by Lin Lustig
“I don't understand,” Emerson finally said.
“Take your shower. We'll... talk after.” John couldn't help but try to ease Emerson's shock.
Emerson nodded absently and spun the dial, spraying water down in a cold stream.
John almost ran back to the living room, he sat in his favorite chair, then stood again, then massaged the back of his neck.
He'd done it this time. Fuck. He'd have to tell him, come clean about his past with Aubrey, but doing that would only push Emerson further away, especially if he found out how John had sold himself for a place to sleep, something to eat, and a start to his career.
Guilt as deep and asphyxiating as the void of space devoured him. He’d never meant for things to go this far. He didn’t mean to sell out his kind, or befriend a murderer, or get his teachers fired, or get thrown out of his family. Emerson was an honest man of integrity where John sold his to the first bidder. They were too different, and John was too far gone for Emerson to reach.
Whenever anyone saw John—the real John—there was a level of rejection that he couldn’t contend with. His parents had disowned him. His schools had kicked him out. Aubrey had used him as a science experiment. Even Hollywood had lost interest in his overused sexy reputation. He wasn’t fit to be Emerson’s—or anyone’s—husband.
When he and Aubrey had met, she’d been rich and downright careless about it, and he’d wanted her body as much as her money and influence. Catching her had been like winning a sex lottery. She’d been obsessed with how he could make her come and eventually she’d figured out he was more than just charming and skilled. When they’d struck their agreement and started WHRP, she hadn’t cared if he came home at night or who else he slept with, as long as he’d held up his end of the deal.
John cringed. He’d signed away a lot more than his body to her. And while he’d got what he wanted—a roof, meals, stardom—he’d ignored the warning signs at WHRP. He’d been wined and dined by Hollywood’s hottest while others were being held and used against their will.
John sat back down and hung his head, imagining the look of disgust and rejection that Emerson would have if he knew everything. Only Licia really knew it all, and she'd always equally hated and accepted him for it regardless.
Emerson deserved so much better.
His phone chirped. He turned the volume off and marched to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a highball of whiskey. Thank The Shift that GANF hadn't lobbied for a new prohibition. If he didn't numb some of this panic, he'd spin up his vibe, and he'd just surgically removed his only counterbalance.
He shot the glass and swore. He was fucked beyond repair.
EMERSON
He holed up in the bedroom for hours until John went to his performance. Prisha drove, letting Em off the hook. They didn’t need a guard for performances. He just went because it felt right to be with John, but not tonight. Nothing felt right about tonight. John's words echoed in his mind.
I don't want to get married. Ever.
How could he have been so stupid? He should have kept his mouth shut and swallowed that overwhelming urge to throw himself at John's feet, but he hadn't. He thought maybe John would laugh it off or make up some excuse to delay the idea. Maybe if I get this role. Maybe after the film releases. Maybe when I retire. Or some way of waving away the weight of the offer Emerson had impulsively made.
But John had given him a straight no.
He lost track of time and allowed himself a proper pity party. Wallowing was, occasionally, necessary. He didn’t hear the elevator return, but he did hear John’s soft footfalls encroaching from down the hall.
John knocked on the bedroom door, which was ridiculous. This was his room, too. “Come in.”
John shut the door softly behind him. Some of the shock had worn off, leaving an ugly wound across Emerson’s soul. He wasn't good enough for John, and that was all that mattered. John seemed hesitant to start the conversation, so Em dove in.
“If you don't lov—”
“For Shift's sake, Em, you know I love you. More than almost anything.”
Almost. There it was. Licia’s name jammed into his heart, poisoning it. Unless what he loved more was himself. It wouldn’t be a surprise. “But not enough for matrimony?” Emerson stayed sitting on the edge of the bed. John sat next to him.
“That's a different matter. I've never wanted to get married. Remember when we first started dating and I'd make fun of your married friends? Ask why anyone ever thought marriage was a good idea?”
