by Jamie Craig
“I suppose I could drop you off at the hospital.”
“No, no hospitals.” Tensing again, ready to flee or fight, Remy shifted wary eyes to his. “I don’t trust doctors.”
Nathan sighed. Out of the dark and blistering-hot warehouse, he had enough light and inclination to study her. He had caught a glimpse of her beauty before, but now he felt like she had sucker-punched him. She had used her looks like a hidden weapon, and it wasn’t fair. Dark, round eyes, full lips, high breasts, and long black hair, not to mention her nice ass, which had been tight yet soft against his body. Her clothes accentuated each of her curves, the odd material hugging her body. Her collar wasn’t high enough to cover her throat, and the pale skin stood out against the tightly fitted black shirt. Long, elegant fingers were encased in leather gloves so thin, they looked like they’d been painted on. No wonder he’d thought her skin was too cool. The cut of her pants drew his eyes down her shapely legs to her boots. He didn’t know much about fashion, but these looked like the type of shoes one wore for practical purposes, made for comfort and speed, not to impress. Like her gloves, they fit like a second skin.
The sight of her made his brain itch, like there was something he should see, something he should know about her. Like a forgotten name, or a song lyric only half-remembered, the feeling danced at the edge of his mind and then was gone.
He absolutely should drop her off at the hospital.
“What do you suggest then?”
It was her turn for a visual assessment, thick lashes dropping as she swept her gaze down his long, lean form. By the time she dragged her eyes back to his again, there was a calculating gleam in the brown depths. “You get me a first aid kit, and I’ll sandbag it myself.”
Nathan frowned, perplexed. This one is trouble. Forget the hospital, I should take her to the police. “I can patch you up at my place. My car’s about a block away.” Nathan hoped it was a block away, and in one piece. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Two
Experience screamed at her to make a run for it.
Reality had different ideas.
Her back stung from the knife wound, and Remy was pretty sure the fall she’d taken from the second-story window of the Henryk mansion had sprained her wrist. Somewhere on the back of her left thigh, blood seeped from another injury, while her clothing hid other scrapes and bruises, all courtesy of trying to get the fuck out of Dodge before Kirsten and her brute squad managed to make a blow stick. If this Nathan had any sandbag serum, at least she’d be able to stop the bleeding long enough to start healing. She wouldn’t get far if she was leaving a trail of blood-crumbs behind her.
Which led to the absolutely cracked idea that she could, in any way, be in Los Angeles. How was it possible to get all the way across the country in seconds? The answer was easy.
It wasn’t.
She stole a glance at the man walking at her side. Though hidden by the dark shadow of stubble, his jaw was tense, lips thin from how tightly he held his mouth. A raw power emanated with every movement, from the controlled swing of his arm to the sure stride of his step. His anger inside the warehouse had been more than real, but the grim silence surrounding him now was worse. She knew how to deal with dogfights from a lifetime of experience. Strong and silent left her floundering.
There would be no more fighting right now, though. She had felt the taut, lean muscles of his arms when he’d pinned her to the wall. This Nathan might like his guns, but he had helped her down the stairs as if she weighed nothing. If she was forced into hand-to-hand, Remy had no doubt she would end up the loser.
Her gaze flickered over him again, this time lingering on his long legs and slim hips. The jeans he wore looked heavy, the denim thick and unwieldy, with old-fashioned detailing along the seams. Sweat and dust from his scuffles at the warehouse molded them to his body, leaving very little to her very active imagination. She licked her lips. Maybe she wasn’t up to a fight, but anything else was fair game.
He walked with purpose, leading her down a block and around a corner before stepping off the curb and popping the trunk of a parked car. Remy came to an abrupt halt, eyes going wide at the sight of the classic Mustang. She had never seen one on the streets before. This one even had an exhaust pipe, which meant he’d stuck with the original gas engine. No government tags on the retro plate, though. She bit back a smile. Someone obviously didn’t care about ridiculous bureaucracy. One more reason to follow her gut and trust this guy.
