by Lin Lustig
Gilded Lies by Lin Lustig
LinLustig.com
Copyright 2020 Lin Lustig
Cover art by Robert Ball
Published by Lin Lustig
Ebook Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For myself.
Probably my husband, too.
But mostly me.
GILDED LIES
Frequency Book One
Table of Contents
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Part One
CHAPTER 1
Tarrah
Three months without a vision dragging her consciousness away—nearly a record. A boring one filled with rubbish daytime TV and a million needle pricks, but still progress.
Dr. Benson stood at the end of Tarrah's bed, examining her chart, clicking her long, French-manicured nails along the back of the clipboard. She hooked it on the end of the bed and adjusted her fitted lab coat.
“Ms. West, you've got some color back.” Her voice was severe but in a you-can-rely-on-me way, which Tarrah usually appreciated, but right now she'd appreciate a few crackers to settle her stomach more. Besides, she doubted her color was anything more than the same ashy gray of a doused campfire—not that she'd ever been camping. She'd seen her matted bird’s nest hair and lifeless complexion in the bathroom not long ago.
Her stomach stopped gurgling and settled as the room warmed up.
“We decided you're ready for the next trial.”
Tarrah hesitated and picked at a hang nail. She'd grown used to the cocktail of antibiotics and antidepressants, but these “trials” made her feel like the grass a cow kept bringing back up to chew apart over and over again. “I've been thinking about that.”
Dr. Benson tucked a loose red curl behind her ear. The door to Tarrah's room opened, but Dr. Benson held up her hand and the nurse backed out. When the silence stretched, she said, “About what?”
Tarrah rather wished the nurse had come in. Benson was intimidating on the best days; the woman never seemed to blink. Tarrah shrank back into her pillows. “I'd like to stop the trials.”
Dr. Benson's mouth flattened. She rolled over a chair and sat so they were almost eye level. Tarrah hadn't noticed the age spots peeking through thick foundation before. Over a year with this woman and she still felt like she was talking to a shell.
“You know these trials are the only way to keep you under our care. Your insurance can only cover a couple of months, then you’d be in debt. You're only nineteen, don't make a decision that will cripple you for the rest of your life. That's why we're doing this, right? So you can have a life?”
Tarrah blinked several times while Dr. Benson pinned her with the weight of her stare. “Y-yes.”
“Then we'll double check your blood work and make sure the last medication is out of your system and get you going on the next.” She stood.
Nerves made Tarrah mumble her acquiescence while she picked at the hang nail again. She ripped it off and bit her lip as it tore, except as a small drop of blood welled there was no pain. Heat traveled down to her toes and up across her chest, like sinking into a hot bath and—oh shit. So much for that record.
“Doctor, it's happening.” She fought the weight of the vision trying to rip her mind away. Warmth clutched at her, but if she gave in, she'd disappear and see things she couldn't control. Her breath shortened and she couldn't focus.
“Stay calm. I've got the adrenaline ready. Don't fight it.” Dr. Benson hit a button near the door.
The heat-filled endorphins crept up Tarrah's throat and into her cheeks. It felt so good and terrified the hell out of her. Two nurses joined them.
“Do whatever you have to, to keep her stable. We need her,” Dr. Benson ordered.
The last time a vision took her, Tarrah lost two days and watched a week of a kid's life in China. She hadn't understood a word of it, but this time Dr. Benson had the adrenaline. She'd use it if she had to.
Tarrah sank into the dark, wrapped in the arms of a natural high that had her consciousness leaving the hospital altogether.
CHAPTER 2
John
The familiar heather gray BMW pulled up to the curb on Broadway and West 48th. John's sensual vibe accidentally fizzled free like a Pavlovian response as his boyfriend—or rather bodyguard as far as the public was concerned—stepped out. The dozens of John’s fans crowding by the stage door grew louder and pushed against the metal railing with increased drive in response. A woman stumbled forward in her three-inch heels. John swooped in and steadied her.
“Careful. You all right?”
She glanced up at him with wide brown eyes and sputtered a thanks. He waved at her and the other fans, then capped his ability to help calm them down and crossed the sidewalk to Emerson’s side.
Emerson opened the passenger door dressed in his usual black-on-black bodyguard attire. The fans quieted as they took in his wide stance and thick body full of muscle—but also a fair bit of padding, which was John's favorite part. At Emerson’s prompting, he slid onto the pleather seat, and then Em joined him on the other side behind the wheel. Out of sight of the fans, John caressed his forearm and let a touch of his excess ability drain from his body and into Em. John was rewarded with an affectionate pat before all of Em’s attention went to the road—all business.
Once they pulled away, the business act dropped. “Nicely done with the fan catch.”
“You know me, I can’t resist a swooning woman.” John nudged him.
“Shameless.” Emerson shook his head, a grin lighting him up.
“After you, most women don’t hold quite the same spark.”
Em laughed outright. “That is the boldest lie you’ve ever hit me with.”
