Bad Vibrations: Book 1 of the Sedona Files

by Christine Pope

  It was only after he’d pulled into the parking lot and followed me up the stairs to the room we shared that he said, “What did you see?”

  At any other time I might have considered the awkwardness of the situation, of the two of us sharing a room after a kiss that had forever changed the way we viewed one another. Right then, though, I could only think of the painful wrongness that made itself felt in my very bones, of the similarly soul-deep knowledge that somehow the very mediums we employed for entertainment were going to be used against us.

  “I don’t know how they’re doing it,” I replied. “I don’t even know how I know, but I’ve learned not to question these things. But somehow they’re building a—I don’t know what you’d call it—some sort of signal into the movies and TV shows that are coming out of Hollywood.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. I watched as he went back to the door and tested the lock, then turned toward me. “A carrier wave. I can see how that might work. But we need to be able to find out how they’re doing it—what the wave is composed of, to see if there’s any way of blocking or neutralizing it.”

  “Easier said than done.” I sat down on the bed I’d been using and kicked off my shoes. They were more or less comfortable, but almost any pair of shoes needs a breaking-in period, and it had been a long day. What I wanted right then was to lie down and lose myself in blissful sleep for a few hours. My mind, however, had other plans.

  That prickly feeling returned, along with the certainty that whatever the aliens’ ultimate goal might be, they weren’t even in the testing stages yet. Made sense, or Paul and I and everyone around me would have already been turned into a brain-controlled zombie. Well, maybe not Paul; I got the impression he wasn’t much of a movie or TV guy. At any rate, luck seemed to have guided us to discovering the plan while it was still in its embryonic stages. But it was beginning to happen, and would continue, if we didn’t do something to stop it. What that something would be, I had no idea.

  Paul said quietly, “There’s always a way.”

  Who knew a ufologist could be such a Pollyanna? I wished I had some sort of retort to make, but the truth was, I didn’t have the energy. The wave of dark sound that had welled up into my brain seemed to have drained whatever reserves I had left. “Well, if you have a plan, I’d love to hear it.”

  He didn’t appear to be put off by my reply, but sat down in the chair by the window and appeared to think for a moment. “What we really need is someone who works in the technical end of the business, but who hasn’t yet been affected. As far as I can guess, it seems the actual alien takeover is geared more toward the top level of the studios. There’s a possibility that the tech people have escaped unscathed.”

  I wanted to argue that you’d think the techs would be the first people to be taken over, since one person smelling a rat might be enough to upset the whole plan, but I didn’t know that for sure. After all, from what I’d heard, the people in the trenches pretty much kept their heads down and just did their work. There were too many people waiting in line for those jobs for anyone to make waves. One of my clients, who worked post-production, had some horror stories that would make your hair curl—

  Of course. Tyler Russo was a sound engineer at a lab out in Studio City. We’d had a session only two days earlier. I found it hard to believe the aliens had already suborned Tyler—surely I would have noticed if something was wrong. And even if he was on the list, it seemed as if there were a good number of people higher up the food chain who were more in danger of being spray-tanned into mental domination.

  “I think I know someone we can talk to,” I said, and then, as Paul’s eyes lit up, “…tomorrow. I’m pretty sure Tyler would find it odd to have me calling him out of the blue at nine-thirty on a Friday night.”

  “Tyler?”

  “A client of mine. He’s a sound engineer. He’d be a good place to start.”

  “You are a woman of infinite resources.”

  I laughed. “I don’t know about that. I do know a lot of people. That helps. As for the rest—we’ll just have to see. Just because he’s a sound engineer doesn’t mean he’ll be able to nail down this carrier wave-whatsis.”

  “But he might be able to direct us to someone who could.”

  “Hopefully.”

  Paul stood up then and stared at the closed curtains for a moment, as if seeing something in the tacky blue and green striped fabric that I apparently had missed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, obviously on edge about something.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Sorry I couldn’t come up with a better plan, but—”

  “It’s not that. I’m just—I suppose I’m not sure how we’re supposed to proceed.”

  “Proceed?” I repeated. “Proceed with what?”

  In answer he came and sat down on the bed next to me. “With this.”

  I probably should have been more prepared for the kiss, since it wasn’t our first, but once again it seemed he had blindsided me. Not that I minded—the second his lips touched mine, a rush of warmth flooded my body, all the way from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head. The wave of heat seemed to push out the weariness that had come over me after my bout in the car, and I pressed against him, feeling the strength of his arms as they tightened around me, hearing the wordless little sigh he gave as we clung to each other.

  It seemed the most natural thing in the world to roll over on the bed, to have his weight suddenly on top of me. I held him close, hoping by that contact I was telling him it was all right, that I wanted this.

  Apparently I had telegraphed my need to him, because his hands moved lower, tracing the curve of my breasts, pausing at the buttons of my blouse.

  I might have breathed a “yes.” Or maybe he didn’t need any words to know what I wanted. Whatever the case, those strong fingers of his worked their way down the row of buttons, loosening each one as he went. And he moved lower as well, his breath warm against my throat at first, and then against my breast.