Emerson scrubbed his face. “I just thought you were being an ass.” Maybe that’s all he was. One giant, well-sculpted, ass.
“I didn't know you wanted to get married.”
Emerson shrugged, but shook his head. “I think going back to L.A. would be best for me. I'm... I'm not sure why I'd stay. You can use Prisha and her guard until...” Until what?
John looked down at his lap, his posture rounded like too much weight was on his shoulders. “I'm not ready to give up on this. Hopefully that counts for something. I don't own you. You're your own person, so I can't stop you, but I do love you, and I don't want you to leave.”
Emerson wanted to ask: can't, or won't? But didn't. There wasn't a way to unfuck this now. Their whole relationship was built on covert glances, subtle touches, small kindnesses, and amazing sex. Maybe it wasn’t enough.
If only Emerson hadn't said those two words: Marry me.
No. Echoed nice and loud in return.
John’s brow creased and he squeezed his hands together until his knuckles turned white, or rather whiter. “There are things I never told you about before I became John Beechum. I—”
A jarring buzz cut through. It was the intercom from the foyer, but neither of them moved. Who'd show up this late on a Saturday?
“Someone must have hit the wrong address,” John mumbled as if he'd shared Emerson's thoughts. He heaved up from the bed but paused at the doorway and turned back. He was about to speak.
Buzz. Buzz.
“Just go.” Emerson turned away. He'd given John a year to open up and doubted there’d be any new revelations now. Even as he watched John round the corner, he felt a draw to go to him, to hold him close and share in the give-and-take that made them so good together. But maybe he was being blinded by their Abnormal ties. If they didn't counteract each other, would he still love him?
Yes. His intuition practically screamed, but he shoved it down. Then John swore from the foyer and Emerson jumped to his feet, his training taking over.
“What's wrong?” He went to his side.
John's eyes were wide like coins and he'd paled beyond his usual pasty complexion.
Emerson crowded in by the intercom screen where the live feed showed the entryway downstairs. A thin woman with ratty clothes and a lifeless glare looked directly at the camera.
“Are you going to let me up, or not?” she asked, her voice distorted over the system’s speaker.
“You never said anything about her coming here!” Emerson's voice rose. This was the last thing they needed.
“No. No-no-no. I didn't invite her. Glen said I'd have to go to her, and even then, she wasn't likely to get involved. I didn't even know she knew where I lived!”
Emerson threw up his hands. Licia had come to his pleas again—probably dropping everything in the process because whatever they had between them meant something to them both. Now Emerson was going to be stuck in the middle of it. “Fine. We deal with this then we deal with us.”
John's eyebrows raised in a hopeful arch. “Yeah? You'll still stay?”
Emerson pushed the entry button on the screen, which popped the downstairs door open for Licia. “Yes.” Because there was no way in hell he was leaving John alone with Licia. Prisha was safe. A random woman at an award show here and there was whatever. But her?
No. No fucking way.
CHAPTER 8
Tarrah
“Easy there. Nice deep breaths.”
Tarrah heard Dr. Benson's voice call her up from the depths. Her body and mind felt out of sync, but slowly the two focused together, becoming one.
“How long?” she muttered through cottonmouth.
“After an hour you weren't responding, so we used the adrenaline.”
Tarrah peeled her eyes open, half-convinced they'd been taped shut, then she tried to focus on Dr. Benson's angular features. A stray tear leaked free from Tarrah's right eye, but her arms were too heavy to wipe it away.
“We're going to start you on the new trial Jammers this afternoon. We ran your blood work while you were out, everything looks good to go.”
The ceiling had the same pockmarked panels as her classroom back in primary school. She’d only made it through the first year before she’d nearly died from the flu. Her immune system hadn’t been able to keep up with public education germs. She'd been home schooled for another couple of years, then moved full time into hospital care. Her parents had sent her tutors for a while, but they couldn’t afford it. When they sent her away for specialized care in the U.S., it had taken every last penny they had. She hadn’t heard from them in months now.
