It was high time to reacquaint himself with the laundry room in the basement. He'd sweep out whatever flora and fauna were growing under his bed. He'd get rid of the altar to Gary Kasparov -- no need to subject Heather to a full-on dork fest. Besides, the knitted brow of Kasparov didn't exactly put you in the mood.
He was just consolidating his massive clothes pile when the door swung open.
"Hey, Moon."
It was Mike Suarez, one of his suite mates.
"Does the word knock mean anything to you, Suarez?" Sam asked.
"Does the phrase 'lock your friggin' door if you don't want company' mean anything to you?"
Sam laughed. "The lock is busted. Half the time you turn the knob, it falls off into your hand." He made a mental note to get that fixed before Saturday.
Suarez watched him clean for a minute.
"You planning on getting lucky?"
Sam paused and rubbed his nose. Dust bits were flying in his nostrils, making them itch. "What do you mean?"
"I can think of only one reason why a guy cleans his room," Suarez said suggestively.
Sam's energy sagged at the thought of being such a cliché. He tossed the ball of laundry on the ground.
"So?"
Sam couldn't help smiling. "Yeah, I'm getting lucky. Very lucky."
CAN HE RESIST?
"SHE FOUND NOTHING, OF COURSE," Ella stated, her voice ringing shrilly through the wide-open loft space, bouncing around its few polished surfaces.
"I see. And you were there watching her for the duration of her search?"
Ella's face showed impatience. "Certainly."
He pressed his lips together to signal his own waning patience. Ella, with her sleek body, her colorfully revealing clothing, and her poorly concealed moodiness acted as much the angry teenager as his bewitching Gaia. But as potently as Ella annoyed him, she had a value far beyond the dog-loyal bodyguards who remained within fifteen feet of him at all times. "Did she display any knowledge of her father's whereabouts?"
"No. Nothing current."
He flicked a tiny piece of lint from his dark blue slacks. "I see." He sipped coffee. "And he has made no attempt to contact her?" The question was rhetorical. He didn't even know why he'd asked it.
"No," Ella confirmed.
"How can he resist?" he mused in a quiet voice, mostly to himself.
"Sir?"
"How can he resist making contact with Gaia? She's all he has in the world after what happened to Katia. He adores her. He needs her. He knows she's bound to get into trouble." He was really talking only to himself.
"Yes, sir. Would you like me to continue to keep a record of her computer activity in case she makes any strides toward finding him?" Ella asked. Even when her words were perfectly dutiful, her tone was petulant.
He made a sharp exhale through his nose, which was the closest he came to amusement. "She won't find him. Although I despise Tom, I can't pretend he's an idiot, can I? She'll never find him, although you're welcome to leave a few red herrings that will keep her busy trying. I'm banking on the belief -- no, the knowledge -- that Tom will find her."
He picked up the impossibly slender computer from the table beside him. He'd just had a very simple and appealing idea. He sat back and crossed his legs, the computer perched on his knee. "Tom will come for her, and when he does, he's mine."
GAIA
There's one thing I want more than anything else, and I know I can never have it. I don't mean Sam or finding my dad. I'm talking about something inside myself.
I want to be brave.
And I'm not brave, in case you're wondering. Maybe I could have been brave, but I guess I'll never know.
The reason is that you can't separate bravery from fear. This is something I've thought about a lot. The people with the most fear have the greatest opportunity to be brave. A woman who is terrified of the water would be braver sticking her big toe in the swimming pool than I would be surfing a thirty-foot breaker in the Pacific Ocean. She would be overcoming something. She would be challenging herself. She would experience the pleasure of expanding her world, the freedom of exercising her will. I would be surfing a wave.
My mom used to say that a poor person who gave a dime to charity was more generous than a rich one who gave hundreds of dollars. In this example, I would be Bill Gates. Only richer.
