Nikki felt as if she were standing in a kitchen between a freezer and an oven. Sarkassian was warmly expansive about his latest project. To her left, Z’ev nodded and smiled a bit, all the while giving off an aura of deep freeze that made Nikki shiver. She wished she hadn’t given in to the impulse to go along with this ridiculous charade.
“Armenian!” said Nikki suddenly, and Sarkassian paused, pinning her with an unwavering cold stare. “You’re Armenian,” she said, feeling silly for having spoken out loud. “I couldn’t place your accent, but I finally realized that you’re Armenian and that must be interesting . . .” She fell into silence under his heavy stare.
“Interesting. Yes,” he said, smiling his shark smile again. “I suppose you could call it interesting. When I was born we were the whipping boy of the Soviet pigs, and then of course there was the earthquake that killed my parents, the Catholic orphanage, and then the war with Azerbaijan. Good times, really interesting. Thanks for bringing that up.”
Nikki smiled weakly and kept her mouth shut as the rest of lunch dragged by. She was beginning to find Jirair Sarkassian’s loves and honeys harder and harder to take. She knew he was doing it on purpose, and he knew she wasn’t going to say anything about it.
Nikki subtly checked her watch and felt a spasm of panic. It was 4:45. She glanced at Z’ev. The conversation had returned to sports, and both men appeared cheerful.
“Uh, gentlemen,” she said softly, not wishing to interrupt. “I don’t mean to rush either of you, but I do have . . .” She paused, trying to remember what she had told them as an excuse for her five o’clock deadline.
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Z’ev. “Those theater tickets. Mary Ann is meeting you back at the hotel?”
“Yes,” Nikki agreed, “and I think she might be bringing Mrs. Howell, so I don’t want to be late.” Z’ev choked back a laugh, but Sarkassian didn’t appear to notice.
“Well, we’d better get going, then,” said Sarkassian, waving at a waiter.
It still took fifteen minutes to settle the bill. Nikki tried to keep herself from looking at her watch or tapping her foot, but she could feel the number of minutes she was late piling up on each other like vehicles in a traffic jam. Finally they were in their car and weaving with all appropriate speed back to the hotel.
“There you go, honey,” Sarkassian said as they pulled up in front of the hotel. “You don’t mind, do you, if I steal Jim for a couple more hours?”
“No, of course not,” said Nikki, smiling graciously and opening the door, suppressing her desire to withhold her permission just to see his reaction. She just wanted to get out of the car. She was going to be late for that ridiculous speech. Her mother would be furious as it was.
“Just give me a minute,” Z’ev said from the backseat as she was about to close the door. “I’ll walk her to the door.”
“Really, Jim,” Nikki started to say, “you don’t have to.” But he was already taking her arm and walking her up the wide cement steps to the gilded front door.
“You know,” Nikki said with some asperity, “if I’d known I was going to be ‘honeyed’ all afternoon I don’t think I’d have come along.”
“You invited yourself along,” he replied. “You can’t complain now.”
“Watch me,” she snapped.
Z’ev gave a small chuckle. “Look,” he said, tugging her to a stop at the top of the stairs, a few feet from the door. “Why did you come with us?”
“I told you about the interview,” Nikki answered in confusion.
“No, you weren’t going to go with us until you got to the lobby.”
“I do dumb things when I drink?” suggested Nikki. He shook his head, and Nikki sighed. She really didn’t want to discuss her mother.
“I’m traveling with my mother and I saw her coming out of the elevator and, well, I didn’t really want to see her.”
“You were ducking your own mother by running off with two perfect strangers?” He seemed incredulous. “You must really not get along with your mom.”
“No, I do usually, but . . .” She glanced up at him with an abashed squint. “I just really didn’t want to explain that interview to her. She wouldn’t have gotten it; she would have just told me what I should have done. As if that helps me now.”
“Not exactly the supportive type?” he asked, not looking at her, but turning to give a wave to Sarkassian waiting in the car.