  Then I did moan, wanting more, needing to have him touch every part of me. He fumbled a little as he worked the hooks of my bra, even as I reached up to pull at his jacket. It ended up tossed haphazardly onto the other bed, followed by his shirt, which made a distinct clunk as it hit the floor.

  “Oops,” I whispered. “Forgot you had your phone in your pocket.”

  “The hell with the phone,” he said, and then his mouth covered mine again, as his bare torso touched my exposed skin.

  That was enough for me to forget the phone, forget the world and alien conspiracies and pursuing government agents. I pressed against him, my fingers loosening his belt, pushing his jeans out of the way. He did the same with me, those strong fingers of his touching me in places I really hadn’t expected him to be that familiar with.

  It had been a long time since I’d felt this way, with heat flowing out to every part of my body. Hell, I didn’t know if I’d ever felt precisely like this. I do know he definitely broke my personal record for bringing me to the fastest orgasm.

  Then he paused, and said, “Well, shit.”

  “What?” I gasped. I was still lying flat on the bed; at the moment I wasn’t sure if I were capable of sitting upright.

  He raised himself on one arm and ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t exactly think I was going to need protection on this trip.”

  Oh. Luckily, I had made certain arrangements at the pharmacy when we’d picked up our other supplies; thank God for computerized prescription systems. Life was complicated enough without skipping multiple pills and having to start over from scratch the next month.

  I thought about it for roughly a half-second and said, “I don’t care. I’m on the Pill.”

  Without moving, he replied, “You trust me that much?”

  “As long as you swear you haven’t been banging UFO groupies at symposiums from coast to coast.”

  “God, no.” He laughed then. “You do have quite the imagination.”

&nbs
p; All I wanted at the moment was to show him just how good my imagination really was. “Well, then. And since my last sexual encounter predated my last yearly checkup by at least six months, I’d say I’m in the clear, too.”

  “If you put it like that…”

  “I do.”

  And he was on me again, mouth against mine, as he shifted his weight and was suddenly just there, filling me, our bodies meeting in a rush of heat and need. I wrapped my legs around him, drawing him into me further, as we rocked in perfect rhythm, drawing ourselves into that perfect circle where nothing else existed except the sound of our cries, the pulse of our blood.

  When it was over, he remained on top of me for a long moment, cheek laid against mine. I could feel the hastened beat of his heart, hear his rapid breathing. Then he kissed me, ever so gently, just the lightest brush of his lips against the side of my mouth, before he lifted his weight from mine and stumbled toward the bathroom.

  I stayed where I was, breathing in, breathing out. It seemed as if I drifted in a bubble of perfect warmth and comfort. In a few minutes I’d have to do my own post-coital cleanup, but for the moment I was content to remain in place, reveling in that moment of gentle balance. Right then, I wasn’t worried at all. I knew Paul and I would find some way to make everything right. He and I fit together, better than I had ever dreamed.

  The aliens didn’t stand a chance.

  We both slept in, still basking in the afterglow. And when we awoke, we both reached for one another, as if driven by some unheard signal, and made love again, this time slowly and quietly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Afterward, we got into the shower together, and then laughed as we tried to negotiate the cramped quarters without getting soap in each other’s eyes.

  Things got a little more sober after we had dressed and realized we needed to make some sort of plan for the day. Paul checked his cell phone and shook his head at the conspicuous lack of messages from Raymond or Jeff.

  “It’s probably nothing,” I told him, after I hit my hair with one last blast of defrizzing spray and hoped for the best. “You saw how Raymond was. He’s probably still glued to that microscope. He’ll call us when he has more information. Come on—let me buy you breakfast.”

  He gave a reluctant nod. “You’re right. And by the time we’re done with breakfast, it should be late enough for you to call this Tyler person.”

  I glanced at my watch. A little past nine-thirty, but I knew from my interactions with Tyler Russo that he sometimes kept very odd hours if he was in a crunch on a big project. It would have to be a leisurely breakfast. Maybe a call around eleven wouldn’t be completely beyond the pale.

  Paul and I stopped on the way to the car to pay for two more nights at the motel. It seemed safer to do it in small increments, just so we wouldn’t be on the hook for more days than we needed if we had to suddenly pull up stakes and get out of town. This just seemed to be common sense, and not any push from a greater spiritual power, but you never knew. Besides, although my store of cash was still holding up pretty well, I knew that eventually it would run out, and then we’d have to figure out what to do next.

  In the meantime, it was a beautiful spring day, and the feel of Paul’s hand in mine as we walked to the car was just enough to remind me of the other, more intimate touches we’d shared. And the warmth in his eyes told me he was recalling the same things, with just the slightest glint that indicated he was ready for Round Three whenever we got the opportunity.

  I thought I might be, too, but my stomach told me it needed some sustenance after all the gymnastics. Since we had to burn some time, and since Pomona wasn’t exactly known for its fine dining, I told Paul to head east into Claremont. I knew of several places in the Village where we could get a killer omelette and dine al fresco, maybe pretend that we weren’t in the middle of trying to stop a vast alien conspiracy. Well, a girl can dream, anyway.

