Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars

by Melisse Aires

  “Come on, Butterman, almost there.” Tristan coaxes me.

  “Almost where?” The door at the top of the staircase isn’t labeled, but a deep bass is thumping from behind it, vibrating the walls.

  “Studio X,” he says.

  My brain recalls the name and goes into think mode. Where did I hear that name before? The billboard waiting for a taxi, that’s it. But …

  I stiffen. “We’re at Studio X? Are you crazy? We have to get back—”

  Tristan keeps me moving up the stairs. “You said yourself you couldn’t pilot the time-craft like this, and I have to agree with you. We’ve got four hours to sober you up, and they’re well known here for their exotic coffee selections. Never know, we may even run into Dirk Stiles. It’s early, but on a night like this, industry professionals arrive at happy hour to talk shop before the real party starts.”

  I check my watch. He’s right. The port closes in four hours, and I’m not sober. We reach the door and I’m about to object, accuse him of tricking me, when it swings open and music pulses through my entire body.

  A bouncer in a sleek tuxedo with frameless shades on and a blinking earpiece in his left ear, gives us a once over.

  I forgot I must look like hell. I swallow hard, try to smile.

  Tristan removes his hat and shades and whispers a few words in the bouncer’s ear, who never makes a single expression. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or not, but he nods, then presses a tiny button onto the top of my hand between my thumb and index finger.

  He swipes a small device over our buttons and they blink green once, then go blank.

  “Come on.” Tristan takes my hand and leads me deeper into the club.

  Major sensory overload. The entire club is a neon theme park. Chicks pass by dressed like modern-day Alices in satin mini-dresses with lacy slips and tights, come-and-get-me cleavage and platform heels. Guys with tall funky hats cocked defiantly to the side, complemented with tricked-out glowsticks that double as oversized bowties.

  We enter deeper into this feast for the eyes. Everyone and everything reflects the fluorescent hues of the blacklights. Teeth and whites of eyes glow with otherworldly brightness. Ethereal cheekbones, foreheads. Not to mention, the entire venue is a maze of life-size holographic trees and mushrooms, teacups and playing cards. How did Tristan describe it earlier? Wonderland on acid?

  I lose myself in the idea ... Wondering about the land of Wonder. That’s why they call it that. Or maybe because it’s wonderful …

  A girl in a lime colored skin-suit passes by, her hair weaved up into bright vivid flowers made of fiber-optic lights that fade and brighten at different intervals. So pretty … so wonderful …

  “You pissed?” Tristan nudges my arm, obviously more relaxed now that he’s camouflaged by the club’s trippy lights, not that he’d be different from anyone else inside if this club caters to celebrities.

  I should be pissed, and every logical part of me insists we ditch this place right now and head for the port. But my head can’t coordinate my thoughts—it’s spinning one minute, floating the next, which really wouldn’t be all that bad, except for the looming agenda of a time-craft to catch.

  In front of me, a girl wearing floppy bunny ears prances into a giant teacup and falls to the floor on her bunny tail. She and the guy with her laugh hysterically. Giggles burst from my lips along with a sprinkle of spittle. May as well go with the flow at this point. Fighting for sobriety is useless.

  “If you were aiming to impress me, it worked,” I say. “This is wicked-cool.”

  “Butter-dud approves, huh?” Tristan grins. “And they’re just getting started around here. Grant and Domini Prince spare no expense when it comes to private parties. Now you can officially say you’ve been to one.”

  “They’re throwing this party?” I ask. Grant and Domini Prince are mega superstars. And I can’t believe I’m at one of their parties right now. Former movie-stars, now they run their own production company, and everyone knows they’re the highest rank on the celebrity socialite status.

  “They own this club,” Tristan pulls me toward the bar. “Let’s get some coffee. It’ll be shoulder to shoulder in here soon enough.”

  “We can’t be here long,” I say. Of course, he has to realize this. No way he’d take a chance of missing the time window. I don’t even want to consider what that’d mean. He’s thrown us way off course already, so he’d better order a cold glass of reality to chase down his coffee with.