“Not really, no.” She looked up at his profile; he was still looking at the car. Nikki followed his gaze down to the street, where a taxi was depositing a woman in an electric blue suit. She looked like the same one from the restaurant. Nikki noted the coincidence, but noted also that Z’ev was still fixated on Sarkassian.
“Not that you care, I suppose,” she said, realizing as she said the words that it was probably true. He was a complete stranger; why would he care about her?
“You’re my wife,” he said, eyes still on the car. “Of course I care.” He finally looked back at her, and Nikki could see the twinkle in his eyes.
“Of course, what was I thinking?” she asked sarcastically, trying to cover up her sudden urge to go wobbly.
“I have no idea,” answered Z’ev. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Bathroom Man should go back to counting ceiling tiles. Anyone can see you’re special.” Then, leaning forward, he kissed her.
If she was surprised by the compliment, she was thunderstruck by his kiss. His lips were just the right mixture of firm and soft and carried a faint taste of the breath mints they’d eaten in the car. Nikki ran the fingertips of one hand along the curve of his brow and into the tightly curled stubble of his hair. She knew she should have felt outraged, but all she felt was safe. Just as she recovered enough to become a more active participant in the kiss, he released her and walked down the stairs to the street.
“See you later, honey,” he said over his shoulder with a malicious grin.
CALIFORNIA X
At the Tone, the Time Will Be . . .
The final week of training arrived, and the girls breathlessly tried to cram last-minute studying into an already hectic schedule, the final test looming over their heads. At last, there was no more time for practice, and the girls were divided into groups. They were rotated through a schedule of written tests, but eventually they all had to take what was termed “the practical.” The group that had the practical the first night didn’t return to the dorms, and that very fact set up a twitter of nervousness in the remaining women. Nikki tried to brush off the whispers of fear that were beginning to cling to her, but she had to take a deep breath as she reported to the main house.
The front lawn was being set up for graduation, and even in the gloom of evening she could see the ghostly tent spires being raised on the far side of the cactus garden. She hoped she would be among those sitting in the folding chairs and walking up the aisle to shake hands with the faculty.
As she walked up the drive toward the rock garden, she noticed a florist’s van parked near the front gate.
“Well, I don’t know,” said the van driver, walking into Nikki’s view from behind the van. “I can’t make heads or tails of your chicken scratch.” He was talking on his cell phone and his exasperation came through clearly. “No, there’s no one I can ask.” The driver glanced up and spotted Nikki. “No, wait, here comes someone. I’ll ask her. Call you back.” The driver took the cell away from his ear and smiled at Nikki as she approached.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said. “I’m supposed to make a delivery, but when I knock on the door, no one answers. Can you help me?”
Nikki nodded, as she checked her watch with a frown. There had to be someone in the house; the final was at 8:30. She started to worry that she had misread her appointment notice.
“I just need to find Mrs . . .” The van driver patted his pockets. “Left my paperwork in the van,” he said sheepishly. “It’s written on the box. Maybe you can read it better than I can.” He walked toward the van, and Nikki foll
owed a step or so behind.
The driver reached out to the big double doors at the back of the van and swiftly yanked one open, stepping behind it so that Nikki was fully exposed to the interior. Before she had time to register that, instead of boxes, the van was filled with several black-clad people, there was a sudden burst of mist, and she inhaled a lung full of pepper spray.
Her eyes streamed, and she doubled over as she began to cough. The van driver picked her up and shoved her into the van. Before she knew what was happening, she was tied up and blindfolded like a Christmas turkey going to the guillotine.
“OK, Nikki.”
She heard the scratching sound of a pen on a clipboard and recognized Mrs. Boyer’s voice.
“Welcome to the final test.” Mrs. Boyer’s voice was smug. Nikki hated that, but right now she was concentrating on not coughing up a lung.
There was silence in the van, and in between coughs she heard the rushing sound of tires over pavement. She thought about asking for an explanation, but then decided against it. Asking anything was probably a waste of oxygen. Mrs. Boyer wasn’t famous for answering questions.