Was this going to be how she spent the rest of her life? It wasn't even living.
“I don't want to.” She licked her lips and tried to reach for the water cup, but Dr. Benson had to hold it for her and angle the straw so she could drink.
“It's already decided.”
“I want to see the city.”
Dr. Benson's expression hardened, and she tapped a finger against her leg. “Your immune system is too compromised for that and you know it.”
Tears rolled down both her cheeks now, which was humiliating when she wanted to be taken seriously. A nurse came in, interrupting any chance Tarrah had at Dr. Benson hearing her out.
“Mike here will get you cleaned up. Rest. You'll start the new meds at four.”
“Wait—” Tarrah's voice hitched and she bit the inside of her cheek to calm down. Dr. Benson didn't pause and shut the door behind her. Mike, a balding nurse with steady callused hands, helped her sit up. He’d been on the afternoon shifts for a couple of months now, but warned her his schedule would change and a woman named Hellen would be taking over. She’d still see him, but he’d be on the night shift.
“Do you want to try walking today?”
What's the point? But she felt strength returning to her limbs. “Yes, can we go to the lobby? I like the view up there.”
“If you're up for it, then I'm up for it. Come on, here we go.” He was gentle and sturdy. Tarrah didn't hesitate to lean on him, or to hold his arm as she wobbled her way down the hall. He was good at catching her if she fell.
She knew she needed to shake off the last grips of the vision, but as much as she feared the visions, she also missed them. They were the only way to see bits of the world she'd never be a part of. Better than TV, too. For a few hours she’d get to experience someone’s life in all its gritty, loving glory. Life was messy and unpredictable and more than walking the pale halls of a hospital a couple times a week and waiting to die.
If she had to choose between being trapped in this stark hell or being stuck in the life of someone else, then it was starting to sound better and better to live vicariously instead of not at all.
Even if her life was short, she wanted to live.
The hallway felt longer than it had the last time. With each step she could feel her ankle shake and over-correct for the imbalances in her body. The lobby with a view was on the tenth floor and the lift was maddeningly slow. She was breathing hard by the time it arrived, her muscles too weak to stand for long. The tile floor switched to dense carpet in a mottled pattern of brown and orange leaves. But there it was. There in the center of the lobby was a massive bay window overlooking a slice of the Hudson River. It was only a glimmer of blue and a few scattered trees, but it was beautiful.
“I’ll bring you back up after tomorrow night. First snow is forecast to hit and it’s always gorgeous from this view.”
“I’d like that, thank you.”
A flat screen TV reflected off the glass and Tarrah caught a familiar pair of hazel eyes. She used Mike's arm and turned towards the screen to see the handsome face of the man from her vision.
“Who's that?”
Mike scrunched his face in concentration. “Oh, what is his name. John something.” Another nurse walked by, a woman with a tablet and scrubs printed with Minnie Mouse. “Angie, do you know that guy's name?”
“You mean my future husband? John Beechum.” She chuckled at her own joke and kept walking.
“John Beechum,” Tarrah repeated. That was him. Had she seen John in a movie recently? He was famous, and his famous face may have wormed into her. What if it had been a dream and not a vision? The vision of the kid in China had been after watching a Chinese immigration documentary on BBC America, so maybe she was overthinking her visions.
Except the visions were too predictable. Every time her body flooded with warmth and dragged her down, she knew she’d see someone’s life. She had since she was a kid. When she rubbed her temple, Mike placed a guiding hand on her shoulder and turned her back towards the lift.
“That's enough for today. Let's go get you cleaned up and comfortable.”
Tarrah let herself be led back to the lift. She lost her balance when they stopped on her floor, forcing Mike to half-catch her. From there she leaned on him so hard he might as well be carrying her. But she didn't feel heavy, or a burden for once. It didn't matter if the visions were real or not, they were still better than her reality, and the thought left her curiously light and calm. Warm, even.
