Null and Void

by Susan Copperfield

  I stole the phone back. “He has this floating sphere of death in my living room, Jessica. I didn’t even know he could do that. I thought it’d be a lot hotter, too.”

  “I’m regulating the temperature,” Senator Forester informed me.

  “Oh. He’s regulating the temperature. He’s fancy.”

  Jessica sighed. “Please give the phone to one of the police officers, Mackenzie.”

  Since Senator Forester seemed to enjoy scaring the cops, I gave him the phone. “She wants to talk to the police officers.”

  My boss sat on the couch beside me, flipping through my hospital invoice and new prescription. “Dr. Glaskow treated you? I didn’t think he’d worked at that hospital.”

  “He doesn’t. The other doctor pissed off the cops that were with me, so he was replaced. The new doctor took one look at my file and called Dr. Glaskow. It was nice. I like Dr. Glaskow. I also like Tiffany.”

  “Tiffany?”

  I pointed at the boot. “Foot lady. She was okay with Dr. Tiffany, but she liked being called Tiffany better. Dr. Glaskow called her Tiff.”

  Senator Forester hovered near the two cops with his ball of flame nearby, and within five minutes, the pair ran out of my condominium without looking back. My coffee maker made a happy pinging sound, reminding me I had a fresh pot requiring my attention.

  With my boss’s phone to his ear, Senator Forester invaded my kitchen. “Thank you, Jessica. They’re gone. Douglass is on the couch with Mackenzie. In good news, she’s not crying anymore.”

  “She’s on morphine, so if we’re expecting stable emotions, we’re wrong,” my boss announced.

  “Ah. Douglass has helped explain the situation. They gave her morphine. She needs to go back to bed while we go downstairs and find out what happened from security. They must know something, because they simply pointed us to the elevator when we arrived like they expected us to show up.”

  I chewed on my lip. “I broke my phone.”

  Senator Forester strode to me and gave me the phone. “She wants to talk to you.”

  “I broke my phone, Jessica.”

  “It’s all right, Mackenzie. I was trying to get a hold of you to warn you there’d be more media attention coming your way today.”

  Breaking my phone wasn’t all right. I couldn’t replace it, nor could I replace the memories I associated with it. I smothered my misery and forced out a laugh. “A reporter jumped out of the bushes at me, took a picture, and I tripped on the steps. Apparently, I only have a minor concussion. I’m pretty sure they did some fancy magic stuff to my hair to get rid of the blood. Magic beats taking a shower, Jessica.”

  “How badly were you bleeding?”

  “It was just a little cut. I didn’t even notice it until Tiffany made a fuss about it and waved her hand and made the blood disappear.”

  Jessica sighed. “I’ll make certain it’s clear to the mainstream media if I catch wind of any reporters pulling a similar stunt, I’ll have a zapper nearby ready to fry their asses along with their precious cameras.”

  Of all the element types, the few who could readily wield lightning tended to frighten everyone. Depending on how their talent manifested, some could summon lightning from a clear sky.

  Others, like Jessica, tended to bring entire storms with them when they decided to smite someone.

  “That sounds dangerous,” I confessed.

  “It is—for the reporters. You’ll be perfectly safe. Anyway, this should cheer you up. After William announced he was going to be participating in the auction, he was cornered by a reporter who wanted to know if he was aware you’re a null.”

  I groaned. “Oh no. That doesn’t sound cheerful at all, Jessica. It sounds like a disaster.”

  “William’s reply was brilliant. He told the reporter he was looking forward to working with you intimately to plan the auction. Intimately, Mackenzie. With an emphasis on mate. He whipped out his best southern drawl to do it, too. The asshole reporter posted the sound clip on the internet. It sounds wonderfully lewd when taken out of context.” Jessica giggled. “Fortunately for His Royal Majesty, someone else had captured the entire conversation and posted it, so in context, it’s a lot less perverted.”

  “I was right. This is a disaster.”

  “It gets better.”

  “No, Jessica. It can only get worse from here.”