Nikki felt the van turn, but realized that in her present condition this information did her absolutely no good. She hadn’t been paying attention to anything previous to that turn, and as far as she knew, they could have circled the block twice and be heading back to the ranch.
“The final test,” said Mrs. Boyer, deciding that the time for explanations had arrived, “is a timed, practical test. I’m attaching an emergency beacon to your collar. If at any point during this test you wish to quit or need assistance, press the button and you will be picked up.” Nikki felt a hard plastic tag like the ones used as theft deterrents in clothing stores being attached to her collar. “You will be dropped at a location some distance from the ranch. You will have exactly three hours from your starting time to make it back to the entrance hall of the office building at the ranch. If you use your emergency beacon, or arrive after your allowed time, you will fail. You may use any means necessary to cross the distance, but remember, you will be downgraded for excessive force or extensive property damage. There will be Carrie Mae consultants on the course. They can detain you if they catch you. They will carry no identifying badges; they will only verbally identify themselves. You may encounter other trainees. You may not join forces or interfere with them in any way.”
The van lurched off pavement and onto a gravel road. Nikki heard the crunch of tiny pebbles and an occasional thud as a rock hurled itself against the body of the van. They drove farther and Nikki felt the texture of the road change from gravel to outright dirt. Her hands were starting to fall asleep from being tied behind her back, and a small bubble of panic had begun to form in her stomach, but she calmed herself with the thought that at least half the class had been through this already. If they could survive it, so could she. Couldn’t she?
She heard the shrill, metallic squeal of the van doors swinging open. The panic bubble expanded and lodged in her throat.
“The time is now 9:02,” announced Mrs. Boyer.
The van slowed and coasted almost to a standstill as Mrs. Boyer pushed Nikki out of the van. Nikki hit the dirt and rolled to a painful stop.
“Good luck, Lady!” yelled Mrs. Boyer, and Nikki heard the van doors slam shut and the van pull away. She lay on the ground and thought about life and the fact that her bladder was sending up serious distress flares. 9:02. She had three hours to get back to the ranch, she was blindfolded, her hands were tied behind her back, and all she was really concerned with was the fact that she hadn’t gone to the bathroom before leaving. The panic bubble popped. Nikki rolled onto her back and then, hoping no one was around to laugh at her, rolled back even farther onto her shoulder blades. Heaving her butt into the air, she wiggled her hands around her hips, then pulled her legs between her arms until her arms passed around her sneakers. Rolling up into a sitting position, she pulled off the blindfold with a flourish.
“Oh yeah! Cheerleading pays off!” she exclaimed, and then slapped her hands over her mouth. She looked around carefully, hoping that there weren’t any agents around to hear her inadvertent celebratory crowing. The ground was covered in waving wild grass and sloped at a downward angle from where she sat; there didn’t appear to be any Carrie Mae consultants lying in wait for her. In the distance she heard the excited yipping of a coyote.
“I ought to be more frightened than this,” Nikki said, looking up. Somehow the small weight dragging at her collar and the familiar constellations above made everything seem more cheerful than it was.
She began to attack the rope around her hands with her teeth. Finding the end of the rope, she backtracked to the point where it entered the knot and then followed it around until it looped out around a wrist. She tugged and pulled and eventually loosened the rope enough to slip one hand free and then the other. Her wrists were a bit scraped, but she was free.
Spitting out the rope, she shook it from her wrists and, standing up, made as if to throw it into the brush, but paused, weighing the rope in her hands. General principles of the universe stated that if she threw it away, she was sure to need it later. Deciding quickly, she knotted the lengths of rope together and then looped it around her waist.
She stepped onto the road and considered which direction to go. The North Star was at her back, which meant that south was downhill and west was to her right. She thought about the drive up. There had been a paved road in the direction they had come from. If there was pavement, there were people, and she could get directions. She jogged a few steps along the road and then stepped off again, stopping behind some bushes. When she stepped out again her bladder declared itself ready to jog.
