Protection Program. Would explain a lot.
Everything is just so grey in here. The skies outside the messy window are grey (even at night, it’s a deep charcoal), the coffee in Joe’s cup looks grey (expired Coffee Mate will do that), Joe’s collared shirt is grey (was white once, I’m sure), his hair is grey and Joe’s face is grey. The expression on his face is grey. I do that to him.
“Chris!” he barks, now making legible words. “Get your skinny British ass in here.”
I quickly close the door and stand nervously by his desk. Joe’s an American. He believes all British men have abnormally small behinds. I haven’t looked around enough to figure out if it’s true or not.
“Where’s the article?” he narrows his eyes at me. “It’s late.”
“I emailed it to –“
Joe sighs. Loudly. Enough that the grey coffee wavers in the cup.
“Whatever, whatever,” he says with a wave, and then rests his head in his hands. He doesn’t move or make another sound. For a brief instant I wonder if he’s been a robot this entire time and he’s finally ran out of batteries. A robot in the Witness Protection Program – now that’s a story.
“Sir?” I ask, and step a smidge closer to him. I can see the liver spots on the top of his balding head and I instinctively run my hand through my own dark, thick hair. At least I have that still going for me.
Finally, a tired little sigh falls out of him like a fluttering leaf.
“What am I going to do with you, Chris?” he says, his voice low and muffled.
This isn’t an unusual question but I never seem to have the right answer. Fact is, I don’t know.
“What are we going to do?” he continues, his pitch rising. I can almost hear a pinch in his words. This is a new question. New questions scare me.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Sir,” I tell him honestly. I look down at my cufflinks and make sure they are evenly polished. There is a weird tension in the room that makes me feel awkward, like I should be adjusting my clothing.
Another sigh and Joe looks up, his cheeks smooshed up by his hands like a droopy-faced dog. His eyes avoid mine and stare straight forward into grey space.
“When are we going to have to write an article about the fall of The London Herald?” he asks in a weary, dreamy way. “Or will we read it on the Sun’s website?”
Sun’s website, naturally, via everyone’s iPad or iPhone. But I keep my mouth shut. When Joe admits fears and failure, you know something is seriously wrong.
His eyes flit to me briefly before he straightens up in his chair and his “harrumph” expression returns to his face. It’s almost a relief to see it.
“I hope you realize how much is riding on your trip tomorrow,” he says, clearing his throat dramatically. “This isn’t about you and your girlfriend.”
“I know, Sir.”
“Do you? You need to interview that Cooper woman. You need to convince her to write for us. If we don’t get some fresh blood soon, we’re all out of a job. You especially. And I don’t care what your mother says.”
I sniff and tug at my hair again. Seems to be what I do whenever my mother is mentioned. And Joe mentions her a lot. She’s really the whole reason I still have a job.
And, yes, the real reason for the trip to Gibraltar isn’t because I wanted to take Alexa on a romantic escapade. OK, it is. But saving up for a ring can leave you broke, especially on my salary, so when Joe ordered me to interview this travel writer down in Gibraltar, I jumped at the chance. At first, I thought he just wanted a story but over the past few days, I learned that not only am I supposed to write up a big piece about this woman, but I was to convince her to write for the Herald. Not exactly a small order.
In fact, the whole ordeal makes me feel uneasy. I don’t really understand why I have to go to Gibraltar to interview Jamie Cooper (wouldn’t a phone call with Human Resources suffice?) and I don’t understand why she’s needed so badly. I looked at a few samples of her writing. It’s fun and a bit kooky, but without sounding immodest, I’m a far more talented writer than she is. But I don’t want to analyze it too much. This is a free trip to the Mediterranean and the one thing I’ve been looking forward to for a very long time. Alexa and I need it.
“What do the other papers have that we don’t?” Joe asks, interrupting my thoughts before I started brooding about my relationship.
“Online versions? A friendly boss? Better coffee?”
“They have sex appeal. They have the youthful slant. No offense, Chris, but you’re not exactly a spring chicken.”
“I’m thirty-five and girls tell me I look like David Tennant,” I reply.
“I’m a big hit with the tardis set.”
“Re-tardis set, if you ask me,” he scoffs and leans forward. “Listen, this woman has a large following and she has yet to commit to a regular column anywhere. I think if we got a contract with her, she would help us out a lot. People don’t want to read about the economy anymore. They don’t want the doom and gloom. They want to escape from their problems. They want to travel but can’t afford it. That is where travel writing comes in. Armchair travel for the broke and despondent.”
A newspaper that wants to focus on the good news? I think I’ve heard it all.
“Get that interview first. Then convince her that writing for the London Herald would be the best thing for her career. Emphasize stability. Everyone likes that in this climate, especially an American like her. Do that first and then you can go relax…or whatever it is that you do when you’re not here.”
I give him a weary smile and then hustle myself out of the office as quickly as possible, blowing Marilyn a kiss, which she pretends not to notice. Outside, the air is strangely cold for a June night and peppered with exhaust and grime. I walk to the tube dreaming of the Mediterranean shining bold and blue before me. First I’ll get the travel writer out of my way – I’ll try my best, or maybe I won’t. Then it’s just me and Alexa, sunshine and ignorance as far as the eye can see.
3
JAMIE
June 20th
I’m behind my deadline again. Hildy has been calling the hotel nonstop, threatening me with the same old “Your book will never get published at this rate” and “You’re making me look like a bad agent.” WELL I’M SORRY, HILDY. YOU ARE A BAD AGENT! There, I said it. And one day I’ll say it to her face. I know that publishers are under the gun these day,s especially with the advent of those e-books and all (horrible things, should be abolished along with cell phones) but COME THE FUCK ON, a $5000 advance on a book? What happened to authors making money? Or does that not happen anymore? I almost make that much after a few months of freelancing. WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY THINKING?!
