by PK Hrezo
Induction Day
Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series
PK Hrezo
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Coming soon ….
Other books by PK Hrezo now available:
Diary of a Teenage Time Traveler
Special Acknowledgments
Acknowledgments
About PK Hrezo
Removed by S. J. Pajonas
Hysteriata by D. A. Botta
Lightening Rider by Jen Greyson
INDUCTION DAY © 2014 by PK Hrezo. Published in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing by the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages for review. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Certain episodes are imaginative re-creation, and those episodes are not intended to portray actual events. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
COVER ART BY JAYCEE DELORENZO
For those who lost their lives in the Atlantic Ocean on April 15, 1912
Chapter One
Los Angeles, California— November 30, 2069
I’m a time traveler, not a superstar. Tristan doesn’t get it. He forgets people around him aren’t used to mob scenes of reporters and cameras waiting for their next move. That’s his reality, not mine. I have more important things to consider, like my Induction Day.
Tristan leans back in his patio chaise, folding his arms behind his head. “It’s like I was saying, Sensational You is a jackpot for hardcore spunkers. I’m talkin’ religious fan base. You should really consider auditioning. Who cares if you’re not really a singer—you’ve got the dark glitzy look, just scream in the mike and thrash your head around some. You’ll be a star in no time. Then we can go on tour together.”
“Nice thought, but so not happening.” I scoff. “After that insanity at the airport just now, I’m thinking: Privacy, table for two. I prefer to lay low right here at the Tristan Helms’ poolside, soak up some rays, sip refreshments … I’ve had my fill of media mayhem.” Glancing up at the domed ceiling over the pool, I smile at the celestial beach projection, complete with rolling chartreuse waves crashing onto a sepia-toned shore against a galaxy-filled horizon. “Besides, I don’t make music, I just rock out to it. And I already have a job, thank you very much.”
Tristan’s sleek serving-droid rolls up and delivers a fruit smoothie to my hand, the midday sun glinting off its polished chrome torso. “Anything else for you, mademoiselle?”
“No.” I snicker at the sultry voice emerging from the digitally-enhanced female face, refocus on Tristan in the lounger beside me. “French, huh? I’d have pegged you for someone who prefers a Southern drawl on their cyber help.”
“Tried the Southern Belle feature. Felt all wrong, like generations of repressed slave spirits were cursing me from the shadows.” He resets the sliver of his shades on his nose and maximizes them for full coverage, concealing his twilight-blue eyes. “Gave me the creeps ordering it around.”
“But it’s okay ordering around the French?” Squeezing the orange slice at the rim of my glass, I miss my aim and squirt droplets onto Tristan’s cheek.
His expression unchanging, he wipes his face. “What can I say? I prefer my service droids with a French accent. Rolls off their mechanical tongues like butter, Butterman.”
He seems to be studying me but it’s hard to tell. Once his lips ease into his superstar grin, I know he is.
“I do like the fuchsia stripes,” he says, referring to my hair. “Trés glam-rock.”
I brush my highlighted strands back from my face in mock supermodel style. “Magenta Marvel. Not fuchsia.”
He arches a brow as if to say who-gives-a-damn, and I wait for his smartass retort because that’s how we play, and I’ve been more than just a little eager to continue this flirty slow-dance on the skirt of an emotion we haven’t yet come to declare.
“Definitely marvelous,” is all he says, then cocks a half smile. “So tell me, what’s new in the game of Cosmic Chutes and Ladders.”
I smile to myself. He used a professional term I taught him, and although his phrasing doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, it’s cute that he’s trying.
“Life is right on schedule.” I get to my feet and let my glittery gray shift-dress fall to the floor, leaving me in my frilly black and pink swim suit. “Even got time to kill.”
“Is that what you’re doing now? Killing time?”
“Til I know the exact date of my Induction Day, yes.” Reaching down, I untangle my dress from the clunky buckles of my boots. I feel Tristan’s eyes on me, but I can’t make them out from behind his shades. I sidestep my chaise to nudge him over and sit beside him. “But I’d rather be killing time here with you than anywhere else.”
My breath catches because I’m being more forward than I intended.
His hand slides over my hip where it lingers, the tips of his fingers grazing my belly. “I’m glad you came.”
I ignore the flutter of nerves across my neck and shoulders. “Yeah, well there better not be another media frenzy when I fly back to Alaska. How did they even know I was coming here? I told no one I was visiting—only my parents and Kayla.”
“They didn’t—they knew I was leaving my house. They followed me to the airport, and now, unfortunately, they know who you are.”
“They’re relentless.”
“You have no idea,” Tristan says. “That madness today was nothing compared to my old U-Turn days. Didn’t matter where we were going, the press always knew. Effin’ microdrones never miss a beat. Speaking of which …” He lifts his head, scans the perimeter surrounding the pool.
