by David Beem
“Pft. Of course not.”
“Of course not!” she says. “Because I didn’t mean that at all. I meant, you know…you’ve got needs, and, I mean, how are you supposed to, you know, satisfy your needs if you’re in this…professional…marriage…situation.”
“Right, right,” I say, nodding, while inside I’m like a drunken streaker crashing face-first into a glass door.
“It only stands to reason that…eventually…you’re going to need…” She stops and puts one hand on her hip and the other to her mouth as she clears her throat. “Have the…” The Gigantic Rock hand makes a looping motion in front of her face like the word “sex” involves a conjuring spell.
“Have the sex?” I offer.
She nods. “That’s it. Have the sex.”
Oh, that’s just painful, says Nigel. Even for me.
Shut up!
Listen: If your discussion of sex includes the word “the” in front of sex, then it is a forever unrecoverable gaffe. Nobody comes back from that. Nobody.
Mary clicks her tongue. She rakes her fingers through her hair. “Okay. Just shut up and listen. I’m trying to tell you something. You and I are…different. Okay?”
“Okay…?”
Mary releases a sigh.
“But different doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”
I shake my head.
“For example…you love Star Wars.” She shrugs. “I don’t care about Star Wars.” She shifts her weight to one side, then rubs her forehead.
“You’re saying you don’t like the sex?” I ask.
“What? No. I love the sex. Oh yeah. I love the sex as much as the next…sex lover…”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying a skillful spy will manipulate you with sex. It isn’t safe for you to have sex outside the confines of marriage. Even if it’s a pretend marriage. To me, for example. Some people can do that, you know. Have sex without…feelings. But you’re not one of them.”
“And you are?”
She shakes her head. “No!”
“So… We’re back to you and me having the sex?”
Her shoulders slump. Wait—now she’s striding straight out the door and down the hall to her room. She shuts her door. The latch clicks.
“What’re you doing?” I yell.
“Packing!”
“Why’d you lock the door?”
Another click.
I open my mouth, then shut it, since I have no idea what to say. Instead, I flop down onto the bed, close my eyes, and inhale the last vestiges of her clean scent from my sheets.
That is called changing the subject, that is, replies Nigel.
Changing the subject? Wait a minute, I reply. You really think she did all that to get out of telling me why she wants to shoot her dad?
Well, I’m just a lowly salesman and not very knowledgeable about such things. But weren’t you a moment ago admiring how she’s “as sharp as a Joss Whedon wisecrack”? In fairness, she did tell you a skillful spy will manipulate you with the sex. I would’ve rather she’d used actual the sex to underscore the point, truth be told.
You and me both.
One thing is clear: That Mary’s never going to tell you anything she doesn’t want. And unless she does, you’re going to have to tell the team about your powers.
I scowl and get to my feet, then pull my suitcase out from beneath the bed and slam it down on the sheets. Nigel’s psychic sense recedes, leaving me alone to pack and think. Did she really do all that to throw me off topic? Is she that good an actor? I can’t bring myself to be mad about it, if so. The prospect of her and me being real felt too good. At least, it felt good until it felt like a mix-up on the winning lottery ticket. Even though I wasn’t making a move on her, I’d like to think she might have at least considered it if I had been.
CHAPTER Eight
The sun is setting by the time we’re loading our stuff into the cab. Mary’s lavender-scented hair tickles my face as we lean over the open trunk, nearly bonking heads, and I count this as sex having already changed things. I wonder if we’d both known even talking about sex was going to make things awkward, whether we wouldn’t have gone ahead and done it. At least then we’d get the mattress test to balance things out.
Her elbow bumps mine. I bump my head on the trunk.
“Sorry.”
“My bad.”
She slams the trunk shut. I rub the cartoon lump rising on my head. We get in the car on opposite sides.
“LAX?” the driver asks.
“Yes,” Mary replies. “American Airlines.”