  At the metallic bar a liquid channel runs parallel the full length of the surface like a bubbling brook, highlighted by soft blue track-lighting—an illusion of tranquility in a club grinded by deep bass. Tristan rests his arms on the bar, waiting for the halter-top bartender with long caramel hair, who’s leaning in toward a corner customer. She’s got a neon skirt on, and crazy zebra-print kicks up to her thighs like they’ve been painted on. Gorgeous, thin, toned legs. Her entire body looks like it’s been graphically designed by a video gamer. Every girl I’ve seen so far is so flawless, it’s sickening. I watch Tristan as he vies for her attention and realize I’m nothing at all like what he’s used to. His whole world revolves around genetic perfection. Still, he’s here with me, looking after me, which means maybe he’s not as shallow as I thought, or at least not as stupid since he knows I’m his ticket back.

  Bartender flips her long locks back and notices Tristan, gets a huge smile and saunters over. She leans so far over the bar her boobs graze the bubbling brook, and for a minute, I wonder if she intends to dip them. Then I realize she’s giving Tristan a hug, air-kisses on each cheek, polished off with a high-pitched squeal.

  “How are you, baby?” Her voice bubbles. “So glad you came back to see me.” She leans in on her arms like she’s here to stay and chat awhile. “All alone tonight?”

  Apparently, I’m invisible. His superstar status sucks the ocular energy right from people’s sockets, but whatever. Fun being in the passenger seat, watching the effect he has on others. From where I’m sitting, being invisible isn’t so bad.

  “This is Bianca,” he says, a hand on my shoulder. “She’s all the way from Alaska. I need you to make her the biggest latte you can. Me too.”

  After giving me a brief once-over, Bartender half-nods in my direction. Then, as if she realizes she’s being judgmental, she smiles at me. “Wow, Alaska. Long way from home.”

  I’m so flattered by her burst of friendliness, I giggle on impulse. “You’ve no idea.”

  She turns back toward Tristan. “So Baileys, Kahlua, you want one of our coffee cocktail specialties?”

  “No,” he’s quick to say. “Thanks, but just coffee.”

  Bartender nods, disappears down the bar in her sweet boots. Tristan watches her leave. Suddenly I feel a bit awkward. Being here, dressed like I am. A nobody, makeup-less, flat-haired spunker-chick with Tristan Helms. I’m like the stepsister he was forced to bring along or else be grounded. I don’t get super self-conscious in most cases, but right now, I’m drenched in idiot awareness. Drug must be wearing off.

  “Tristan! Come here, you beautiful thing!” Another Alice grabs Tristan from behind, embraces him. Her fluffy lace petticoats barely cover her ass, and her body teeters precariously on her spiky heels.

  No wonder celebrities are always sleeping with each other—the way they flaunt their goods.

  Over my limit with the gush session, I step away once my coffee arrives. I don’t bother Tristan—he seems contented enough, nestled between Alice-in-La-La-Land and Miss Bartender Perky-Chest.

  He flips his shaggy bangs with a flick of his head and notices me moving away. “Where you going?”

  I shrug. “Be right back. Just need a minute.”

  He points past the mushrooms. “Ladies’ room is that way.”

  I give him a thumbs-up and turn, eager for a bit of space. Besides, the glowing mushroom pathway has been calling my opiate-induced name. Coffee in hand, I head that way. Other than the UV glow of my white babydo
ll shirt, my body’s shrouded in darkness. Easy to disappear somewhere like this.

  My body seems to be rousing itself back into coherency—the way my hands tingle. Behind the next mushroom, I settle myself onto a blue velvet stool and sip my coffee, relieved to have somewhere to regroup, get my thoughts in order.

  “Lost in Wonderland?” a deep voice says.

  Looking up, all I see is a silhouette on a nearby stool, with a contraption the size of an oboe in his hands. My eyes try to focus, and the man grins. His teeth are gleaming white in the neon light. I realize he’s big, black, with a head full of dreads and a string of tribal tattoos down his bare biceps. He laughs, hearty and deep, then brings his instrument to his mouth. Just as I think he’s going to play something, he sucks in a long breath, then lets out a stream of smoke. The odor is densely sweet, incense-like.

  I know this guy. Well, not really. But I know who he is. He’s a famous rapper—Georges Badoo, I think.

  “Just taking a load off,” I say.