Thick shrubs the height of a single story house align his backyard, enforced with laser boundaries that seem to float in mid-air above them. It’s not the biggest yard I’ve seen, but it’s manicured for optimum visual appeal, as well as privacy.
“They spy on you in your own backyard?” I ask. “No way.”
“Right? Total invasion of privacy, and illegal, but shit happens so fast, sometimes you don’t even know you’re being recorded.”
I sit up straight, grab my shift-dress and cover my scantily-clad torso. The thought of my half-naked picture being broadcasted all over the interwebs makes my chest compress. “So much for my vacation mood. Holy hell.”
“You’re not on vacation, anyway.” Tristan returns his attention on me, laying his hand on my arm and squeezing it. “You’re visiting a fr
iend.” His voice lowers. “A very lonely friend.”
“Ha. If this isn’t a vacation then I want my money back. I came to L.A. to chill.” I’m teasing him, but I don’t budge from the warmth of his hand. This is the first chance we’ve had to be alone since our time trip diversion to Woodstock, which later turned out to be a CCL, or Consistent Causal Loop, in the Butterman history of time travel, as well as a mind-boggling link between Tristan’s superstar existence and my career time traveler one.
We’re both silent, neither of us willing to acknowledge the slight awkwardness in the air. We’ve talked on the phone plenty before I arrived, but about other things—like my work at Butterman Travel, and the success of his new hit single, Fall, which after dedicating to me on worldwide broadcasting, had fans and media both trying to track down the mysterious “good friend” he promised to catch, when and if she ever fell. I remember the way my knees turned to jelly watching it on the monitor back home in Alaska. So completely unexpected.
Tristan rights himself so we’re face to face, his leg against mine, his arm sliding farther around my back. “I’m glad you’re here. You know that right?”
A warm current races up my spine. I couldn’t wait to get here, but that doesn’t change the fact I’m a rookie when it comes to intimacy. I’ve never been good with it. But if this same rush of exhilaration comes with it as a package deal, then sign me up for lessons.
“I think so,” I answer, swallowing hard. “It’s really good to see you again.”
He leans into me, both arms encircling my waist now, his nose millimeters from mine. His eyes are still shielded by his shades, which is probably why I can open up without choking on my own awkwardness. As if reading my mind, Tristan minimizes his shades to a sliver that rests on the bridge of his nose, his blue-gray gaze now exposed and as vulnerable as my own.
My palms sweat, but I play it cool, forcing a suggestive little smirk. Tristan Helms is the last person in the world I ever expected to fall for—with his former boy band notoriety and golden boy image—yet here I am, slipping deeper into the warmth of his embrace, breathing in the earthy spice scent I haven’t smelled in over a month. This reunion is not at all like I imagined. It’s electrified by every element of the moment—the soft background electronica, the bright noon-day November sun, the short, stunted breath from my nose and lips.
I clutch the soft cotton of his barely-there tee shirt, entwining my fingers into its ethereal fabric.
Tristan whispers at my ear. “Our futures are connected. Just like they said back at Woodstock.”
My insides stir with his breath tickling my skin. Where did this momentary demureness come from? Blinking my dreamy-eyed stare back to the dome display, I giggle, then pause as Tristan’s words register in my brain. I pull back, staring at him. “Wait a minute—what? You remember that?”
He straightens, his hands now resting at my thighs. “I was there.”
“When you say ‘they’ you mean Evangeline and Evan Butterman?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, so. I talked to them just like you did. What about it?”
Okay, cut. This is weird.
“But you said they didn’t intervene in the second Woodstock time trip.” I remind him of the conversation we had via palm-com video chat a couple weeks ago. “The Timeline Rewrite should’ve erased your memory of the first Woodstock trip. It’s the only memory I have because I was outside our regular timeline when it happened.”
“And … you don’t know what happened during the Rewrite ‘cause your present-self was time traveling. I get it.”
“Right. I was outside my current timeline, so I don’t absorb memory. And during a Rewrite, the rest of the universe experiences a memory purge. Last time I checked, you were still a part of the universe.”
Tristan pauses, squinting at me a moment. “I’m not supposed to remember events before the Rewrite?”
I shake my head. This is way more involved than I expected. If Tristan remembers both encounters, from both time trips, he may be even more significant than I anticipated.
“It’s messed up,” Tristan continues, brooding in the bright daylight as if rewinding events in his mind. “I remember meeting them, but it’s like a hazy dream. I remember the second time too—how we met Boris and convinced him to finish his research, but it’s distant … incomplete. Maybe I’m making it all up. All these bits and fragments are floating around my brain like pieces from a bunch of different jigsaw puzzles—misconnecting.” He pauses, glancing at me. “Evangeline and Evan just sorta popped in my mind a minute ago, like they’ve always been there.” He shakes his head. “I could’ve hallucinated the whole thing. I don’t know which is more confusing—dreams, drugs, or time traveling. Hey, what if they’re one in the same, you know, like an existential—”
“Okay, okay, Freud. Let’s just back up a minute before you go full stoner on me.” I slip my dress back over my shoulders and stand to shimmy it down over my body.