I know for a fact that my mother was claustrophobic. And most especially, she was afraid of tunnels. Deeply, seriously afraid. I think it had something to do with her childhood in Russia, which was pretty tough. Anyway, the reason I know is because when I was seven, all my friends were taking gymnastics class a few miles away and I was desperate to go. My mom didn't want to take me at first, but I begged and pleaded. I wouldn't shut up about it. Finally my mom agreed. It turned out you had to go through a tunnel to get there. So even though I wasn't a very sensitive or nice kid, I realized my mom was basically flipping out in that tunnel. Her hands were dripping wet on the steering wheel, and her skin was whitish gray. She made these weird little moaning sounds. When we finally got out of the tunnel, she pulled over on the shoulder, rested her head on the steering wheel, and just stayed like that. I was upset, but she held me and promised me everything was fine.
Every Saturday for almost two years after that, my mother drove me to gymnastics and picked me up.
When I think of that, I'm filled with horrible, wrenching, miserable guilt. I wish so much I would have dropped that stupid gymnastics class and never gone back. But I didn't. And I can't change the past.
So instead of that, I wish that for one single moment in my life, I could be brave like my mom.
FRAGILE UNDERSTANDING
Sam's long, beautiful body claimed all of her senses.
SENT MAIL
DEAR SAM,
I have a very strange favor to ask you. I know you don't know me that well, and what you know of me you probably don't like. I am really, truly, sincerely sorry for what happened to Heather in the park and for the part I played in it. I know she's your girlfriend, so what I'm about to ask will sound particularly insane, but
Dear Sam,
There's this guy named CJ, a friend and fellow neo-Nazi of Marco's, the guy who tried to kill us after slashing Zolov in the park. Well, would you believe Marco is dead and CJ thinks I did it? CJ has completely lost his mind and is now hell-bent on killing me. And I came to this realization that before I die, I really want to
Dear Sam,
I know I must seem like trouble to you. I know it must seem like bad luck follows me around. I know you probably wish you'd never seen my face, which I can totally understand. And lucky for you, after this coming weekend you'll most likely never have to see me again. But before then, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind
Dear Sam,
I am confessing to you in total confidence that in my seventeen years, I've had very little romantic experience. Okay, none. Well, actually there was this kid in seventh grade who kind of liked me but --
Anyway, I've been thinking about you a lot recently, and I was wondering whether --
Dear Sam,
Will you have sex with me? Saturday night, no questions, no commitment.
Oh, shit. Ella was home. Gaia had to get out of George's office right away. Ella would lose it if she found Gaia in here and there was no way Gaia wanted to deal with the witch in her present state of mind.
Oh. Oh. Gaia's eyes flew over the computer monitor. What should she do? Should she save one of these horrible letters to finish later? She had so many windows open on the screen, she couldn't keep track of them. She heard Ella's heels clicking down the hallway. Oh, no. Um. Um.
In desperation she clicked on the Send Later icon. She clicked the X in the top-right corner to exit the on-line service. Ella was slowing down. She was right outside!
Gaia threw herself under George's desk and held her breath.
Ella paused in the open office doorway.
Don't come in here! Gaia commanded silently. Go a
way now!
Ella paid no heed to the telepathic messages. She walked right up to the computer and stared, squinting, at the screen.
Gaia knew for a fact that Ella was seriously nearsighted. But the woman was too vain to wear glasses and too stupid to put in contacts.
Ella placed her hand on the mouse.
What could she possibly want with the computer? Gaia wondered. No interface was user-friendly enough for Ella. Gaia had often snickered at the full library of "Such and Such for Dummies" titles on Ella's bookshelf.
Ella continued to stare dumbly at the screen. Her feet were a matter of inches from Gaia's shins. Don't look down, Gaia ordered in her head. Do not! Gaia tried to make her body as absolutely small as possible.
Ella clicked the mouse. Gaia heard the modem dialing up the on-line service and, within a few seconds, connecting. "Hello," the synthesized computer voice chirped.
