Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series (9 page)

It’s a big step for me, opening up, inviting intimacy. But at the same time it’s so liberating that my shoulders slacken and I sink further into him. Tristan shifts my body backward so I’m lying on the bear fur, its soft bristles silky against my back. He traces the line of my jaw, twirls the strands of hair over my ear, then runs a finger down my chest and stomach, where he stops to tease my navel a bit.

I giggle and it sounds uncharacteristically playful and girlish. My cheeks going hot, I pull him closer so that he’s lying just over me. We kiss some more, tender now, soft in a way that convinces me this moment means more than physical desire. Emotions are tied to every movement of our bodies. We’re sharing, not taking. And right now I want to share everything I have with him. I want him to leave me breathless.

Beep. Beep Beep.

The shack door. Holy. Hell.

“Bianca?” Dad’s voice is faint from the other side of it.

Thankfully I latched it from the inside. I scuffle to my feet, grab my clothes. “Just a minute, Dad.”

“Here, hurry.” I toss Tristan his clothes, my heart pounding in my ears.

He scurries to put them on, almost falling on his face.

I fumble through getting my pants on, reminding myself to breathe.

“Everything okay in there?” Dad calls. “Unlock the door.”

“Yeah, we’re just cleaning up a mess. One sec.” I slip on my shirt, stuff my bra in my pocket, and check my image in the mirror over the sink. My face is flushed red, my hair a nappy black mess. So obvious. Quickly, I straighten myself up and check Tristan over.

He’s in his hooded sweatshirt again. His hair’s in disarray, but he’s allowed to be sloppy—he just turbo-detoxed in six hours. I give the area one last scan for incriminating evidence pointing to my near de-flowering, and unlatch the door.

Frigid air gusts in alongside Dad in his hooded fur parka. He reminds me of a bear—the way he lifts his head and sniffs the air discreetly, before honing in on Tristan. “You guys all right? What’s going on?”

“I’ve had better days,” Tristan says casually, his face still pale, but flushed at the upper cheeks.

Dad pushes his hood away from his face, studying Tristan a few seconds. “Looks like you made it through. Any problems?”

“No, Dad.” I secure the door again. “Is this a random verification? We weren’t expecting you for another two hours.”

“I told you I’d check in—”

“Bianca was great,” Tristan is quick to say, rubbing the back of his neck. “Really, I don’t know if I could’ve done it without her. Thank you, Mr. Butterman.”

Dad glances at me and I can barely look at him, my heart now galloping between total ecstasy and downright guilt. Feels like it’s written all over my face—the fact I was seconds close to going all the way on the floor of Dad’s prized man cave. I flicker my gaze to the ground, biting at my thumbnail.

“Glad to hear it then,” Dad says to Tristan. “So? Do you feel relieved of any further urges?”

For the love of God.

Tristan chuckles in such an awkward way, he may as well come right out and confess his guilty hands have been all over my body.

“Um, I … dunno what I feel right now,” he says. “Disturbed, maybe.” He laughs again. “I’d say mostly drained.”

Dad nods. “That’s to be expected. A vitamin-packed protein shake back at the house oughtta get you into shape.”

“Right.” Tristan’s still rubbing the back of his neck. “And a shower. And about ten hours of sleep.”

“I’m afraid that’s a luxury you can’t afford at the moment,” Dad says. “Part of the reason I’m here. Your agent’s been desperate to reach you—something about a new deadline. I put her off for as long as I could, but she said it can’t wait any longer.”

Tristan groans, his head falling back on his neck. “Ugh, that means my producers aren’t gonna wait. Shit.”

Dad paces the room, surveying the state of it. “From what I understand, they’re pulling out if you don’t deliver.” He stops, stares at Tristan. “Important thing is your health.”

“And damage control,” Tristan mumbles to himself. “I don’t suppose any of this has helped your percentages?”

“Matter of fact, Agent Garth says it was the wisest decision we could’ve made. Apparently, the public believes you want to get better.” Dad shrugs. “And I don’t want to rush you, but if you’re feeling up to it, now would be a good time to get things moving along. Here.” He hands Tristan his palm-com device.

Tristan studies it like it might bite him. “Need my strength first. I’ll call after my protein shake.”

We straighten up the shack and bundle up for the tundra. On the snowmobile, Dad drives us over the ridge to our mountain and up to what should be the back of our house. Instead, it’s a carnival of paparazzi with their hover-cams.

“Are you kidding me?” I say to Dad.

He slows the machine, shaking his head. “I don’t understand. It wasn’t like this when I left. How did they know?”