We pull away, and the car aims toward the stripy orange-and-red sky on the horizon. Our dream house shrinks in the rearview mirror. I catch Mary’s eyes on mine and shift to face her. She roots around in her purse before pulling out her phone and texting. A second later, my butt vibrates. I pull out my phone.
Mary: Driver is listening. Choose words carefully.
I text her the “duh” emoji.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says, shoving her phone into her purse and glancing at the driver. “About your…network problems…phoning your friends.”
My friends? Oh—right. She means from the Collective Unconscious. Wow—we’re being real spies here. I sit up straighter. Time to show off the ol’ spy skills…
“I wonder if your dad could help,” she says, and my head ticks to the side.
“You know I haven’t spoken to him since…the game.” The game. Look at me catching on to the whole spy stuff. She knows the game I’m talking about. The football game where she snipered those two clones off the top of the Q.
“Is it the same network problem as when you try to call your dad?” she asks.
My forehead tightens as I consider. “Actually, now that you mention it. You remember my friend Bruce? He said it’s like Dad didn’t want to get any calls. He said it was like,” I finish in a whisper, “like he put a curtain over the phone!”
In the twilight, her eyes are steel blue as they search mine.
“What?” I ask.
She shifts to peer out her window. She cups her chin, with her forefinger slowly stroking it.
“Hey,” I say, giving her leg a shake before tamping down the free-falling thrill she gives me with even stupid innocuous physical contact. “What’re you thinking?”
She looks at me again, this time taking an uncomfortable inventory of my face.
“What?” I ask for the third time.
She glances at the driver, then reanchors on me. Her hand glides over my shoulder, and my brain goes all fizzy like a shaken-up can of Sprite. Her arm wraps around my neck; her features soften. She tugs me closer. Whoa. If she was broadcasting to Tijuana before, this time it’s boners all the way to Argentina. Her wintergreen breath doesn’t quite mask the taste of her in the air behind it. Mary’s taste. She tips her head and comes in for the kiss, hair brushing my cheek, her lidded eyes unfocused. Her lips feather against mine as she whispers next to them, so close I can feel the impact of her tongue articulating the words in her mouth:
“Someone’s tampering with your service.”
Her head draws back. Her knuckles caress my cheek. My chest is hammering so hard and fast, it hurts. I’m flushed. She scoots to her side of the seat, but it feels like she’s gone ahead to New York and I’m still in LA. I’m shaking, and I want her back.
“Did you understand, sweetie?” she asks, her decibel now driver friendly.
I nod, my throat too dry to speak and my pulse doing an Argentinian Boner Dance.
“Then keep it to yourself,” she says, before again lowering her voice. “Because the line may be bugged.”
CHAPTER Nine
Clouds like shredded cotton drift beneath my window as the rich orchestral introduction to Don’t Cry for Me Argentina swells. My fingertips press into the earbuds—the plane noise makes it hard to hear. I didn’t even know I had this track. After listening to a few bars, and reminiscing on the lingering effects
of Mary’s Argentina-reaching pheromones, I track forward to I’m Not Okay, by My Chemical Romance, and blast it. Not because I’m going to cry for Argentina, but because Argentina is fast becoming a euphemism for this thing in my pants that won’t go away. By definition, I am not okay.
Mary. The back of her head is some ten rows up. She once told me her dad had taken her to a compound in the Australian wilderness. She told me right before I zip-lined out of Mikey’s headquarters at Emerald Plaza, I remember, because she’d called it a “people zoo,” with barbwire fences, and the whole thing sounded so strange. It’s clear she blames her dad for her crappy childhood. But is that why she wants to kill him, or is there something more?
The plane squeals to a stop. Belt buckles begin snapping open. A beat later, the “unfasten seat belt” light dings. The aisles grow crowded like the inside of my head. Up front, Mary’s deplaning. A piece of me goes with her. It’s always like that now, even after she shoots people.
After we get checked into the Plaza, showered and settled, I finally let myself relax. Now this is living.