What was going on? Gaia had never seen Ella in the same room with a computer before. Had she suddenly discovered the joy of on-line sex? Had somebody told her about the Victoria's Secret web site?
Ella squinted at the screen for another moment and clicked the mouse again.
Please don't be long, Gaia begged silently. Her knees hurt, and her back was cramping. It was so dusty under George's desk, she felt a sneeze threatening. If Ella was going shopping, it could take hours.
Then, as though obeying silent orders, Ella stood up, turned around and walked away. She walked right back down the hallway and up the creaky stairs.
Gaia's heart soared with relief. She uncrumpled her limbs and climbed out from under the desk. She was so busy congratulating herself, she didn't bother to look at the screen at first. Then the blinking box caught the corner of her eye. She came closer to read it.
"Your mail was sent."
A shiver crept down Gaia's spine. What? What mail had been sent? Probably just something of Ella's, Gaia tried to comfort herself.
She clicked on the file icon to investigate. Then she clicked the Mail Sent icon. She was starting to get a very bad feeling in her stomach.
It was one of Gaia's files. Somehow, by going on-line, Ella had sent a Send Later file. But which one? Gaia clicked twice on the file.
It came up instantly, the letters twice as big and black as any others on the screen. She felt like someone had kicked her brutally hard in the middle of her chest.
Dear Sam,
Will you have sex with me? Saturday night, no questions, no commitment.
GAIA SIGHTING
TOM MOORE WAS CROSSING ANOTHER endless desert. For a man who traveled tens of thousands of miles every week of his life, he certainly spent a great deal of time in the same chair, studying the same screen. For a man who hadn't seen his daughter in five years, he certainly spent a great deal of time thinking about her.
Hundreds, thousands of pages of briefings swam before his eyes. He closed the document and looked around him. He was so accustomed to the hum of jet engines, he could hardly sleep without it. The only other passenger, his personal assistant, was asleep.
The ever present satellite connection allowed him to get on-line. He'd promised himself he wouldn't do this, but tonight, well, tonight his mind was once again burning with worry for Gaia, and he couldn't ignore it any longer.
His first search for her name called up nothing. That was as it should be if the U.S. government was doing what they'd promised. Then he reduced the search to just her first name and conducted it globally, typing in a series of passwords that allowed him a degree of access allowed to only a handful of people -- access to virtually all e-mail posted on the web, for example. This turned up an enormous list. He allowed himself a look into one file. Just one. He'd pick it wisely, then he'd stop this nonsense and get back to his work.
He scrolled through the upper part of the list. He stopped on a note tagged by the re: field. It read:
re: supergaia
He opened the file:
To: jackboot
From: stika
Gaia sighting at WSW. Call set for 2100 Sat. 2 guys and metal.
It was an unfortunately good guess. Tom's worry intensified as he read easily between the lines. He felt distressingly sure this Gaia was his Gaia. He could see that the posting had come from the New York City area and could easily assume that WSW meant Washington Square West, a very short distance from George's home and the school Gaia attended.
Now that he'd opened Pandora's box, the ghosts were all around him. He'd known this could happen. Now it didn't matter how critically his presence was needed in Beirut. He pressed the button for the intercom that connected his voice to the cockpit.
"Gentlemen," he said calmly, "I'm afraid I need to order a change in destination. Let's touch down for refueling. We'll be crossing the Atlantic tonight."
URGENT LONGING
GAIA PADDED QUIETLY DOWN THE darkened hallway. She'd never been in a college dormitory before. When she reached the room number she'd gotten from the student directory, she paused. She combed her fingers through her hair, pushing long strands back from her face. She pulled self-consciously at the hem of her exquisitely soft red velvet tank dress. Taking a breath, she turned the heavy brass knob and swung open the door.
Her breath caught. He was there. He lay on his bed, his strong arms folded behind his head, propping his upper body against the bed frame. The rest of the room was oddly indistinct, shadowy and blurred. Sam's long, beautiful body claimed all of her senses.
