by Cara Bristol
This is the sweetest, most romantic thing anybody has ever done for me. Her eyes misted, and she brushed her lips against his. The brief feather-light caress ignited a flash of heat, and Psy groaned.
Her gaze flew to his face. Her lips parted, and then they were kissing in earnest, her arms around his neck, his around her waist. Mouths fused; tongues met in passionate exploration.
Her low, sexy moan inflamed him. He dragged his mouth down to her shoulder to kiss the bare skin and found it creamy smooth. She stroked his jaw, her touch sending tingles to his groin. He was hard for her, had been the moment he’d spied her through the store window.
Oh my god, he likes me! Her pleased but surprised exclamation resonated in his head.
I like you very much.
She jerked. You heard that?
I wasn’t supposed to? I didn’t mean to intrude. If she’d been a Verital, she would have blocked anything private, but, as a human, her mind was wide open. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers and showed her how to shield her thoughts behind a distraction. It afforded no barrier at all, but if he encountered it, he would know to back off.
I don’t have anything to hide, I just didn’t realize you could…well, read everything in my mind.
To move beyond the awkwardness, he said, Why don’t we sit? Have dinner?
She looked bemused as she trailed her hand over the white cloth. You went to a lot of trouble to impress me.
No trouble at all. My pleasure. Her openness, her sweetness, her intelligence, her beauty, and gentle curves impressed him. Earth courtship rituals were alien to him, but he very much wanted to woo this woman. Wine?
A little.
To avoid having to wrestle with the bottle, the wine had been uncorked. He poured some in their glasses.
You thought of everything. We even have a view. Sitting up high, the gazebo overlooked the sprawling lavender field. This would be a lovely location for a wedding.
There’s one booked this weekend. That’s why Chameleon constructed the gazebo for Kevanne—so she could rent it out for events.
He must be very handy!
He has become so, he boasted of his friend’s skill. If we need something, we manufacture it in our replicator, but Chameleon enjoys building things. He lifted his glass. I was informed we should toast.
She raised her goblet.
He had no idea what would be appropriate to say, so he decided to speak from his heart. May today be the first of a lifetime of moments.
They clinked glasses.
I’ll get the food. From the ice chest, he brought out and unwrapped a charcuterie board with meats, cheeses, and olives and a crusty baguette. He placed the items on the table and retrieved the grapes and strawberries. He left the chocolate tarts on ice, afraid they would melt in the heat, even though the swishing fan cooled the area somewhat.
So far, the date seemed to be going well! He’d sought advice from his friends’ mates, telling them he wanted the evening to be special. They’d given him some pointers, and he’d ordered the food from a deli.
She helped herself to the meats and cheeses. I still can’t believe you arranged all this so fast. You make me feel like Cinderella. I just hope the hover scooter doesn’t turn into a pumpkin. Her mouth quirked with humor, so he surmised she was joking, but he didn’t understand the reference.
What is Cinderella?
It’s a children’s fairy tale about a peasant girl who meets her handsome prince. She looked at him. You’re like the handsome prince and the fairy godmother rolled into one. I still can’t believe I can communicate with you this way. Do all Veritals communicate telepathically?
We can, but we don’t. Usually only with genmates.
Why not?
Because of the potential for trespass. The right to hold or share one’s thoughts as one sees fit is the most basic right an individual has. A person must have freedom over his mind, so the Code of Conduct forbids intrusion unless one has been invited—or if one is in danger. For self-defense or the defense of others, it’s permissible to enter a mind without prior approval. Only twice in my entire life have I done so.
She leaned forward. What happened?
I’ve mentioned my friend Chameleon. He helped us escape when ’Topia was under bombardment, but then we discovered he was a Xeno. It was the Xeno Consortium that destroyed our planet! We feared he might have been leading us into a trap, so I had to verify he was telling the truth. He paused. The other time, I performed a limited mind wipe to avoid detainment.
He may have obeyed the letter of the Code of Honor, but he’d come close to violating its spirit.
I don’t understand.
When we arrived on Earth, we needed money, so we created some in our replicator. We didn’t know only the government could print money. I passed a bad bill and got arrested. To get the officer to release me, I erased about ten minutes of his memory.
You can erase memories? Her eyes widened, but the emotion attached to her thoughts was fascination and not fear or censure.
Or implant them, he added because she needed to know what he and his species were capable of. He had never, ever planted a false ideation. It would be the worst violation of the Code of Honor. A person would have absolute belief in something that never happened.
It would be like false memory syndrome.
He nodded.
Wouldn’t someone realize you were messing around in their head? I feel your presence.
Because I allow you to.
She ate for a while, her expression growing thoughtful. You mentioned that a person might ask you to join with their mind. Why would someone who can speak request it?
Because they need help identifying and removing mental blockages.
Oh, like a form of therapy.
Yes. He’d been able to help alleviate Wingman’s post-traumatic stress resulting from the bombardment.
Mostly he sought to block thought waves—a constant battle since his abilities were powerful, and some individuals were strong emitters. Fortunately, most ideations were mundane and harmless, although he had intercepted lies, grievances, malfeasance, and malice.