John chuckled without humor. If only Em knew. “Maybe, but I’ll never lie about loving you.” Which was as true as he could ever be. He leaned over and kissed Em’s cheek.
“Was it a good night?” he asked, his hands lazy on the steering wheel.
John flopped back, then rolled his head towards Em, using the BMW's headrest to conserve as much energy as possible. The neon lights of Times Square flickered in magenta highlights along Emerson's soft expression, making him look like the glamorous movie star John used to be. He didn’t want to tell him that the show was a disaster tonight. He hated seeing Em worry over his career for him.
The ongoing drama with the General Assembly of Natural Faith’s stance on eradicating genetic oddities in children was making the Broadway romantic comedy about superpowers too close to reality for comfort.
A year ago, this had all seemed like a great idea. Get out of L.A. for a bit as his film work stalled, explore a new city, be with Emerson. Now, for the first time in years he had no idea what his next project would be. But with experts struggling to explain the upswing in genetic aberrations, a play about a religious doctor falling in love with a woman and her superpowered kids just wasn’t what people were into. He nearly scoffed at it. In reality, no kid had superpowers, unless a calendar savant and a super-sleeper were going to take out crime with hyper-organiz
ed planning. Wait, wasn’t that how that worked anyway? He shook the thoughts away.
“About as good as it gets anymore.” Attendees were dropping like gnats, and he couldn't release his abnormal ability—his vibe—on so few without revving them all up with too much arousal.
John’s phone chirped, and he was glad for the distraction. “Hey, Prisha wants to know if I'm free this weekend for some stress relief.” John caught Emerson's eye roll. “Only if it’s alright with you. She doesn’t mind when you want me all to your gorgeous self.”
Emerson gave John a you’re-buttering-me-up look. “Last time she needed stress relief you got a muscle spasm in your ribs and couldn't breathe right for two days.” Emerson half-smiled as John gave him an it-was-worth-it grin. “Fine, but don't wear yourself out right before your audition.”
John leaned over and kissed his neck this time. “As you wish.”
Emerson batted him away with a glare in his eyes but a grin on his lips.
John held up his hand. “Ready for a full hit?”
“You don't have to ask.”
“I'm a little on edge,” he warned. Half the reason he made a good actor was because it allowed him to let loose his vibe and drive up audience excitement, but if there weren't enough people around to take the brunt of the arousal, it became toxic: anxiety and panic instead of thrills and pleasure. There was only one person who could take it all on without flinching; Emerson drank excess energy like his L.A. contacts drank kale juice. The problem was he could never get enough energy to satisfy his sponge-like ability.
Emerson raised his eyebrows, then his hand, keeping his eyes on the road. John entwined his fingers with Emerson's and popped the cork on his ability, spilling the bubbly champagne of his vibe through his body and down his arm. Emerson tipped his head back with a soft smile and pleasured sigh, soaking it up as if he were a leaf and John the sunlight.
“Why don't I take you out for a drink? Unwind a bit.” Emerson flicked the turn signal to the right, instead of left towards home.
“I could get on board with a few drinks at home, especially if it leads to a convenient loss of clothing.” John ran his thumb over the back of Emerson’s hand.
He smirked and said, “If we go out you can let loose on a crowd. You always feel better after that.”
“Not tonight, babe. It’s a nice thought, but I’d rather go home.”
Emerson squeezed his hand. “I won't let you lose control, don't worry.”
John felt the button teeter on the edge of being pushed. “I'm not worried about that.” He hadn't lost control since his first big live performance in L.A. Emerson wasn’t usually this persistent. “I just don’t feel like it. Everything okay?”
Emerson sighed and slid his hand free. “Fine. I didn't actually expect you to go out with me.” He flipped the blinker back to the left.
John shifted in his seat, regaining his proper posture. Something was eating at Emerson, but their anniversary wasn't for another month and it wasn't either of their birthdays, so John couldn't figure out what it was. Emerson's expression stayed neutral, but he corrected the course towards home.
“It's not fair how easily you go out with Prisha and not me,” he finally said.
John rubbed his forehead. Not this again. “Love, you know what dating a man would do to my reputation, and it’s literally against my contracts. We can have dates, just not in the city.”
The muscles in Emerson's jaw worked before he spoke. “I love you, but I'm starting to hate this.”
Before John could respond, his phone chirped again, but it wasn't Prisha responding like he’d hoped. No, it was the only guy that ever gave him an immediate headache—Glen. He ignored it. Then the phone started to ring. He ignored that too. John would rather deal with awkward relationship stuff than whatever new urgent issue Glen would drop in his lap. Glen always dug up the past and sifted through it for drama gold, and it sucked because he could usually find it.
Instead John sat in silence. Neither of them discussed the bloated relationship elephant between them for the rest of the drive. It wasn't the first time they'd had the public dating argument. It seemed to be creeping up with increasing frequency, and lately it sprang up like a Jack-in-the-box without the warning tune. There was no keeping Emerson forever. John knew that with the baggage he carried there wouldn’t be anyone interested in staying with him long-term, and he'd been on edge dreading the moment Emerson gave him up. Keeping their relationship secret had always been harder on Em, but recently it seemed to be making him miserable—which wasn’t okay.