“Word always seems to find a way out,” Tristan says in a deflated voice. “Someone overheard something, or some microdrone captured evidence. Never fails.”

“I told no one.” Dad says.

Tristan heaves a deep breath from behind me. “Nothing can be done about it now.”

“I made extra sure not to disclose details on times or locations to anyone I talked to,” Dad continues, baffled. “I even had Agent Garth throw in a red herring that you’d be at the inn upon your arrival back into public. They had no reason to suspect the agency for your appearance.”

“Not your fault,” Tristan says. “They always find out where you are, like a swarm of blood-thirsty mosquitos.”

He wraps his arms around my waist and squeezes. I lean back into him, relishing our last few moments of privacy, before we step into mayhem.

“Are you ready for this?” I angle myself backwards, so my amber goggles are facing his.

“I’ll just wave, smile, let them see I’m sober.” He presses his lenses against mine, and it’s like we’re in an ocular theater. “With you at my side, I’m ready for anything.”

I give a quick, urgent kiss to his cold lips, unsure how much weight his words really hold. If only there was more time—I’d slip back inside that cocoon of body warmth and cradle myself in his embrace. I so want that moment back.

But I fear what lies ahead has nothing to do with what
I
want.

“
N
o
… no … no.” I shake my head at one holographic model after another, gesture-scrolling through the Web page. “These vintage designs aren’t right either. I need something that suggests second class. These ready-mades are all either haute couture or Mary Poppins wanna-bes.”

“Then do a search for middle class fashion of 1912,” Tristan says. He expands the page’s search function over the next three models that pop up and they freeze in place.

“That’s what I did. Not one vintage design shop offers standard everyday clothing options for that decade. Guess they assume if you want vintage this far back, you’re going to a costume party.”

“You are, sorta. Any pictures I’ve ever seen of
Titanic
were pretty swanky.”

“That’s ‘cause it carried high ranking officials, dignitaries, and celebrities, not to mention a few of the wealthiest industrialists of the day. But I can’t show up there looking like I’m
somebody
, or people will ask questions. I have to blend in.”

Tristan leans back in his desk chair, sipping his steaming tea. “Okay, but how will blending in help you? Think about it—if the idea is to get word to the captain and save the ship, what makes you think he’d listen to some random economy-class passenger?”

I realize I never explained the change of plans. He’s surprisingly collected after the media frenzy outside the office accused of him of binging. Some guy had the balls to ask him if it was because he couldn’t hack the stresses of a real performing artist—this right after going through a turbo detox. He never once lost his cool when they hollered out insinuating questions and zoomed their hover-cams into his face. I have more respect for him now than I ever have.

Shutting down the holo-mall, I refocus on him. “There’ve been some new developments with my Induction trip.”

“What do you mean?”

“Now that it’s gonna be fully publicized, I can’t try to divert
Titanic
or initiate a parallel shift to an alternate universe. Not with Garth nosing around all of it.”

“Wasn’t it her idea to blow it up into this big production?”

I nod. “To prove my competency as a licensed time trip guide and pilot. So she says. She insists something about this historical event will interest the public and get them involved. It’s really about making the DOT look good. A bunch of political BS. Dad says the director’s up for office again and needs people to believe in him.”

“And they won’t do that knowing he’s allowed a time travel agency to operate when they’ve been fraternizing with a known junkhead.” Tristan’s tone is matter-of-fact and bitter.

My chest twinges with a dull ache. I need him to stay in the positive zone, not lose faith in himself. “You’re clean, remember? 100 percent detoxed with a witness who can vouch for all of it. Who cares what the DOT thinks, or the world? You know the truth.
I
know the truth, and so do my parents, or believe me, they would
not
let you hang out here.”

His lips curl into a small, but grateful smile, his chin dimpling. “This is why I need you in my life.”

My throat tightens and I can’t tear my eyes from his. Every nerve ending on my body is buzzing. I want to reply with some kind of witty, idealistic sensuality, but no words will come. Such a buffoon with this intimacy thing.

Tristan clutches my hand, his face moving toward me til our lips meet. His flesh is plush and fragrant-sweet like spicy rose petals. Gently, he backs away, tilts his head to the side. “What’s wrong?”

I give him a funny look. “Nothing. Why?”

His brows furrow, but he grins. “I dunno, you seem … distracted.”

“Oh, no, well, yeah maybe a little. I’ve got a lot to think about.”

“You mean us?”