  “I see. Pacing yourself.” He laughs again. “Smart girl.”

  “You’re Georges Badoo, right?” I ask.

  “Oh, so you know me, eh?”

  “Sure, who doesn’t?”

  He grins again. “You’d be surprised. And who might you be?”

  “Bianca.”

  “Well, then, good to meet you, Bianca. You here all alone?”

  “Nah, my friend’s up at the bar. I just … needed a few minutes.”

  Georges peers out past the mushroom path at the elevated bar in the distance, where Tristan and his girls are still clustered together. More people are there now. It’s obvious the party is starting to pick up.

  “I know how it is. Everybody want a piece of you when you’re somebody. Get too busy pleasing everybody but yourself. That’s why I hide out back here for a spell.” He takes another smoke, offers it to me.

  I eye it. “What is that?”

  “Herbal delight, to ease the mood. Au naturel.” He chuckles. “Helps me weed out the bullshit, pun intended, you know what I mean? See peoples for who they are. Absolute necessity at parties like these.”

  “No, I can’t. I’m driving. But thanks.”

  Georges maintains his easy grin. “Anytime, Bianca.”

  He takes another long toke, then exhales a cloud of smoke that seems to head right for my nostrils. I can’t help but breathe it in down to my throat, which makes me cough til my eyes water.

  “Bleh. Where’s the non-smoking section?” I hack some more.

  “Ah, no smokey-smokey for you then,” Georges says.

  Once the hacking stops, my head resumes its former spinning, then like it’s separated from my brain, it rocks back and forth on my neck. Lights around me blur. In seconds, I feel all toasty inside again—happy and goofy and floaty. My face is stuck in perma-grin formation. One look at Georges makes me erupt into laughter.

  “Feeling good, eh?” Georges’ smile is so bright, his presence so warm; his wild dreads are like thick woven wool.

  But my thoughts turn to Tristan and instantly I want to find him, join him, as if it’s where I was supposed to be all along. I stand fast—too fast. My stomach swishes, churns. Must. Find. Bathroom.

  Holding my belly, I follow the mushroom trail around the club to a back hallway lit up by mirrors and neon lights. I shove open the door to a warehouse of a bathroom. Huge in every way. Echoey. Just what I need, another maze. Slipping past a couple of girls washing their hands, I dive into the nearest stall and bow before the porcelain god.

  After a few dry heaves, I realize I’m not going to hurl. The clouds in my head seem to clear, and my body thrums with energy. At the sink, I splash cold water on my face, then study my reflection in the mirror. Makeup-less and sickly. My jet black hair makes my face look even whiter. And holy hell, is that a zit over my left eyebrow? This is not how I’m supposed to look.

  Whatever. I need to get moving again.

  Around the long row of cavernous sinks, on the other side of the stone wall, two catwalk-glam girls apply lipstick at the full-length mirror. I pass behind them to reach for a towel, catch Tristan’s name on their lips in the process.

  “He’s not with her anymore. They broke up,” the brunette says. “People-dot-com did a whole exclusive with her. She gave some sob story about what a tumultuous end it was.” She chuckles. “I mean really? They’re only nineteen. How tumultuous could it’ve been?”

  The redhead beside her primps her hair in the reflection. “She was using him. Everyone knew it, but him. I can’t believe People interviewed her and not him.”

  “Tabloids always side with the girl, unless they cheat.” The brunette pauses, looks at me from the mirror. “Can I help you?”

  Tossing my towel in the garbage, I ignore her, head out.

  Kayla used to gab about Tristan’s break up with his long-time girlfriend. Some anorexic fashion model from Bulgaria who Kayla couldn’t stand. Stunning, of course, but completely full of herself. Never occurred to me then, but now? It’s one thing to break up, but having it strung out all over the news so the whole world knows and can pick sides has to be gut wrenching. And holy hell, no wonder he got into drugs. Maybe he really was a victim of circumstance. He’s put so much faith into that one song. Really makes me wish …

  There he is, a few yards in front of me, his arm wrapped around some blonde with bunny ears and a white teddy. But he’s different, wearing a white button down, the top three buttons open from the collar; white slacks; white top hat.