Back at their condo, Emerson settled in at his desk and put on his over-ear headphones like a giant mute sign to any further discussion. If Em needed some time to himself then John might as well call Glen and get it over with.
He padded across the woven rug and down the bamboo hallway to their bedroom, feeling like the world's biggest ass for allowing someone like Emerson to suffer because his public brand didn't include being bisexual. He'd rather hoped that maybe... maybe Emerson was the one who would forgive him. Absolve him of all the things he’d never meant to turn out this way—like their relationship—which was definitely his fault. Emerson was amazing and deserved better.
John rubbed his face as he waited for Glen to pick up his call. His fingers came away with leftover stage makeup, so he flipped on the bathroom light and pulled out his micellar cleanser.
The phone connected and Glen's uptight voice made him grimace.
“About time you returned my calls.”
“What's happening?” John patted off the concealer, careful not to stretch the deepening lines under his eyes. His attention wandered back to Em. If he left, John would not only lose the only man he'd ever loved, but also the safety net for his vibe. Then again, Emerson deserved someone who’d put their relationship ahead of concerns over ability control. Maybe they should have stayed in L.A. instead of coming here.
“Hello? John?”
“Sorry. Say that again? I think the connection cut out,” he lied and settled his tousled blond hair back in place, ignoring the occasional gray hair that managed to blend with his honey shade—for now.
“My contacts have new information on Jammers,” Glen's voice cooled.
Jammers. Right, back to business then. Returning to the bedroom, he knocked a pile of his clothes off his bedside chair and sat. “Go on,” he prompted.
Jammers had surfaced a year ago as an underground medication that kept normal people from being influenced by the abilities in his kind—Abnormals— but they were only moderately effective. John only knew of them from Glen’s contact who’d been a temporary test subject inside UHP—the United Humanitarian Project. On the outside, they had a great Red-Cross-2.0 we-are-here-to-help brand, but privately they’d started studying people like him and Emerson. UHP wanted to use Abnormal abilities for their own “world-saving” purposes, and if they couldn’t, then they wanted to control abilities instead.
John had known UHP's predecessor company intimately. The World Humanitarian Relief Project disbanded twelve years ago, but it left a grasp on his conscience like static cling. The CEO, Aubrey, had first become fascinated with unusual traits thanks to a few nights spent with John and his ability. In exchange for the lead in Seven Sons, the film that made his career, he’d helped her co-found WHRP and sold himself for her experiments. She’d simply wanted to know how he worked—at first. He’d been poked, prodded, and tested, and believed he’d been helping to set a baseline for how abilities worked, but she’d found others with more useful abilities.
When Aubrey went to prison and WHRP had been under investigation, he thought it was over. He’d buried his involvement. Then the up-and-coming UHP bought the assets and somehow gained Aubrey’s research, too. History was repeating.
No matter how much John tried to help the other Abnormals, it didn’t change that they were only targeted because of him. Now, Glen reported everything from inside UHP to John like he’d lead them out of this mess. The on
ly thing he was leading was his career into a hard stop.
“They've been working on a second version. From what we’ve found, several DNA samples they've collected are used in the drug. Whatever cocktail they’ve mixed uses three sources, and it appears to fully block abilities.”
Being an actor came in handy when in reality he had no idea how to use that kind of information. “Do we know anything about the sources?”
“Not much. One subject has an ability off the charts. I mean literally. The test results maxed out the scale. They have a ten with an asterisk. I didn't even know abilities could be that strong.”
John's stomach dropped so fast he felt ill. The scale UHP developed rated abilities on strength, or perhaps influence—they hadn't uncovered the specifics yet—but the only way to be tested was to be in their grasp. And he knew vividly what they did to their test subjects.
“Fuck. Is it her?” There was rustling on the other end of the line. John was so far forward on the chair he might have been hovering.
“No. No, she's still in Boston.”
He collapsed back. As long as they didn't have her then they could figure this out. “Don't scare me like that. Do you know how many bodies we'd have to bury?” He wished he were speaking metaphorically. She could easily kill anyone within her influence. Her abnormality was deceptively strong and all the more terrifying for its innocuous control.
Glen laughed like the sound broke free on its own, but then he cleared his throat. “I am worried about her though, and I'm worried about what UHP has planned with this new subject.”
So that was what he was really calling for. Stronger Jammers were a problem, yes, but calling her in to help wasn’t something Glen had enough influence to do. Hell, John wasn’t even sure why she listened to him. She was cold and dangerous and... and he still wasn’t over how they’d last left things.
“John, you're the only one she might listen to. We need her help.”
When it came to Abnormals, it seemed John always needed Licia’s help. He’d already used her twice before, three times made it a habit. He brushed back his hair again and cringed. “Do you know where in Boston she is?” He couldn’t be seriously considering this. He’d let go of her, promised himself it was over after WHRP, but then she’d come to him in L.A. when he’d needed her most.