I hesitate, studying the creased lines of his forehead. “My Induction Day. It’s so bizarre—all these years I’ve been waiting for it, I never expected anything like this …
fish bowl
, as you like to call it.”

“Ah.” He nods his head in full agreement. “Now you’ve got people waiting and watching for your next move. Ready with cameras to record any mistake.”

“Yeah.” I watch him pull out his device and project its holo-screen. “Guess you’d know a little about that, huh?”

He gestures a
tiny bit
with his fingers, his gaze still on his device. “There’s a shitload of people out there waiting to see if I can pull off this album. I’m beginning to wonder myself.”

After the diner incident, even his producers doubt he can deliver.

“You have til New Year’s Day, right?” I ask.

“That’s the word on the street from Val, but I have a feeling she’s buffering the real deadline by at least a week. I’m not gonna argue, though. Once I get back to my studio, I’m locking myself in til I get my new tracks laid down.”

I can tell by the tone of his voice he’s trying to convince himself as much as me.

“Wish you could come with me.” I try to console him. “Blow off some steam before you bury yourself in your music for the next few weeks.”

He pauses, looks at me. “Wait a minute, why can’t I? Butterman, that’s brilliant!”

“I was just talking ... You don’t think … Tristan, they’d never go for it.”

He searches my face, his gray-blue eyes dancing, full of verve. “Just listen. If your trip is gonna be publicized anyway, having you complete it with me at your side could be just what we need to prove there’s no foul play going on. Val’s been saying I need some good PR, but I didn’t even think of it til you just suggested it.”

“I was wishful thinking, though, not seriously believing my parents or the DOT would go for it.”

“And why wouldn’t they? They wanna prove I’m not a waste case as much as we do. I could be your first mate, and the world can see there’s no scandal between us.” He squeezes my hands, his face somber. “You believe in me, right? What you said for your press release—about biting your fingernails when you were a kid—you won’t give up on me, right? Think about it: we team up and take the trip together, then come back and wave, blow some kisses, give the media the happy successful couple they need to see so they can leave us alone. They don’t care about celebrities with good lives—they feed off misfortune and humiliation.”

My neck is itching again and I’m sure some kind of stress-hives are popping out all over. I try rubbing it lightly so they don’t flare up. “Even if I agreed with you, the DOT and my parents would never go for it.”

“Why not? It’ll look good for them too. I’ll talk to Garth, turn on the Tristan charm—been known to bring ladies to their knees.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” I can’t hide the bite in my tone.

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Bad choice of words. I just mean that I’m used to working people over when I need to—in a polite way, of course. Goes with the territory of fame. What can I say? You didn’t think I meant—”

“No.” I push his arms away from me. “I didn’t think anything, it’s just a lot to consider. I don’t even know if I can pull off the command
myself
, much less having a passenger to worry about.”

That’s only partly it. The idea of Tristan schmoozing Garth over dinner leaves a foul taste in my mouth and it’s everything I can do to ignore it. It’s effin’ annoying since I’ve never been the jealous type.
What is wrong with me?

I realize I’m scratching my neck harder and stop, move my hand beneath me, my neck burning.

“What is up with your neck?” Tristan examines it.

“It’s nothing. Happens when I get hassled by people with screwy ideas.”

“I want to go with you,” he says. “If you’ll have me, I think this could be really good for us. And you said yourself it’s just a visit, not the epic save you’ve been plotting forever.” He leans in, his breath on my skin. “Come on, you and me pinballing through time tunnels together? Playing Cosmic Chutes and Ladders like old times.”

Old times
? It was only a month ago. In the back of my mind I entertain the idea that everything he says to me is a part of that aforementioned Tristan charm.

“What’s that look for?” he asks.

“What look? Am I giving you a look?”

“I know that look,” he says, leaning back. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

“Tristan, it’s not that. I wouldn’t be here with you right now if I didn’t. I’m just … frazzled by all of it.” I pause, take a deep breath. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea—I’ve never done anything like this before—with people watching me. I’m not good under that kinda pressure. You’re used to it, but me? I hate it. My nerves get all jumbled like they’ll explode through my skin. And I can’t afford any mistakes. I have to open the time-port, and source the vortex code, and maximize the time window—all of it in front of Garth.”

“Then let me be there for you, share the anxiety.” He takes my hands again. “That’s what friends do for each other, right? That’s what you did for me in the ice shack. Let me return the favor.”

I’m fastened to his gaze, but so reluctant to give in. “Is that why you want to come with me? ‘Cause a minute ago it sounded like you just needed a getaway.”