“Where’re you going?” Tristan asks.
“Nowhere.” I plop back down on the chaise.
The serving-droid appears again, rolling right to our feet. “May I get you a towel, mademoiselle?”
“No, that’ll be all. Merci.” Tristan shoos it away, returning his focus on me. “What is it then?”
“Nothing.” Slowly, I lift my eyes to meet his. “It’s just …if what you’re saying is true, you could have what’s known as analog recall. It’s … really rare.”
“Analog recall?” he repeats. “And you don’t have it?”
My jaw tenses. “No one in my family has ever experienced it. Not that we’re accustomed to rewriting timelines or anything. My dad said he once met someone who had it.” I clear my throat a little. “It, uh, supposedly exhibits a … precise mental capacity.”
My neck suddenly itches everywhere and I roll my fingers over it, desperate to conceal my agitation. Ugh, doesn’t it just figure that a superstar with an already overblown ego excels at something he’s only done once.
Tristan’s posture perks, his chest puffing out a little more than it already was. “No shit? Precise mental capacity? Huh.”
“Don’t get too full of yourself just yet.” I reel him back in. “Apparently it’s tricky to maintain without going bonkers. Still, what we did—rewriting time like that, it’s not typical practice. It was—”
“Something you had to do. We know that, Butterman.” Tristan reaches for my hand, weaves his fingers through mine. “You don’t have to explain, or feel guilty. You saved your family’s business because of it.”
His voice is so tender, so heartfelt, I have to squeeze his hand. He moves his face in toward mine and without hesitation I press my lips to his, tasting the sweet flesh I’ve craved these past few weeks. A billion sparks of electricity explode inside me. I lean into him, climb into his lap where he caresses my back, and I continue to devour his mouth, my hand clutching the back of his head through his shaggy locks.
He’s just like I remembered. Better.
The phone on my palm-com device blips with a message, but I ignore it. Whoever it is can wait.
Tristan’s plush lips travel down my neck, back up to my ear, where he plants wet, steamy kisses that rev my motor into a wicked rumble.
My device blips again. I pull away, breathless, peering down at Tristan’s hungry expression. Holy hell, I love the shape of his face. Angular, sturdy, but soft in all the right places. “I should get that.”
“No. You really shouldn’t.” He kisses my neck again.
As much as I’d like to stay in this position, I promised my parents I’d let them know when I got here. In all the madness of the paparazzi trying to steal shots of Tristan and me at the airport beelining for his limo, I forgot to message them.
“Sorry. Just a sec.” I stand, reach for my device and smooth back my flyaway jet-black strands, expand the face screen for a courtesy visual before going voice-only. It’s not my parents calling, it’s Kayla. What could she possibly need right now? I�
�m about to decline the call, when my mind changes mid-thought. Screw it, I’m already up.
I answer, allowing Kayla’s face to expand the length of the five-inch projected holo-screen. “What’s up, Kay?” I ask her, feigning genuine interest, ‘cause she’s still my best bud, even if she totally interrupted my epic make-out session.
Her big brown eyes widen with what must be panic. “Bee, pull up Web-Celeb Talk. You’re all over it.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“You and Tristan both,” Kayla continues, her voice elevated. “They’ve got video of you two kissing at a pool? It’s posted as real time. You’re at Tristan’s house, right?”
My grip tightens around the device. This can’t be happening. I scan the premises, everywhere from ground to treetops, suddenly feeling naked and on display. Thankfully I’m wearing my dress again.
Tristan’s next to me now. “What’s going on?”
“They’re watching us,” I say between my teeth. “We’re all over Web-Celeb Talk.”
Tristan’s nostrils flare. He grabs his device on the drink table next to the lounger, expanding his holo-screen. In seconds, he has the home page up of the notorious celebrity gossip site. Flashing across the very front is an animated holographic GIF of him holding me in his arms. My coin-sized star tattoos at the corner of my right eye are overly large and obnoxious, as well as my charcoal eyeshadow and red lipstick exaggerated to make me look like some kind of goth-glam clown. Our heads are three sizes too big for our bodies, and our jaws open and close to mimic the forced voices that are supposed to be ours:
“Oh, Tristan, you caught me. Just like you said in your song.”
“That’s right, Bianca. The higher you get, the more I will catch you. Every time.”
The play on words to Tristan’s hit single, Fall, is a total insult. No doubt they know who I am now. They used my name. Do people really have nothing better to do with their time than invade privacy and make fun of people? And how the hell do they make those holographic GIFs so fast?