  “The reporter repeated the question, and he offended His Royal Majesty. Your number one fan went on a ten-minute tirade detailing every single one of your null rights accomplishments, beginning right from your first days in your position. It was beautiful. Sylvia Ambrose called me twice this morning offended that she isn’t getting the same treatment as His Royal Majesty. She feels she deserves more attention.”

  “I need a raise.”

  “You might be right.” Jessica chuckled. “I reminded Princess Ambrose that she already agreed to accept the same terms as His Royal Majesty of Montana. As such, she isn’t going to be involved in this portion of the organization. I also told her that she isn’t a member of the auction committee, so therefore, while she can send in requests for inclusion, but she has no say in what would happen. I also said I’ll find another princess to take her spot if necessary. She shouldn’t cause you any trouble for at least a week.”

  If I had to put up with that nonsense for four months, I would lose my mind. “I’m going to need that pardon by the time this is over.”

  “So will I. I better get a second one. Back to the real issue. How are you feeling?”

  “Please don’t tell Mireya I broke my foot,” I begged. “It’ll be fine. I just have to wear this stupid boot for a few weeks. Please, I’m begging. Don’t tell Mireya.”

  “She’s going to figure it out when she sees you. I also can’t promise it won’t hit the news, especially if the person who photographed you took any pictures of the aftermath. If it stays out of the media, I won’t tell her it happened, but that’s the best I can do.”

  As I had no other choice, I accepted what I couldn’t change. “I told Winston I’d beat the reporter to death with my crutch if I ever caught him,” I confessed.

  “I’d go through the hassle of writing up a pardon to watch that on the news. Before you ask, Mireya’s fine, her testing is going well, but the children are all tired. They’ve been subdued today, which is normal according to the instructors. When I bring your child to you on Monday, I’ll be surprised if she has enough energy to notice you have a broken foot.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Be a dear and put Lane back on the phone, please.”

  I held the phone out to Senator Forester. “She wants to talk to you.”

  “Your Majesty,” Senator Forester answered, and he chuckled while listening to Jessica. “We’ll take care of it. One of us will stay here with her until Geoff arrives.”

  Once the senator hung up, my boss reclaimed his phone and shook his head. “How are you actually feeling, Mackenzie?”

  “My head is killing me.”

  “All right. You’re going back to bed, and I’ll stay here until Geoff arrives. Lane, can you take care of her phone?”

  “It’ll be a pleasure. I’ll ask Jessica for advice on a good model and plan for it. Bill your company?”

  My boss grabbed his wallet and retrieved a credit card, which he handed to Senator Forester. “Charge this card. I’ll text you the pin.”

  “Will do. I’ll take care of the phone and brief congress on the situation. That should help me push through that damned media bill everyone keeps pushing off, too. Mackenzie, stop being the congress’s living case study. It’s stressful on us old politicians.”

  “It’s not my fault,” I whispered.

  My boss sighed. “It’s not your fault some asshole scared the life out of you trying to take a picture. But, that said, the invoices are coming with me, and you won’t be paying them.”

  “But—”

  “No, Mackenzie. This only happened because of work, so it’s a worker�
�s compensation expense. Go back to bed.”

  Senator Forester helped me lurch to my good foot, and both men ignored my protests, herding me to bed. Without their help, I doubted I would’ve made it, but I’d never admit that to anyone.

  My pride was damaged enough already.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I couldn’t catch a break, not even in my dreams. When I said as much, Dylan’s temper snapped, and he growled, “You did. You broke your foot!”

  “It’s not the reporter’s fault I tripped.”

  “Mackenzie Little, you’re not clumsy. Sure, you’re a bit of a zombie before coffee, but you never would have fallen down the steps otherwise. You could have been killed!”

  “It’s only a hairline fracture and a minor concussion.”

  “You bled.”

  Telling Dylan about the magic hair cleaning had been my worst mistake; he’d handled the rest of the news well enough, but the idea of me bleeding had tripped his trigger and sent him into a rage. His tantrum matched our daughter’s in so many ways, and while he stomped around in incoherent fury, I nursed an unhealthy amount of joy over having identified another piece of him in our child.

