Vicarious (5 page)

“You did amazing tonight.” His voice is low.

I dump everything into the water and turn around, abandoning the tea to the stove. “You think?”

“Yeah. I panicked for a second when the gun went off. But you didn't. I swear you've got the reflexes of a cat.”

I look over at the teakettle. It won't be done for a while. Jesse shucks off his quilted coat. All he has underneath is a white T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. He might as well be sitting here half-naked.

He catches me staring and his face lights up. I can read all sorts of things in his grin. What he wants, what he thinks I want. I wish I could throw myself into the kettle and drown, or maybe evaporate into steam. “Rose has faster reflexes than I do.” I don't even know if this is true. It's just the first thing that comes to mind, and I want to distract him from whatever he's thinking.

“What's her deal, anyway? Does she actually like all that dancing and stuff?”

Maybe.
“I don't know. So what if she does?” I ask, a note of defensiveness creeping into my voice. “Are you telling me you never recorded anything provocative?” I know Gideon has multiple sexual ViSEs for sale. I'm sure all of his male recorders have donned headsets and wigs and taken one for the team, so to speak.

Jesse's smile fades. “That was a long time ago, and I was desp—”

I cut him off. “So then why do you get to judge her?”

“Whoa.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Not judging anyone. I just know how much you worry about her.”

“I do.” I've never told him this. I didn't realize it was so obvious.

“I mean, why let guys paw all over her when she can do cool stuff like us?”

I asked Dr. Abrams about this once. She said sometimes victims of abuse seek out more abuse because it's the only thing they know. Rose says that's bullshit. She says it's about taking back the control that was stolen from us.

“Where we came from,” I tell Jesse, “a girl needs an arsenal to feel safe. Beauty, her body—these are her weapons.”

“Where did you guys come from?”

Hell.
I don't answer.

Jesse leans forward. He reaches across the table and takes my hand before I can pull it away. “Okay, then. So what are
your
weapons?” His thumb massages the middle of my palm. I stare down at the military insignia tattooed on his forearm and the ring of random letters around his wrist. I've never paid much attention to Jesse's tattoos, but suddenly little details about him are starting to stand out. I hear my sister's voice in my head again.
You know Jesse loves you.

Sweat beads up on my forehead. I yank my hand free, slide a knife out of the sheath still strapped to my left ankle, and set it on the table with a soft clunk. “Weapons are my weapons.”

“Nice.” Jesse takes the knife and turns it over in his hand. “Does Gideon know you have this?”

“Yes,” I say. “He doesn't approve, but he knows he can't keep me from buying things that I want.” I slide the other knife from its sheath and twirl the hilt between my palms.

Jesse lifts the knife he's holding to his shoulder and fakes like he's going to throw it at the wall behind me. “Where'd you get them?”

“The Internet.” It's also where I learned to throw them. I watched a few videos and then hung a wooden target on the wall in my bedroom. Miso watched me practice from the hallway, his amber eyes curious but unafraid, his tail twitching at each dull thunk.

I look around for the cat but he's nowhere in sight. Probably curled up amongst the clutter in Rose's room. I set my knife on the table.

Jesse sets the other one next to it. “I have a great idea. Do you want to trade?”

“Trade what? Weapons?” Jesse carries a gun. I would love to trade with him.

“Recordings.” He pulls his collapsed headset from a pocket and snaps a memory card out of a slot on the back.

“You know I don't vise.”

I've told Jesse this, but I've never told him why. He doesn't know about my PTSD, my hallucinations, my time in the hospital. The reality-challenged are not meant to live vicariously.

“Never?” Jesse asks. “Not even your own recordings?”

“I did it a few times to help Gideon test the beta tech, but it's been years.”

“It's not like you're tripping off it or anything,” Jesse says. “It'd be like reviewing your performance. Aren't you even a
little
curious?”

I am, but it's difficult not to form an intimate connection with the recorder since you're experiencing the world from inside someone else's brain. I'm not good with intimate connections, especially not with Jesse. “I prefer the real world.” The excuse sounds hollow even to me. “Also, I'm really sensitive to overlay.”

Overlay happens when the viser isn't able to turn off his or her own thoughts and sensations, so external stimuli bleed through. The best visers are good at meditating, blocking out the whole world except for the ViSE. Otherwise you end up experiencing the recorder's sensations on top of your own, which can result in headaches, nausea, and disorientation.

“Maybe you just need to learn how to relax.” Jesse goes to the kitchen wall and flicks off the light. The flame of the gas burner casts flickering shadows around the room.

“I don't think that'll help,” I say. “My thoughts are a little harder to shut off.”

He gives up. “Then just let me see yours.” He holds out his hand.

I hesitate, but then fish my headset out of my pocket and extract the memory card. I pass it over to Jesse. In the dim light, his features are amorphous, his damaged ear, his scar, the slight bend in his nose fading into the gray. I wonder if mine are too—if my high cheekbones and sharp chin are softened. Gideon always says I wear a perpetually angry look, that my face repels people. Jesse is leaning toward me, though, anything but repelled.

“Fine,” I say suddenly. “Let me have it.” I've never vised from a guy's point of view. It could be interesting. Besides, the tea still has a few minutes to go.

Jesse slides his recording across the table. I catch a hint of sweat mixed with evergreen deodorant, the sweetness of the brewing tea threading throughout it. Just these simple scents might cause enough overlay to bring on a headache. I try to push them out of my head as I take the tiny card from him and slip it into my headset.
I smell nothing. I see nothing. I hear nothing. I feel nothing.

The headset unfolds into what is basically a lightweight metal spider. I slide it onto the back of my head and position the prongs over the neural access points.

“Ready?” Jesse asks. “We go together.”

I close my eyes and press
PLAY
.