“This is yours?”
Nathan didn’t look up as he put his gun in the trunk and reached for a ratty old blanket. “I’ve got the title to prove it.” He thrust the blanket into her arms. “Sit on that. I don’t want blood all over my car.”
Her eyes were still fixed to the Mustang’s sleek lines as she walked to the passenger door. Maybe he’d inherited it or something. A car like this had to cost a fortune, and she had this guy pegged as some kind of PI or cop or something. No way could he pony up for it on his own.
It took staring at the old-fashioned handle for a few seconds to figure out how to open it. By the time she did, Nathan was already behind the wheel, fingers tapping impatiently as he waited for her to get in.
“Not bad, Nate.” The grin she’d tried to contain on the sidewalk escaped when she saw the vintage radio. Unable to resist, Remy reached to fiddle with the dials, watching the indicator slide back and forth behind the tiny numbers in amused fascination. “Not bad at all.”
He worked the stick, shifting the car into first gear. “Nathan. My name is Nathan.”
Remy smiled. His English accent, which was already dead sexy, thickened when he was annoyed.
She saw him look at the radio as she pushed through static and fuzzy stations playing what sounded like mariachi bands, but he didn’t say anything about it. “And you can see Owl City on August 18th as KROQ’s special guest. Just call 1-800…” The DJ’s voice blasted in the car.
“Turn that down,” Nathan said, reaching for the dial.
Remy let him adjust the volume, until the DJ’s voice was barely audible. There was no point in arguing; she’d never been a fan of oldies anyway.
It gave her the perfect opportunity to satisfy her need to know. “So what kind of work do you do that lets you have a car like this?”
Pulling onto the deserted street, he glanced at her with what appeared to be confusion mingled with curiosity. “What do you a mean, a car like this?”
His question made her pause. Nathan had struck her as intelligent, but if he didn’t know what his car was worth, maybe she needed to re-evaluate her initial assessment. “It’s a classic. And it looks like aces. You’d never see anything like this on the streets back in D.C.”
“I’d hardly call this a classic, Remy. I picked her up for a few grand and slapped a new coat of paint on her. She doesn’t look too bad though, does she?” The question was asked with just a hint of a smile.
Her fingers stroked the smooth surface of the dash. “She looks amazing.” No reason to wonder about his street smarts. If he negotiated a car like this for just a few thousand, there was nothing wrong with his brain. “So where’s your place?”
Nathan didn’t answer until he eased onto the abandoned freeway. “Glendale. It’s only a few more miles. This time of night, it won’t be more than ten minutes.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “How is your back? Are you still bleeding?”
Gingerly, Remy peeled off her gloves before leaning forward to slip a hand beneath her shirt. Her fingers came away sticky, but the blood felt too cool to be fresh. “Looks like it’s slowing down.”
She looked around for something to clean off her fingers. Nothing was obvious, but as she was about to swipe them across her already-ruined pants, Nathan spoke up.
“There are some napkins in the glove box. A few of them probably aren’t covered in ketchup.”
Glove box. It took her a moment to realize what he was referring to, and she leaned forward to examine the round knob. Tak
ing a risk, she twisted it and was pleased when it popped open, revealing a dark compartment crammed full of papers and junk. Something small and rectangular tumbled to the floor, but she was too absorbed by the other contents to pay much attention to it. There were napkins right on top, while underneath was what looked like the original owner’s manual for the Mustang and a small square piece of stiff paper with facts about Nathan and the car typed across it. But it didn’t hold a single glove.
Thoughtfully, she grabbed a napkin and closed the compartment. Maybe Nathan was a historian of some sort, or one of those people who did re-enactments for a price. It would explain the obsessive detail.
It didn’t explain how antiquated everything out the window looked, though. Wiping the blood off her fingers, she watched the lights of the city streak by in candy-colored stripes. They passed billboards for products she’d never heard of. Hell, the billboards themselves were nothing she’d ever seen except as derelicts in forgotten corners of D.C. Why wouldn’t a big city like L.A. be digital?