  “You’re far too happy about this,” he complained. “You were hurt.”

  “Mireya’s tantrums are just like yours,” I chirped, unable to contain my happiness over the discovery. “I did something terrible.”

  “I have a difficult time believing you’re capable of doing something terrible.”

  “I sold our daughter to the devil, and I didn’t ask you first.”

  “Before I get upset, I’m going to ask for the details of what you’ve done, as I expect you’re making it sound a lot worse than it is.”

  Dylan couldn’t change anything, not anymore, and secure in the knowledge Jessica would wage war on my tiny family’s behalf, I told him about the betrothal, Prince Adam’s probable leeching talent, and his fixation on our daughter.

  For a while, we stayed together in the dark, his presence a feathery warmth, sliding over my skin as though he brushed his fingertips against me in the cruelest of teases.

  “Why would I be mad at you over that?”

  It was a good question, one I didn’t have the answer to. “I didn’t ask you first.”

  “Mackenzie, you’re an idiot. How could you ask me when I’m not there? I’d say I forfeited my right to complain by not being there. You made a choice to safeguard our daughter’s future. I stand by my original statement. That prince better take good care of her, or I’ll teach him a few important lessons.”

  I hated my dreams. They always drew me one step closer to the man I needed to let go. “You have competition.”

  Dylan grunted and paced around, and his presence heated with his agitation. “Who?”

  “His Royal Majesty of Montana. Apparently, he wants to work with me intimately.” I repeated the word, mimicking the way Jessica had said it.

  She was right. Out of context, it sounded really lewd.

  “You’re challenging me. You’re really challenging me, aren’t you?”

  Since teasing Dylan was far better than worrying about a broken foot or fearing his reaction to betrothing Mireya to Prince Adam, I pounced on the opportunity, which was one step away from pouncing him. “He’s single, he’s a king, and he has the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard.”

  “And what about my voice? Isn’t mine sexy?”

  I flinched. “I don’t remember your voice.”

  “What?”

  I’d never been good at remembering faces or voices; while many claimed they could remember things with picture perfect clarity, I’d never been able to.

  I remembered feelings. I remembered details. Sometimes, I couldn’t even remember the differences between crimson and scarlet without having to see the colors in all their glory. “I don’t remember. I’ve never been good at faces or voices,” I blurted, waving my hands in helpless surrender. “It always takes a while to learn someone’s voice unless it’s really distinctive. Jessica has a distinctive voice; she sounds like the world is hers to rule, but she’s so sweet. And—”

  “Hold on,” Dylan begged. “You don’t remember what I look like?”

  “I don’t,” I whispered. “It’s not my fault my brain is stupid.”

  “Do you remember anything about me at all?”

  “Well, of course. Mireya has your hair and eyes—and your temper tantrums. And you stole some guy’s worn, dusty jeans, and they were the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  That made me far happier than it should have.

  “You’re not stupid. If you can’t remember, you can’t remember. And you’re sure it’s not because of the fall?”

  “Oh, no. I’ve never been good at remembering faces. I have to use the podium seating chart sometimes during congressional hearings, especially for newer members.” I shrugged.

  “This explains a lot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It means I could’ve been under your pretty little nose for years, and you wouldn’t have had a single idea.”

  “Are you trying to tempt me into killing you?” I tensed to pounce him, and while I’d do my best to get my hands on his throat, he’d inevitably defend himself using his body, and I intended to enjoy every moment of it. “Have you been under my nose the entire time?”

  I really might be tempted to kill him if that were the case.

  “No, I haven’t. Not really.”

  “That’s the problem with dreams,” I complained. “You tell me exactly what I want to hear because you’re a perfect figment of my imagination. I hate dreams. They suck.”

  “Don’t lie, Mackenzie Little. You love when you dream of me. Confess, woman.” He took the offense, trapping me in his arms. “Since you’re in a confessional mood, what other dirty little secrets are you hiding?”