She ran at a steady pace, keeping light on her toes to avoid twisting an ankle. She had just reached the top of a hill when she saw her first sign of civilization. From the crest of the hill she saw a blur of light. Putting on speed, she ran downhill and out onto a flatter stretch of road. The texture of the road under her feet changed from dirt to gravel. She was sweating now and unzipped her sweatshirt. She climbed another hill, but she could tell that overall the altitude was dropping. From the top of this hill she saw that the smear of light was made up of a string of RVs and trailers. She even heard engines roaring and the bass of someone’s thudding radio. She ran a bit closer and saw that each RV had a row of dirt bikes and four-wheelers parked near it.
Pausing outside the circle of light, she considered what to do next. Asking one of these people for help might be risky; it might be better to simply borrow one of their extra vehicles. But which, dirt bike or four-wheeler? Nikki remembered the motorcycle portion of the driving instruction class. She had fallen down twice and gone around limping for a week. On the other hand, a motorcycle would be faster.
Throwing caution to the wind, she ran forward and got on the nearest dirt bike. It didn’t look quite like the others; it had more of a street appearance, which suited her purposes fine. She was about to hot-wire it when she realized that the key was in the ignition. She grinned at her good fortune and turned the bike on. She headed away from the camp and back to the road. She was about halfway to the road when she heard someone yell. She didn’t look back, but put on speed.
Hitting the road in a spray of gravel, she risked a glance back and saw three headlights heading after her. She twisted the throttle and felt the bike jerk forward. She didn’t think she could outrun an experienced dirt biker and hoped that it was only four-wheelers on her trail. Cutting around a hill, she saw where the road detoured around the scenery. She pointed herself straight and ignored the road. When she took another look over her shoulder, one rider had stuck with the road; the two remaining bikers were still on her tail and gaining.
The dirt was grainy now and the hills more like dunes, a perfect dirt biking course. She wove in and out between the hills and listened for the chasing engines. Her hair stung her face in a thousand tiny whips, and at one point she thought she’d swallowed a bug. S
he giggled. She was going to die. This was fun.
A short dropoff and the following skid and moment of panic convinced her that the fun was less and the dying more likely. She aimed for the relative safety of the road, where the gravel was white and glowed in the moonlight. The knobbly tires of the dirt bike dug reassuringly into the small rocks. She hit a pothole and felt her foot slip off the pedal. She slowed, steadying the bike and her nerves, and heard a gunning of engines from behind her.
She left the road again, heading steadily downhill, dodging her pursuers. As she exited a grove of Joshua trees, she saw a streak of light that indicated a street or freeway. She couldn’t hear anyone chasing and slowed to a crawl to listen for the sound of engines, preparing to make her dash for that bright section of light. She looked back and saw no headlights.
As she was turning back, the bike hit a hidden ditch. The motorcycle high-sided, sending her flying end over end. She tucked herself and rolled as she hit the ground and then skidded a fair distance before being stopped by a dirt mound. She lay where she had fallen and thought about life and breathing.
After what seemed like forever, she gingerly got to her feet and tested all her limbs. Everything seemed to be functional. Her left side was going to be one lovely bruise, but fortunately she hadn’t been going very fast when she’d crashed. She took a deep breath and felt her hands shaking.
She limped over to the dirt bike and righted it. The motor had quit running and one of the tires was flat. There was a smell of gasoline. She kicked the bike in disgust. There was nothing to be done for it. She tried to jog toward the road she had seen, but found she couldn’t. The crash had left her shaky, and her stomach tumbled around on itself.
“You’re never going to make it back before midnight at this rate,” she muttered.
She concentrated some more on breathing and walking, and by the time her hands had stopped shaking, she saw a gas station on the horizon. She jogged toward it, but just as at the RV camp, she stopped outside the reach of the light and studied the scene. It was a truck stop. Three big rigs and a few cars were parked in the lot, and two trucks had pulled up to the gas pumps. There was something vaguely familiar about the truck stop, and after a few minutes pondering, she decided that she had seen it on the drive with Mr. M from the airport. Which meant she was south of the ranch by a twenty-minute car ride, give or take.
Bulletproof Mascara: A Novel Page 11