If she didn’t know it was impossible, she would’ve thought she’d been thrown back in time.
Of course, traveling thousands of miles without knowing how was pretty impossible, too.
“Who got you?”
His question jolted her from her thoughts, as did the obvious concern in his voice. The last time anybody had asked about her health and meant it was before Kirsten’s strike at the safe house. Remy didn’t want to be reminded she was all on her own. Not right now. There were too many other problems to consider first.
Like how in hell she’d gone from D.C. to L.A. in the blink of an eye.
And what she had to do to make sure she didn’t go back.
And most importantly, how she could tell a guy she didn’t know from jack that the woman who had sliced her open was a cop.
The silence stretched. Remy finally settled on, “There was a fight. I tried to run, and this bitch who’s been after me didn’t like that idea.”
Nathan didn’t reply for several seconds. She risked a glance at him, but his gaze was locked on the road in front of them. The car slowed and drifted to the right, the next exit looming. They rolled down the ramp, and he pulled into the parking area of a brightly lit shop. Its illuminated sign showed a red “7” with the word “eleven,” in green, superimposed across it.
“And then you fell through a hole in the time-space continuum and ended up on the other side of the country?” he asked dryly, removing the keys from the ignition. “I’m getting some food. Are you hungry?”
The echo of her earlier conclusion stunned her into silence. She’d merely thought that possibility, not said it out loud.
Hadn’t she?
Nathan repeated the question, enunciating clearly as if speaking to a child.
Something inside her snapped. “I’m not bleeding out my ears. I heard you the first time.”
Nathan sighed. “Fine, I’ll just grab you some chips or something.” He opened the door and made it two steps before pausing and circling back. Opening the passenger door, he announced, “You’re coming in, too. I don’t know you well enough to trust you with my car.”
Finally, something she understood. Climbing out, Remy followed him into the store, her stomach rumbling at the scent of warming food.
When he glanced at her with a raised brow, his mouth curving into an amused smile, she flushed in embarrassment. “Maybe I am a little hungry.”
Nathan went to a drink dispenser and filled a huge plastic cup with Big Gulp printed on it. He didn’t seem interested in what she was doing, but she knew he listened to every step she took, keeping track of her as she moved through the small store. Once he had his drink, he grabbed some packaged sandwiches from the nearby cooler, as well as a few flat boxes marked with an Italian name and “pizza” and two cylindrical containers that said Ben and Jerry’s.
“Grab something if you want it,” he threw over his shoulder as he headed for the counter. When she didn’t react, he paused. “What are you gawking at?”
Remy barely heard him. Her attention had been riveted by a newspaper stand next to the cooler. Ignoring headlines about strife in the Middle East and sports scores, she focused on the way air from the overhead vents made the edges of the newspapers flutter in their minute breeze.
Nobody printed news anymore. Paper had been outdated for decades.
That was when she noticed the tiny date emblazoned under the masthead.
Maybe her time travel theory wasn’t as cracked as she thought it was.
Nathan dumped his food on the counter and turned back to her. “What? What are you looking at?”
When she didn’t react, he walked over and took her elbow. The door chimed as a new customer arrived, and though Nathan pulled on her arm, she didn’t move. He tried again, but she smacked his hand away, her focus never shifting from the newspapers.
Nathan grabbed her, his grip tighter this time, and pulled her against him. “Look,” he said under his breath, “you’re going to start attracting attention. Your back is covered in blood, and you look like you’re on something. I don’t want to deal with the police and I’m sure you don’t. So get your ass in gear.”
Her heart already hammered inside her chest, but the hot stream of his words along her neck made her skin stipple in goose bumps. Letting him drag her back to the front of the store, Remy noticed for the first time the prices on the items he had picked up, how he pulled cash from his worn leather wallet to pay for everything instead of offering a debit card. A small box of rolled horoscopes near the register proclaimed the same year that had been on the papers, and the stereo perched on a shelf behind the aging cashier had a cassette deck in the middle of its display.