  “That depends. Will I be rewarded or punished following my confession?”

  “Which would you prefer?”

  Both, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. “I purr in my sleep.”

  “I know. It’s adorable. I could spend a lifetime listening to you sleep. You sound like a happy cat who’s gotten into the cream. That purr of yours drives me crazy. I want to do all sorts of filthy things to you, but you’re too happy and peaceful to disturb. That purr’s a problem. I’m definitely going to have to punish you for that purr.”

  Filthy was my new favorite word, and I’d never complain about my strange snore ever again. “I betrothed your daughter to a prince.”

  “I’ll have to properly reward you for raising the future queen of Texas. Come on, you can do better than that.”

  I wiggled in Dylan’s arms. “I have a fan.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have a fan with a sexy voice, who’s looking forward to intimately working with me on the charity auction.”

  Dylan never got around to telling me if my taunt earned me a reward or a punishment. If I didn’t exorcise his memory soon, I’d die a happy woman, wrecked by a man I didn’t want to let go and finished off with a lack of restful sleep.

  Friday and Saturday went by in a blur. Geoff stayed with me most of the time, taking over my kitchen and acting more like a loyal servant than a self-respecting bodyguard.

  Dylan haunted me more than usual, creeping into my Saturday afternoon nap. I remembered that dream better than the others.

  He’d seemed so worn and tired, and all he’d wanted to do was hold me, as though I somehow calmed his troubles as he often calmed mine. That dream also disturbed me more than the others, too.

  While short, it felt so much more real, his presence burdened with the weight of reality.

  We so often talked in my dreams, but the focus had always been on my problems, not his. Dreams weren’t supposed to be two-way streets. They weren’t supposed to feel so real.

  He didn’t tell me what was bothering him, and I worried.

  Sunday, I returned to the hospital to have my foot checked. The fracture
showed signs of healing, and as I hadn’t worsened he damage, Tiffany claimed my crutches, warned me to be careful, and returned me to Geoff. I clung to the man like a burr, and I had no problems sacrificing my dignity to keep the photographers away from me.

  Geoff’s presence kept them away, as long as I remained close to him. The few times I had strayed, the instant he wasn’t in view, the scavengers swarmed.

  Unfortunately, I’d be an easy target leaving the hospital; Geoff was on solo duty, and he refused to let me limp to the car, which meant I needed to wait in the lobby while hospital security kept an eye on me. The three men positioned in the room wouldn’t interfere with the reporters unless they tried to touch me.

  The first to test the waters was a young man, and while he was armed for a camera, he left it hanging around his neck. “Miss Little, is it true a photographer knocked you down the stairs?”

  Tired of the same old two word answer I was encouraged to give the media, I decided to take matters into my own hands. If he twisted my words, I didn’t care. “No. He was lurking in the bushes. He waited until I was coming up the stairs and took a picture. The flash startled me. I tripped over my own feet. I’m graceful like that.”

  He laughed and held out his hand. “I’m Kenneth Jericho, Channel TXY.”

  Shaking hands with a reporter was a novelty, and I appreciated he didn’t try to crush my fingers. “Thank you for not shoving your camera in my face.”

  “You’re welcome. I took a picture or two already when you were speaking with your escort.”

  Escort could be twisted several ways, and if I didn’t want the media deciding I was sleeping with a bodyguard old enough to be my father, I’d have to stop it myself, but I’d be nice and give the man a headline or two for being polite. “Agent Howards is helping me, as I’ve been informed I shouldn’t be driving with this boot on.”

  “Agent? Of which organization?”

  “RPS.”

  “Why do you have an RPS agent driving you around?”

  “Congressional appointees, I’ve been informed, are entitled to an agent if necessary. Someone decided it was necessary.” I shifted my weight onto my good foot and stretched so I could show off the boot. “A photographer lurking in the bushes makes the Texas media look bad on the global scene, and as Texas won the charity auction, his presence makes sure Texas preserves its reputation of being a hospitable kingdom.”