A superpowerless superhero could get used to this. Fancy white beams partition off squares in the ceiling, there’s track lighting—and, what’s this? A table telescope in the window for checking out Central Park. I take a peek and spot a couple snapping a selfie. Nice. I straighten and take in the rest of the suite. Dining room, living room, two bedrooms—two marble baths… This will be perfect. Except for my Nigel-only powers and the looming team meeting in the morning, man, I’m dreading the meeting, this isn’t a bad way to live at all. Maybe this superhero life is the life for me.
There won’t be a superhero life, says Nigel, if your team splits up because of that Mary.
No, I know, I reply. But—hey. We’re staying in tonight. Which means there’s no way she’s weaseling out of the conversation this time. Even if I have to crawl into bed next to her.
And if she out-sex-smarts you again?
Excitement sizzles through me like Pop Rocks. Then I guess I’ll have to call her bluff and make passionate love to her all night long.
That’s the spirit!
Which means you—Mr. Mouthbreather—are going to butt out. Consider this the proverbial sock on the door.
I won’t make a peep.
No, you won’t. Because you won’t be anywhere near—
Knocking on the exterior door interrupts the conversation. I hurry across the suite.
“Room service.”
“Hang on,” I say, undoing the dead bolt. Mary’s voice calls out from her side of the suite.
“Oh my God, I’m starving.”
I wrench the door open, and the bellboy bulldozes his cart straight at me. I leap aside. He barrels past. Then brakes. He wheels around, tugs his jacket straight, and—what? He’s looking at me like he’s just walked up on the Christmas Story kid daydreaming about his Red Ryder BB Gun.
“Oh! Right.” I start patting my pockets. “Um…”
A hand kneads my shoulder. Mary, in my boxers and jersey again. And—hey, hey—no crying for Argentina necessary. Incredible what a guy can get used to in a fake marriage.
“Here,” she says, passing folded cash to the busboy.
“Thank you, Miss Thomas,” he says, ducking his head. “Will there be anything else?”
“Privacy,” she says, lacing her voice with innuendo and sliding her arm around my waist.
“Of course, Miss Thomas.” The busboy ducks his head again. He exits and shuts the door behind him. Oh, man. I must be glowing like a block of red kryptonite.
Mary’s hand surfs down my back before dropping to her side. She sashays over to the cart, those swinging hips deploying the same diversion strategy as before. Ha! Well, here we go. I’m on to her reindeer games this time. Let’s see her bluff-sex her way out of this one.
“Let’s not beat around the bush,” I hear myself say. “What’s the big deal between you and your dad?”
“A Manhattan in Manhattan?” she asks, holding up a cocktail.
I narrow my eyes at her.
“No changing the subject this time. Mary, you’re stuck with me tonight.” I clear my throat. “All night. And I can be very persistent when I have to be.”
She barely suppresses a smile. “Promise?”
Her quick-witted eyes gleam like silver as she hands me the drink. I accept it without hesitation. Her smile broadens, but for some reason, it’s triggering alarms. This isn’t her vintage Hollywood smile. This is her I’m-into-you smile. Oh man. Where’s Steve Irwin when I need him? I could really use his soft-spoken narration on the mating rituals of dorks in Manhattan right about now.
Not just Manhattan, offers Nigel. This sex is for dorks the world over!
Mary clinks my glass. We sip our drinks. I cough and sputter.
“Wow! Oh.”
She eyes me sideways. “Good?”
The room tilts left. She bows her head and sets her drink on the cart. I open my mouth to tell her my drink might be too strong, but the floor rushes up at me before I can form the words.
The United Nations General Assembly has assembled. The room is buzzing. Prime Minister Watson is expected to take the stage at any moment.
“In position,” says Alex, her tiny voice in my earpiece. “Caleb?”
I turn a complete 360. Caleb’s face peers down at me from the rear of the auditorium, his ridiculous wig and mustache making him look like Bob Ross on steroids.
“In position,” he says through his transmitter.