  What the hell? Without thinking, I step right up to him, poke a finger at his chest, call out over the music. “Tristan, we don’t have time for this.”

  The blonde pushes my shoulder back with two fingers. “Excuse me?”

  I shove her hand away. “Tristan, let’s go.”

  His brows arch, but his eyes blink without an ounce of recognition. “Sorry, do I know you?”

  Then it hits me. This is Past-Tristan. Holy hell.

  Chapter 11

  I stumble backwards. Running is a bad idea. But this place has PF all over it. With as much coolness as I can muster, I turn, follow the mushroom pathway back to the bar. Bass from the speakers thumps in time with my heart. I glance at my watch. 1856 EST. I knew coming here was a bad idea. I’m a time traveler—I have certain obligations and responsibilities to uphold.

  The Tristan I came here with is still at the bar, partially blocked by three Alices and one Cheshire Cat get-up, but he’s not paying attention to them, he’s looking around. I barge up, part the Wonderland gang with my arms and grab Tristan’s bicep. “Now.”

  “Hey, who the …?” an Alice protests.

  Tristan pushes past her, joins my side as I break away.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asks. “Dirk Stiles is here. I can introduce you—“

  “You’re past-self is here. We have to go now.” As much as it kills me to give up Dirk, I’ve got a job to do.

  “What? How is that possible? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I’m not blind.”

  “But …”

  “We can discuss it later.” I grab his arm, head for the way we came in.

  “Not that way, we’ll get mauled. There’s a safer back exit.” He puts his hat and shades on.

  We beeline for the rear of the club, past more girls in bunny costumes and guys in giant Mad Hatter hats. Down a mirrored stairwell, we reach a heavy black door. Tristan shoves it open and we rush outside.

  Right into mayhem. Safer back exit my ass.

  People are everywhere—mostly girls, holding up cameras, screaming out names. Another well-dressed bouncer and one of those rent-a-droid-cops block the first few steps of the doorway. The rest of the walkway is divided off by red laser beams.

  “No effin’ way.” Tristan tugs his hat lower on his head.

  “It’s Tristan Helms!” someone squeals.

  A flock of girls lurch forward, as close as they can get without getting shocked by those lasers.<
br />
  “Somebody should’ve warned you,” I say.

  More cries of joy from the crowd: “Tristan! Over here, Tristan. Please! I’m your biggest fan, can I get a picture?”

  I scan the surroundings. Nowhere for us to go. Only thing keeping us from getting trampled right now is the lasers, although even diehard fans aren’t likely to assault a near-invincible droid-cop. But once we step foot outside the cordoned area, we’re done for. Mobbed. Mauled. Swarmed. All of the above.

  With all the flash photography going off, I shield myself behind Tristan best I can. “How do you normally get out of this?”

  “I never show up at these things at rush hour. Shit.” He’s keeping his cool, though. Waving and smiling to appease the masses in some small way. A ruler before his minions. “Usually, I plan ahead for this kinda thing. Either have a limo or jetpack ready. We gotta find another way to Grant’s garage.”

  “And go back inside again? No way.” My eyes wander the horde of starry-eyed girls, even some guys, all pushing into each other, starving for one nugget of acknowledgment from the Golden Boy.

  “We have to.” Tristan’s watching the crowd still, as if he’s not fully sold on the idea, but scared as hell to brave that mass of screaming girls. “Grant has to have an alternate escape.”

  The bouncer faces us, his eyes shielded by his shades. “Mr. Helms, can I call your limo for you?”

  Tristan nods. “Please do.”

  I yank his arm. “Are you crazy? Your past-self could call for it at any given time. It won’t work.”

  A girl appears from behind the bouncer, moving in a full charge toward Tristan. I back away, but so does Tristan and she misses him, plowing right into me. I fall to the ground. My elbow slams onto the pavement sending a bombshell of pain through my arm.

  Through flailing limbs, the droid-cop lifts the girl by her legs.

  Tristan helps me to my feet. “You okay?”

  I nod, but I’m not okay. Suddenly I want to cry more than anything else. Maniacal faces are staring and yelling. My elbow’s throbbing.

  “This is too dangerous.” Tristan wraps an arm around my waist, guiding me backwards.