A cassette deck. She had only ever seen one of those in the movies.
She still hadn’t said a word by the time they stepped back out into the cool night air, but when Nathan tried to lead her to the car, Remy yanked herself away to dig into her back pocket.
The tiny piece of plastic she extracted was wet with blood that had seeped from her wound. Wiping away a smudge in the corner, she felt the air rush from her lungs. The date, achingly familiar, was decades away from what the papers and rags inside had declared.
2060.
The year she’d been born.
According to the headlines, she wouldn’t even exist for another fifty years.
The sound of the slamming door startled Remy into lifting her head. Nathan stuck his hand out the window and waved. “I’m leaving now.”
As if to emphasize his words, the Mustang’s powerful engine flared to life. She took a stumbling step forward, but that wasn’t fast enough for Nathan. The car rolled beside her, and he leaned over the passenger seat to push the door open. “What’s wrong with you? Get in the car.”
As soon as she was seated, Remy thrust her ID into his face. “Tell me what that says.” A note of panic crept into her voice, but she couldn’t hold it back any longer. “Tell me I’m not losing my fucking mind.”
Nathan plucked the ID from her fingers and held it up to the light. “Remy Capra. Classification: C. Date of birth…” He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “What is this? A fake ID?” He snorted. “You should get your money back.”
She snatched it back. Her fingers were trembling. “It’s not fake. It’s…”
She didn’t know what it was. It wasn’t possible for her to be sitting with a guy in front of an Eleven-7 store, fifty years before her parents had thought drunken sex on their second date was the best idea ever.
What the hell did I grab?
Her hand plunged back into her pockets, pulling out the coins she had stolen from the Henryk collection. Under the orange lights of the convenience store, they gleamed back at her, silver and gold reminders of the life she’d ran away from. She had no idea what any of them were. She only knew they were valuable and Kirsten Henryk protected them fiercely. Kirsten’s paranoia had been the only reason Remy needed to take them. Even now, though, they off
ered no clue as to their purpose, not even a date to prove she wasn’t crazy.
But they were real. As real as the newspapers inside the store. And somehow, some way, they had helped her escape.
She glanced over at Nathan. He still regarded her with the same intense gaze he’d leveled at her before, waiting for some kind of explanation. What was she supposed to say? He would think she was crazy, no matter how she painted it.
Then it dawned on her.
She was free.
This was her chance to get away from her old existence and start over. There would be no cops coming after her, no psycho bitches who saw everything in only black or white. There wouldn’t be family, but hell, Kirsten had slaughtered that possibility when she attacked the safe house. For Remy, this was the break of a lifetime.
She smoothed her composure, shedding the crippling anxiety for the swagger she was more accustomed to wearing. “Are we just going to sit here all night?” She sounded normal again. Thank god.
“No, my ice cream is melting,” he said under his breath as he eased off the brake and rolled out of the parking lot.
At the next red light, he spared a glance at her. “Fake ID. Precious coins. Maybe I was right about your desire to avoid the cops, huh?”
Remy refused to back down. “I seem to remember hearing somebody tell me to get my ass in gear because he didn’t want to deal with the cops, either.” As she slipped the coins back into her pocket, it occurred to her she couldn’t afford to lose the lone ally she had. Nathan could still tow her off to the funny farm if he wanted. “So…are we good?”
“I didn’t want to deal with the cops, because I’m armed, you’re injured, and they’d draw certain conclusions.” The streets darkened as they made their way farther from the freeway and deeper into the city, winding down side streets and rolling through empty intersections without stopping. “Yeah, we’re good. Your ID is almost cartoonish, which makes me think you’re no criminal mastermind. And what do I care about a handful of coins?”
He turned into a gated driveway, except the gate was broken and all the lights were dark.