Ignorance—his ignorance—was bliss.
Do all your people have these abilities?
To varying degrees. Some are more powerful telepaths than others.
Can you tell what I’m thinking right now?
He got a picture of a cat with orange fur and could feel her affection for the animal. As a child, you had a cat named Whiskers.
That’s amazing! She canted her head. Am I easy or hard to read?
Easy. You’re what we call a strong emitter. However, our attraction enables me to communicate with you far easier than I can with anyone else. It can be painful to do a reading if memories are locked or if we enter a person’s head without their permission. He’d often wondered if the Xenos had given Veritals mind-reading ability to stir dissension on ’Topia but then feared what would happen if they could pick their brains, so they built in a pain hazard.
Curiosity sparked in her gaze. How can memories be locked?
He hadn’t anticipated such a detailed discussion—hadn’t had to describe his mental powers before. There was no need with Veritals, and other ’Topians never asked, perhaps unwilling to discover how vulnerable they were.
A locked memory becomes inaccessible to the individual himself. To understand it, you need to know something about memory processing. There is conscious thought—for instance, what you’re thinking right now. There is short-term memory—like the conversation we had a few minutes ago, or the taste of the cheese you ate. You may or may not remember those things later.
I’ll remember our conversation. She grinned. And the cheese, too. It was delicious!
Do you remember the squirrel?
What squirrel?
The one that ran across our path as we were walking to the gazebo.
Her gaze shifted to the left. Uh, no. I guess I don’t. Is that memory locked?
> More like a memory that failed to be saved because it was unimportant. Normally, when you place a thought in long-term memory, it’s accessible for later. You can recall it at will. However, some memories can’t be recalled. A trauma can cause a person to bury the experience deep in their psyche. So much pain is associated with the event that they resist any effort to dredge it to the surface.
Cassie leaned on the table, her expression rapt.
It doesn’t scare you what I am, what I can do? He’d shared way more than he’d intended.
Why should it? I have nothing to hide, and I enjoy the mental connection. It, um, feels intimate. She blushed.
It’s that way for me, too. His erection proved it.
He pushed back from the table. Are you ready for dessert? I ordered chocolate cream pie.
I’m always ready for chocolate anything.
He pulled two individual chocolate cream tarts from the cooler and set one before her and one at his place.
She took a bite, closing her eyes with pleasure. The food is amazing. All of it. The smoked meats, the cheeses, this pie.
It came from a deli in Coeur d’Alene. He tasted the tart. He had to admit it was the best thing he’d ever eaten
You went all the way there?
It wasn’t far on the hover scooter. Only a dozen miles down the main highway. He would have gone a hundred miles, a thousand miles to please her.
She licked chocolate from her lips.
You missed a spot. He reached across the table and blotted the corner of her mouth with his napkin.
You missed a spot, too. She stood, and, with a swing of her hips, walked around the table, and kissed him.
Oh, that is a much better way. He pulled her onto his lap. Their lips melded in a heated caress, and her low seductive moan heaped fuel on the fire. He swept his tongue in her mouth. She tasted like chocolate, whipped cream, and woman.
She nibbled at his mouth. He trailed his lips along her exposed shoulder.
Though desire strummed a heavy beat, he limited himself to passionate kisses and over-the-clothing caresses, conscious of her inexperience and the growing hunch she could be his genmate. There should be no doubts for either of them when they consummated their bond. Besides, an open gazebo did not afford privacy.
He’d shared more of himself with her than anyone. She invited confidence with her open, acceptance of who he was, what he could do. For the longest time, he’d felt isolated from his fellow castaways, sensing their wariness. Wingman, especially, had been suspicious, although Psy had won him over. But he did not take acceptance for granted.
She pressed her face to his throat and released a happy contented sigh. This has been the best date of my entire life. Not that there have been that many. Her self-deprecating laugh sounded sweet to his ears.
It’s the same for me.
You’re a special man. She stroked his cheek with her finger. You’ve given me a huge gift. Communicating with you makes me aware of how much I’ve missed, how much I don’t say because writing is so laborious. I’ve never been able to have a long conversation with anyone like I have with you. My interactions with people are shallow. Most aren’t even personal!
She flipped through the pages of her notebook, showing him preprinted messages.
Hello, I’m Cassie. I can’t speak, but I can hear, and I can write. How can I help you today?
I can ring you up. How would you like to pay for that?
I’m fine. How are you?
Yes, thank you.
No, thank you.
She snapped the notebook closed. I’ve discussed more with you today than I have with anyone in my entire life—including my mother.
Her pensiveness washed over him. I didn’t mean to make you sad. Since she couldn’t speak, telepathy had seemed like a logical solution. Most communication is just idle chit chat. Audio filler. A person asks, “How are you?” but he doesn’t expect a genuine or personal reply.
There’s still the potential for deeper conversation. She slid off his lap and stalked to the edge of the gazebo, staring at the field. A bee buzzed at her face. She gave a little squeal and swatted it away.