  Of course, if I’d stopped to analyze the situation, I would have realized that going back to the town where I’d grown up and where my parents still lived and worked was fraught with complications. Because no sooner had Paul and I been seated at an outdoor table and left to peruse the menus than I heard probably the last voice I wanted to encounter at that particular moment.

  “Persephone!” my mother called out, stopping on the other side of the planter that separated the restaurant’s outdoor dining area from the sidewalk.

  Oh, crap. What were the chances, really? My mother ran a travel agency that had managed to survive the Internet influx—through sheer force of will, I guessed—and usually Saturday mornings were fairly busy for her, since a lot of people couldn’t make it in during the week. So what the heck was she doing down here in the Village, a good mile from her office up on Foothill Boulevard?

  My father used to joke that I looked just like my mother, except someone took me out of the oven before I got properly browned. It was true in some ways, since we did share the same wild curly dark hair, longish nose, and wide mouth. But she was olive-skinned where I was fair, and my eyes were a greenish shade halfway between her brown and my father’s blue.

  If pressed, I would admit that she looked amazing for her age, the result of relentless exercise and a disciplined diet. People often remarked that we looked more like sisters than mother and daughter.

  She pushed her big Jackie-O sunglasses back on her head and gave Paul a frankly appraising stare. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  Since I knew there was no easy way to weasel out of the situation, I set down my menu in some resignation and said, “Mom, this is Paul.” I purposely left off his last name, because I knew if I told her his full name she’d be Googling it the second she had access to a computer. The last thing I needed was her to set off some red flags that would send the hounds chasing out to Claremont. “Paul, this is my mother, Arianna O’Brien.”

  He rose and extended a hand. “Very nice to meet you, Mrs. O’Brien.”

  “Arianna, please.”

  “Arianna.”

  She sent me a sideways half-surprised glance. I knew the surprise was less for showing up in Claremont completely unannounced than appearing with such a hunk in tow. Certainly she knew I wasn’t seeing anyone special, because I would have mentioned someone like Paul. And I also knew she was doing some other quick mental calculations; after all, most couples who weren’t cohabiting didn’t go out for breakfast together unless they’d spent the previous night in each other’s company as well. Not that it was any of her business, of course, but even at thirty-two I still hadn’t quite gotten past the weight of my mother’s expectations.

  “So what are you doing in town, Mom?” I asked, figuring it was safer to go on the offensive than wait for her to start asking questions.

  Not that my abrupt salvo put her off her stride one bit. “Second Saturday—Chamber meeting. I certainly wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “I thought Paul should have one of George’s world-famous Denver omelettes.”

  “I suppose it is worth the drive,” she said, with another one of those significant glances. “So where are you from, Paul?”

  “New Mexico,” he replied, looking a bit bemused.

  Funny how he could manage alien invasions with aplomb but didn’t quite know how to handle my mother. Then again, I really shouldn’t have been surprised. Maybe we’d been going about this whole thing all wrong. Maybe all we really needed to do was sic my mother on the aliens and call it a day.

  “New Mexico! What brings you all the way out here?”

  “Well, I—”

  I cut in, “Paul’s out here on business. We met through work.”

  “Work?” she repeated, and pulled the sunglasses off her head so she could tap one of the stems against her chin. I knew that was a warning sign. She’d never been terribly thrilled about the whole psychic thing. It was sort of hard to explain to the other members of the Chamber and her friends at the Women’s Club. “Are you a psychic, too, Paul?”

&n
bsp; “No,” he said, and I saw the little quirk at the corner of his mouth, the one that meant he was trying to suppress his amusement. “I’m an astrophysicist.”

  “Really?” She sounded almost impressed…and then she squinted a little, as if thinking it over. “I wasn’t aware that astrophysicists and psychics had much in common, work-wise.”

  “Isn’t the Chamber meeting at ten?” I asked, even though I knew I sounded desperate. At that moment, however, I really didn’t care.

  “So it is,” she replied, with another of those significant looks. “Guess I’d better be going. Very nice to meet you, Paul.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Mrs.—Arianna.”

  My mother flashed him a sunny smile, then replaced her sunglasses on her nose. “I’ll call,” she told me ominously, before sailing off down the sidewalk.

  A silence fell, during which I studiously stirred the lemon in my glass of water and tried to avoid looking at Paul, who was staring down the street in the direction my mother had disappeared.

  “I really didn’t plan that,” I said, once I realized the waitress wasn’t going to come rescue me by interrupting to ask what we wanted to order.

  He laughed. “I figured.”

  “Thank you for not running screaming into the night.”

  With a shake of his head, he said, “After you’ve sat through two separate dissertation panels, it takes a lot to intimidate you.”

  “Right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  And then the waitress did show up to take our orders. I settled for a cafe au lait and hoped it would provide the appropriate kick to keep me going through the day. Tea didn’t seem as if it would cut it, given the current situation.

  I also reflected that Paul was definitely a keeper. True, my mother had been (somewhat) restrained for her, but it usually only took a few minutes in my mother’s company for someone to realize that she might be more of a handful than a man would want as a prospective mother-in-law. And that really was silly of me, because a few days in someone’s company and a spectacular night in the sack weren’t quite enough to warrant choosing a china pattern.