“I do need a getaway, but I need a getaway with you. And that’s not why I want to come. Is it so hard to believe that I wanna experience this with you?”

And finally I surrender, because I can’t deny the flicker of optimism in his eyes, or the determination in his voice. And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad having him there—in fact, I might just enjoy it.

I get up, power down our room console so the projection screen disintegrates. “Guess we’ll need two second-class outfits then.”

He’s behind me now, his lips on the back of my shoulder. “I get to kiss you in the year 1912? Sublime.”

My skin tingles. “There’s still the matter of convincing my parents and the DOT.”

“Don’t say anything to your parents yet,” he whispers. “Let me talk to Garth, explain what good PR it’ll be for us both. If she’s onboard, then your parents won’t have much choice, right?”

I shrug my shoulders against his warm chest. “How conniving of you.”

“Not conniving, just strategic planning.” His arms travel around my waist, resting at my stomach. “How do we get our new threads, though?”

“That, you can leave to me. I’ll have them ready by the end of the day.”

“What, you’re gonna make them?”

“Sure, I have a 3D fashion printer. Where do you think the rest of my clothes come from?”

“Why have you never told me this before?” he asks, in front of me now, studying my pink striped blouse and sequined nylon skirt.

“Never came up.” I flash a casual smile, as if everyone prints out and stitches their own clothing, which really isn’t all that uncommon, but I’ll let him bask in my brill skills a few minutes anyway.

“So what’s this online shopping all about then?”

“I’m not exactly proficient in turn-of-the-twentieth-century fashion. I was hoping I could order something and save some time, but you know what they say about wanting something done right.”

He’s still staring at me. “Huh. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

I grin. “Maybe. Or maybe there’s still a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Oh, I’m banking on it.” He returns the tease, casting me a sly grin. “Can’t wait to find all of it out—like bathing techniques, nightly rituals …” Linking his arms around me, his hands wander over my back, sliding down over my butt. “Undergarment selections …”

“Not so fast, Doc Ock. I still live with my parents, remember?” I kiss his ready lips, then slide out of his embrace. I’ve got bigger clocks to wind right now. “I’ll see if I can’t draw up my own designs from historical photo journals. My fabric stash has seen better days, but I think I may have something that will work. Once I print out the patterns, I’ll run it through the stitch-processor and we can try them on.” I examine Tristan’s thin, toned frame and modestly broad shoulders. “I’ve never made man clothes before. Might take a few tries to get it right.”

“When is this illustrious Induction Day?”

“Three days. Enough time to print and assemble outfits myself if I seize every ounce of free time.”

“I’ll speak to Garth today,” he says, pecking me on the cheek. “You’re amazing, you know that?

“Save the amazement for after we pull this off.” Not that I totally doubt my abilities, but missing the time window or mis-navigating the arrival over the Atlantic Ocean could have the DOT shutting down Butterman Travel for good, aside from the possibility Tristan and I end up at the bottom of the ocean instead of onboard the ship.

“Wait and see, Butterman, ” Tristan says.

Shifting gears, I release a long, conceding sigh and allow a smile to creep up on my lips. “You know what I can’t wait to see? How adorable you’ll be decked out in dawn of the twentieth century garb.”

S
traightening
the long sleeves of my lacy white blouse, I check myself in the mirror once more. The custom-made shirt hangs just past my butt, which is donning only navy leggings til I can get my buffersuit on. Each button I stitched on by hand to ensure quality. It was the single most difficult garment I’ve ever assembled. So much complexity to appear so simple.

I take a deep, steady breath. Hard to believe it’s really happening—the event I’ve waited eight years for. Everything is set and I’ve gone over it at least ten times, not to mention all the preparations I’ve made over the years.

Mom takes my arm, then brushes back a strand of my black hair. “It’s time. You look great.”

I button the top of my collar so I’m the picture of modesty, and double check that my faux pearl hairpin is in place at the side part of my hair, which is in perfectly arranged waves to my chin.

“Come on, Miss Butterman.” Mom links her arm in mine, dragging me from the mirror. “Your vessel awaits.”

“Yeah, along with thousands of strangers hoping to see me goof.”

Together, we meet Dad and Garth in the front office, both outfitted in their parkas and ready to brave the tundra to the Launchpad. Dad’s shoulders are tense, but he’s wearing a reassuring little smile. Putting on a show, no doubt, for Garth and everyone else who’s about to watch his daughter and former junkhead boyfriend time travel back to a ship that’ll nose-dive to the ocean depths.