“Bonkovich?” says Alex. “You got anything for us?”
Bruce Lee? Killmaster? Hanzo? Is anyone out there?
Frustration twists in my belly. Nothing.
I told you, you should’ve told your team about your powers, says Nigel.
I lift the tiny transmitter pinned to my lapel nearer my mouth and whisper, “Sorry.”
“We can hear you just fine without you broadcasting to the world you’ve got a transmitter pinned to your coat. Copy that, Bonkovich?”
I let go of my lapel. “Yeah. I mean, copy.”
A shushing wave ripples over the assembly. Seats creak as diplomats, statesmen, and world leaders break off conversations and turn their attention to the stage. Prime Minister Watson steps up to the podium. Silence greets him.
“Mr. Secretary General, Mr. President, world leaders, and distinguished delegates: I would like to begin by expressing my sympathies to those affected by the recent flooding in the Midwestern states…”
“Mary?” says Alex. “Are you in position?”
The prime minister continues: “As millions struggle to recover from the devastating storms that have struck your great nation, know Australia stands ready with assistance and aid. We recognize the American people are strong and resilient…”
“Mary?” Alex’s voice hisses in my ear. From my position near the front of the assembly, and facing the rear, my gaze searches the opposite side of the balcony from Caleb. The side where Mary is supposed to be.
Where is she?
“As we meet at this General Assembly,” Prime Minister Watson continues, “we face challenges which strike at the heart of who we are. Challenges which test our values and cripple our ability to defend the underpinnings of our security and prosperity of our fellow citizens. I refer, of course, not only to the corruption rampant in my own country, but also to the governments of the various nations represented here. Indeed, to this very body.”
“Mary! Mary!” calls Alex. “Confirm your position!”
My palms are sweating. I’m breathing heavily. The faces in the balcony are unrecognizable. But no sign of Mary.
I don’t believe you’ll find her there, says Nigel.
Nigel! You know where she is? You know where Mary is?
“This corruption has a name,” says the prime minister. “It is a name we do not speak aloud, perhaps for fear of losing power, our lives, loved ones, and, indeed, our very identities.”
Nigel! Nigel!
No
thing. Dammit. Faces streak past in a blur as I scan for anything not right. I’m not made for this. I’m a dork, not a spy. I have no idea what I’m—
An airless horror steals through my lungs. There, hidden in the top side balcony: Mary, peering through her rifle scope. I inhale to shout a warning—
A gunshot rings out.
My gaze flashes to the prime minister in time to see him go down. And Mary—
She’s gone. In her place is a tight cluster of alarmed faces peering over the balcony ledge scanning the balcony below theirs. They’re pretending they heard the shot down there!
All hell breaks loose.
“She’s got accomplices!” I yell into my lapel. Shoulders and arms shove past, jostling me as I try to maintain eye contact with the fake diplomats running blocker for Mary. Too late, they’ve been absorbed into the crowd.
“It’s Mary! Alex! It’s Mary!”
A face reels up right in front of me. Dad?!
“You’re not safe here!” he yells. “Wake up! Wake up!” His fist jams an injection device into my neck. His thumb pushes the plunger. The screaming people, the auditorium, walls, and seats are encased in large rising bubbles. I’m floating in one too. The chaos shrinks below me, and the nightmare is rinsed away.
chapter Ten
“Wake up, Edger. Wake up.”
The horror from the nightmare is souring my stomach. My head is light and boozy.
“Are you all right?”
What happened? I crack an eye open. Mary, kneeling next to me. My blurry eyes cruise her body. She’s in a crop-top tee and panties—
“Jeez, Mary—ground rules…”
“Sorry,” she says, her hands gliding around my back and shoulder, easing me upright. I squeeze my eyes shut and then open and refocus. Her crop top has an Australian flag print. Wait. I’m stripped down to my boxers. How did that—?
“You were making weird noises,” she says. “Were you dreaming?”
Dreaming, dreaming… Yeah, I was dreaming. Something important.