Apparently, we're
not
going together. I should be standing just outside the Phantasm building, but instead:

I look into my own face as I open the door to the penthouse.

For some reason, Jesse started recording long before we reached Phantasm and I put on my mask. “What is this?” I ask.

“Don't worry. I'll cut you out of the finished product.”

“But why would you start recording so early?” My head begins to throb at the temples from only just a few seconds of balancing the dual realities.

“Shh,” he says. “This is just getting good.”

I sigh, but try to focus on Jesse's recording. His eye was permanently damaged at the same time as his ear, and therefore the left side of my visual field is framed by a faint blurry streak. It's almost unnoticeable unless you know to look for it. I skip forward.

We're heading down the stairwell. I see the fingers of my right hand brushing against the metal railing.

Even with the lights off, I'm not embracing the ViSE. Instead I experience it from a distance, like I'm watching the events play out on TV. As I reach up to fast-forward the recording again, I realize I look different to Jesse than I do when I look in the mirror. My skin is smoother, my eyes wider. It's almost like his brain is editing me.

Other people look different too. The girls trying to get into the club look softer, like lambs. The homeless girls seem so weak. It makes me curious about his past. What sort of history makes you view everyone as prey?

I skip forward to the actual break-in and then try to empty my mind and become Jesse.

We enter the Phantasm building. A sense of calm comes over me as we duck low behind the sculpture and then cross the lobby to the escalators. We head upstairs. I spray the keypad, crack the code, and head to the back of the office. My heart slows even more as we creep through the Phantasm suite.

Everything plays out pretty much like I expect until the guy busts in with the gun.

We're positioned against the wall. We exchange looks. I freeze up completely for a second as I see myself drop low and lunge for the guard.

My lips quirk into a smile as I admire my takedown move. Then I remember how Jesse's brain edited me earlier and wonder if I was actually half as agile as I looked.

My heart threatens to burst straight through my rib cage. I gasp for breath before leaping on top of the guard. I pin the hand with the gun to the floor. I see myself grab it. Then the guard is pleading and he's getting shocked and then we're on the run. Sharp spikes of air thrust in and out of my chest as I watch myself almost run directly into the second security guard.

I lose the momentum of the ViSE again as Jesse and I head for the river. I start to smell the ginger of the tea and feel the kitchen table hard beneath my forearms. Searing pain races through my temples and my stomach lurches. I try to empty my brain, but I keep flashing back to the freezing up, to the fear Jesse felt when I was in danger. I've never known him to be afraid.

With his military background and ViSE experience, he should be battle ready, always in control. That intense fear response
means
something.

Something I'd rather not think about.

 

CHAPTER 6

The
teakettle whistles. I pull the headset off and fling it down on the table, flinching from the mild shock. Opening my eyes, I blink hard, clutching one hand to my churning stomach.

Jesse hears my chair scrape against the floor and opens his eyes. “Hey, you quit in the middle.”

“I saw enough.” My lips are tight. I jump up and go to the stove, nearly scorching my hand on the burner as I reach for the kettle. I crank the stove off, counting the beats of my heart as they pound in my temples. “The way you see me is weird.”

Jesse removes his headset, folds it, and slips it into his pocket. “How so?”

“It's just different.” I think of my wide, dark eyes looking at him from the doorway of the penthouse, my agile form attacking the guard in the server room. “I look so graceful to you. More like my sister than me.”

He studies me carefully. “Maybe I'm not the one with the skewed perception.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I remove two mugs from the nearest cupboard, pouring each one of them exactly three-quarters full of tea.

“I don't understand why you're always putting yourself down. Comparing yourself unfavorably to Rose.”

“I grew up in her shadow,” I say simply. “Everyone finds her beautiful.”

“Yeah, she's hot, and so are you. But the world is full of hot chicks. Not every girl can disarm a security guard and jump off a bridge.”

I smile in spite of myself. It's true. Rose isn't one for adventure sports or martial arts. I used to question why Gideon didn't train her alongside me. He said she was old enough to make her own decisions, and she had no interest in fighting, at least not with her fists.

I suddenly feel lost in her absence, a satellite with nothing to orbit. Hopefully she'll be home soon.

I plunk both mugs down on the table. “Help yourself.”

Jesse reaches past both mugs for my hand, but I pull it away. I try to step back, but the kitchen feels as if it's shrunk. I smell evergreen again. Jesse is everywhere.

“I don't feel like tea anymore.” I turn and busy myself at the counter.

“What's wrong, Winter? What did I do?”

“You showed me that on purpose,” I say, without turning around. “You knew I would figure out what it meant.”

“What
what
meant?” He sounds honestly confused, and for a moment I hope I have it all wrong, that he's just another guy looking to score, like I told Rose earlier.

I spin and face him. “The way you felt when the gun went off.”

“I was scared. I care about you,” he says, like I'm the world's biggest idiot for not knowing this. He shakes his head. “Only you would find that to be a problem.”

He's so … earnest. So willing. Maybe that's part of why I hold back. Good things have never come easily to me. If I can have him without a fight, there must be something wrong. “Jesse, our job is hard enough without … other things getting in the way.”

“Other things?” He closes the gap between us in a couple of quick strides. “I know you care about me too.”

“I do, but…” My voice fades away as Jesse pins me against the counter, trapping me between his arms. I see beard stubble and a nose broken one too many times. The hazel in his eyes blurs into different hues. He's too close. My brain sends all sorts of signals to the rest of me:
punch, kick, scream, run away.

My muscles disobey. I am paralyzed.

“It's okay to care.” He cups the side of my face in one hand.

I let myself get pulled further into his gaze. The colors twist and turn around me. An ocean of browns and golds. I wish I could regress to a point where this closeness would be exciting instead of terrifying. I'm not even sure how far back I'd have to go.

Too far.