Psy rose from his chair and came up behind her.
The sun hung low in a blushing sky, the sunset hues reminding him of ’Topian skies, which were always pink. Homesickness crept in, but he pushed it aside because looking backward couldn’t restore what had been lost. His future resided in the present, on Earth. With Cassie.
He recalled again her laughter, her passionate moans, the little squeal she’d just made. For a woman who couldn’t speak, she emitted a lot of sounds. Her vocal cords hadn’t developed by birth, but what if that had changed? What if she had acquired the ability to speak since then? When were your vocal cords examined last?
She turned. When I was a baby. Why?
Maybe the situation has changed.
It hasn’t.
How do you know?
I just do. She touched her throat. If I try to speak, my throat closes up, and I can’t breathe.
Odd. He frowned. That doesn’t happen when you laugh or groan, does it?
No.
I’m no expert in human anatomy, but I’ve noticed you make noises. Maybe that’s a sign you might be able to speak.
Dogs bark, growl, howl, and yelp, but they can’t speak.
Maybe they are speaking, but humans don’t understand their language.
Like you said, you’re not an expert in human anatomy—or canine anatomy for that matter. My mother took me to every expert she could find.
Maybe your medical science has advanced in two decades.
Why do you keep harping on that? I will never be able to speak! You’re acting like all the rest! You prefer a speaking person!
That’s not what I’m saying at all! He raked his hands through his hair. He was botching this. She’d said she preferred open, direct questions, but obviously, he’d touched a nerve.
Pleasure and intimacy had vanished. Anger and hurt filled the void.
Her face reddened, and she balled her fists. What happened to me is unfixable! I believed you accepted me, disability and all. You don’t. You’re trying to change me. I’m not good enough the way I am.
He was horrified she’d misunderstood. That’s not true. I asked about it because you seemed upset at not being able to speak.
They had brought a med pod with them from ’Topia. The unit hadn’t been calibrated for human anatomy and physiology per se, but perhaps it could repair or regenerate her vocal cords. No guarantees, but wasn’t it worth a try? He’d hoped to broach the possibility, but she would not be receptive right now.
Take me home. She crossed her arms and pressed her lips together.
Please…wait, listen to me. He should have allowed her deeper access to his mind so she would see he’d had the best intentions. She desperately yearned to speak. He wanted it for her because she desired it. Whether she spoke or didn’t speak didn’t matter to him.
I’m done talking to you. Get out of my head! Now!
The Code of Conduct left him no choice. She’d rejected the mind-link, and he had to withdraw.
I’m sorry. He retreated.
She pivoted, charged down the steps, and stomped through the lavender field.
Chapter Six
“You’re home early.” Rosalie shifted her attention from the television.
Cassie had hoped to slink into her room unseen. However, it wasn’t even nine o’clock—of course her mother still would be awake. And since this was Cassie’s first date in years—she would have waited up no matter what the time.
The start of something wonderful had ended badly, and guilt had begun to needle her, although none of what had happened was her fault. She had a right to be angry and disappointed. Psy’s acceptance had been a sham. He was no different than anyone else.
Her mother scanned Cassie’s face. “It didn’t go well?”
She shrugged.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.
What happened?” Her mother switched off the TV.
After experiencing the ease of telepathic communication, the last thing she wanted was to write out everything. How could she explain the best night of her life had become the worst? She couldn’t stop replaying the date. The romantic setting. The way he had kissed her and had held her. The conversation. For the first time in her life, she’d felt normal. And just when she started to believe dreams could come true, the magic had evaporated the way dreams always did. The hover scooter might very well have turned into a pumpkin.
Nor was Psy Prince Charming. He preferred a woman who could speak.
The ride home had been long and awkward. She’d scooted to the rear of the seat, putting as much distance between them as she could, but she couldn’t escape his body heat or his leather-and-cloves masculine scent.
Or his continued apologies.
Words were cheap. His actions had said it all. She’d refused to forgive him. That was the sole benefit of being a mute—the ability to freeze out someone who’d wronged you. She didn’t need to be fixed!
Her gaze sympathetic, Rosalie patted the sofa. “Sit down.”
Stifling a sigh, Cassie sank onto the couch. The sooner she got this over with, the sooner she could hide in her room.
“You have something stuck in your hair.”
Her hand shot to her head, and she found the twig of lavender. She pulled it loose and sniffed it. A lump formed in her throat.
“What happened? Can you talk about it?”
Talk. How ironic. She opened her notebook. We broke up, she penned the simplest, shortest answer she could give.
It sounded strange to call what had happened a breakup, but the night had held so much promise, it had seemed like so much more than a date. It had felt like the start of a life. Communicating with Psy had been so wonderful, so liberating. For the first time, she’d been free of limitations, free of pad and pen. She hadn’t realized how much she hated the damn notebook.
“I’m so sorry, honey. I know you’re disappointed. But it’s better to find out now it won’t work out than get your heart broken later.”
Too late.
“Did you have a disagreement?”