He looked at her. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't upset. He wasn't happy, exactly, either. He looked ... serious. Had he known she would come now? Had he wanted it?
His feet were bare and crossed at the ankles. His loose gray sweatpants were turned up a few times at the bottom. Keeping his eyes on her face, he swung his knees over the side of the small bed and stood. He started toward her, then stopped, leaving two feet between them. Slowly he reached his arm, making a bridge across the air, and placed two fingers on the inside of her elbow, that vulnerable place where oxygen-thirsty blood coursed closest to her surface. A chill stole up her neck and dispersed over her scalp.
She'd come prepared with a storm of explanations in her head: (1)Why. (2)Why now. (3) Why him. But in this moment, stating them felt like it would break the tentative, fragile understanding, nurtured and protected by silence.
She took a step closer. This was hard for her. She bent her elbow and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. Was he pulling her, or was she pulling him? She wasn't sure. All she knew was that she was now close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin. He put his arms around her. She felt his fingers on the nape of her neck. Suddenly her arms were circling his taut waist, pressing him against her, crushing her breasts against his broad chest.
God, she was dizzy. She was light-headed, giddy, tingling with excitement and disbelief. Her heart was too full to stay in her rib cage. Tears gathered under her lashes.
He bent his head down so close to hers, she could feel his soft breath on her cheek. Oh God, how she wanted this kiss. She'd waited a lifetime for it. She breathed in his subtle, masculine smell and faint mixture of clean sweat and eucalyptus-scented shaving cream. She lifted her mouth to his.
Her mind was a tumultuous sea, with thoughts listing and bobbing there. And all at once an image arrived. It was an image of her body, scarred and wounded, becoming whole and perfect under his healing lips. The picture was beautiful, and she wished she could keep it, but a wave crashed through, sending thoughts spinning and surfing in the chop.
Please, kiss me, she found herself wishing. Please. I need you.
And then, in a cruel trick played by fate, Sam not only failed to kiss her; he dissolved completely. He vanished into air. He was replaced by dim, grayish sunlight, a tangle of mismatched covers. The magical night in his bed was replaced by a harsh, wrenching morning in hers. No, not even in hers. In one that belonged to George and Ella. Her velvet dress was replaced by a worn-out T-shirt from Jerry's Crab House.
She tur
ned over and buried her head in her pillow. Tears stung in her eyes. The loneliness was almost unbearable. As reality spread out before her, its stark contrast to the dream made it that much harder to take.
She wanted so much to retrieve the feelings . . . and that image.
What was that image again?
In that first moment of waking, it teased her with its closeness. It danced and sparkled on a wavelet at her feet. But then the vast ocean pulled back the tide into its dark, infinite belly, and now Gaia was faced with the terror of never finding it again. If she could only find it, she felt sure it would give her strength and maybe hope.
But she was left with nothing but the taste of Sam -- her fantasy of Sam -- on her lips and an urgent, painful longing in her heart.
(SIR) THOMAS MOORE
You may have noticed my name sounds familiar. I share it with a number of people, but most importantly the great scholar, statesman, and saint Sir Thomas More, born in England in 1478.
My mother was a devout Roman Catholic, and I assumed she picked the name to remind me of piety above all else. To remind me to choose God-given principles over king or scholarship or art . . . or even family.
Since I was a child, I felt the pressure of this name. I took it seriously. That's the kind of person I am, I suppose. I wanted to serve my country. I wanted to serve God. And if sacrifices were called for, I wanted to possess the courage to make them with honor.
My namesake set forth an almost impossible record of bravery. He watched his father imprisoned by King Henry VII because of his own deeds. He wrote a brilliant critique of English society in his work Utopia. Ultimately he was canonized for putting his head on the chopping block rather than compromising his basic beliefs for the benefit of King Henry VIII.
I never questioned the rightness of More's example until after I lost Katia and then Gaia. Now the question haunts me every day of my life.
Fearless: No. 2 - Sam (Fearless) Page 5