“I think I need to lay down for a minute.” What did Dr. Benson say? Don't fight it. Alright, then she'd welcome it. She imagined reaching for that warmth as Mike got her back to her room. It rushed over her, seeping into her joints. She lounged back, feeling her focus drift. “Just tired. Going to shut my eyes for... a moment.”
The last word might have slurred, but she was chasing that warmth and light and surfing a wave of heat as she sank into the vision.
CHAPTER 9
John
Sunday morning, John woke early to rehearse lines and tried to clear Licia's unexpected arrival from his mind. So, naturally, it was all he could think about. The fact that she'd just shown up on his doorstep still completely confounded him. Then she was in his condo with him and Emerson staring at her like she wasn't real, while she'd watched them like they were particularly slow pet dogs. Now, just down the hall, Licia was sleeping—or possibly plotting—and it gave him a bout of nervous energy, which in turn pushed at the cork he imagined stoppering the champagne of his vibe.
There was a reason he hadn't trusted himself to do live performances at first, but when his career had stalled out, he’d needed to adapt or let his career die. Stage acting wasn't his forte, but he’d found rehearsals intoxicating. Every time someone had a rush of arousal around him, it had nudged his vibe, asking for that effervescent ability to enhance and draw out people's excitement. He’d known there was the possibility a live audience would be too much for his limits, and he'd been right.
Both Emerson and Licia had been there in L.A. for his first performance. Both had watched as he lost control on the audience. It had been another rom-com (he was usually typecast as the sexy lead or sexy third to complicate the relationship), so the audience had at least been primed for a sexual release—instead of the alternatives like anxiety attacks and sudden burst of fight or flight. When his vibe had burst free, couples in the audience had taken the heavy petting route, then Licia had swooped in and cut across them all with a cold splash of shame to knock sense back into them.
Which was necessary, and amazing, but when he’d tried to thank her, she’d looked at him and Emerson with such a heavy expression that he'd tried to reach out to her. He'd been enamored with her for so long that he hadn’t thought about how it would look if she saw him with a man. He’d wanted to tell her he was bisexual, but
that wouldn’t have mattered. He’d needed to let her go. Wherever she belonged, it wasn't by his side. She'd proved that by disappearing. Then she’d showed up at his door last night and confused the hell out of him all over again.
He was alone, reading his audition script. It would be a relief to be back in front of a camera and not a live audience. He sank into the role, trying out different intonations, then spun dramatically to address an invisible foe—and realized Licia was coiled up in his favorite chair, a wool blanket strewn across her lap, watching him.
“Continue. I'm enjoying the show.” She snuggled under the fabric. It made her look way too human, so he ignored her and kept reading, but then it felt too awkward to continue.
“Can I get you some coffee?” He dropped the script onto the desk.
“You actually have some?” She leaned forward a little.
“Oh, no. I have the cocoa bean version, or chicory if you prefer.” Was he really talking to her about coffee substitutes? He crossed his arms and took a step aside to lean on the kitchen stool. “Why did you come?”
She glanced out the window, taking in the skyline. “Like I said, it's never different with you. Without me, you'll get people hurt.”
He wanted to deny it but didn't. “As opposed to you?”
She almost smiled at that, and he remembered her smiling at him years ago, their guards down, their trust in each other complete. “At least I'm predictable.”
John opened his mouth to retort, but his jaw locked. His vision went fuzzy and time stretched until his panicked heartbeat became a deep steady surge in his veins. His vision brightened as pressure built behind his eyes until all he saw was white.
It cleared. Then he saw her again, but not sitting in his living room looking smug.
Licia stood over a corpse. She was wearing all black like an assassin. He remembered this. It was twelve years ago, back in L.A. Her hair was cut shorter than his own back then, her cloudy blue eyes wild with power, and her hands shook as they balled into fists. She hadn't touched the man who'd attacked, yet somehow, she'd killed him.
