Out of the Box 7 - Sea Change

by Robert J. Crane

  I closed the door behind us and stepped out onto the softly lit pool deck. Kat looked like she was glowing cerulean from the underwater lights, and I looked up into a sky that was so polluted by light that I couldn’t see a single star. “So,” I started, “as an impartial observer, I hear you’re kind of up shit creek here.” I walked along the concrete edge of the pool and tossed a quick look back over my shoulder to the house in time to see the cameraman duck down, framed in the lit window to the kitchen. He was gonna look really funny walking around with that camera hanging out of his rectum.

  “Does that make you happy?” Kat asked softly. I suspected that absent the abnormal lighting, she would probably look pale and sick. As it was, she looked a little like one of those aliens from Avatar, but shorter.

  “You getting the shaft doesn’t exactly make me sad,” I said, folding my arms in front of me. “Do you have any idea how bad you screwed me over with that crap you pulled?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “If you deny it, I will fly my ass home tonight and drag Scott along with me,” I said, throwing up a finger in accusation.

  “It wasn’t me,” Kat said. “I don’t have anything to do with the editing of the show, okay? I’m not the director.”

  I locked my jaw until the last twitch of rage passed. It took a few seconds. “Who is?”

  “Taggert,” she said, a small surrender.

  “That guy really does have his fingers in a lot of butts.”

  She blanched. “He’s just doing what he needs to in order to make the show successful.” She straightened a little. “To make my career a success.”

  “Yeah, well, I remember when I put my effort toward making sure you lived long enough to have a career outside of a snuff film minus the film,” I said, glaring at her. “Though I doubt you even remember that time I stopped your brother on the IDS tower—”

  “I remember,” she said, muttering.

  “Yeah, so do I,” I said crossly, “every time that knucklehead pipes up about his precious Klementina—”

  HEY, Gavrikov said. It was the favored expression of outrage among the voices in my head, because it always got me to take a moment to respond.

  Shut up, Gavrikov.

  “Can you please cool it about that?” She looked genuinely worried.

  “Why?” I asked. “You worried that your brand will take a hit if people find out you’ve celebrated your centennial?”

  “I did not celebrate a centennial,” she said, more than a little irritated, something that Kat very seldom was. “I don’t remember any of my life before, and you know it. I lost those memories—”

  “In some noble pursuit, I’m sure.” I didn’t roll my eyes this time, because for all I knew, she had lost them nobly. Kat’s power was tied inextricably to life. As a Persephone-type meta, she could manipulate living greenery, which was kind of a cool thing to watch. Her other ability, though, was to heal people with the touch of her skin. Unfortunately for her, if she tried to heal too much, she lost memories. I’d seen her lose all her memories of Scott after an incident in Des Moines, Iowa, when she’d saved his life. They’d been one of those really annoying boyfriend/girlfriend combos, tight as her pants one day, and the next day he was a sobbing mess and she didn’t know him from a random guy on the street. It would have made for an awkward Thanksgiving dinner if we’d actually celebrated Thanksgiving that year.

  “Sienna, I just want to live my new life—”

  “If you’d just wanted to live your new life,” I said with grating harshness, “you would have let my little prison break incident pass without inflicting a call on me.”

  “Well, I haven’t called you since,” she said.

  “Not so,” I sniped. “You called me when I was in Atlanta dealing with that business with Tom Cavanagh—”

  “Oh,” Kat said. “Right. I forgot. Well, it’s not like you answered—”

  “Hell, no. I had J.J. block your calls.”

  Her face fell. “What if I needed to get hold of you? You know, for an emergency—”

  “You mean like this?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Then I imagine you’d call me from a friend’s phone—if you have any of those left.” I delivered the coup de grâce with the utter lack of remorse it required and watched it hit her like a punch to the jaw. Not one of mine, of course, because that would have required all the plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills to fix, but close. She actually took a step back, looking a little unsteady, and I realized that in my natural, admittedly sadistic, desire to lash out at this person who had caused me so much pain, I had just stumbled on something that I hadn’t even realized.

  Kat didn’t have an actual friend left in the world.

  I worked that all out in a few seconds and watched her try and blink her way to a response, failing utterly.

  “Never mind,” I said hastily, suddenly embarrassed for her. I shouldn’t have been, because obviously she’d been plenty shitty to me, even trying to come back to the well after knowing how crappy things had gone for me after her first phone call, but … I actually did feel sorry for her.

  Because if there was anything I knew after the last few months, it was what it was like to feel like you didn’t have a friend left in the world.

  “Wait, that’s it?” she asked, like she was having trouble coming to terms with the fact that I’d started to walk away from our little argument after less than a round. Of course, I felt like I’d landed my knockout punch and was ready to leave, but maybe she didn’t know that.

  “That’s it,” I said. “I mean, probably. I might let slip a little passive-aggressive comment every now and again, some sarcasm, which is the way of my people—”

  “Your people?” she asked. “The … Norwegians?”

  “Come on, Kat,” I said, ignoring her. “Let’s get you inside. It’s not safe here.”

  “Okay,” she said, watching me warily as she headed for the door, “I have to get ready for the party anyway.” She made her way inside past me, leaving the door open, walking like she’d had plenty of the starch taken out of her step, and I didn’t think she was acting this time.

  “Yeah,” I nodded sagely, “you should—”

  Wait, what?

  11.

  What kind of idiot goes to a Hollywood party when they’ve nearly been murdered that very afternoon?

  World, I introduce to you Klementina Gavrikov, a.k.a. Katrina Forrest. If fate protects fools and babies, then this girl was clearly being watched over by Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos. They were probably metas, as all those ancient Greeks with power tended to be. I hoped for Kat’s sake they had power beyond my own, because based on her level of stupidity, whoever was protecting her would have to work overtime to keep her safe.

  I followed Kat’s car to the party by flying overhead about a hundred feet, drifting along at what felt like snail speed after my supersonic flight across the country to get here. Before you ask, I did consider arguing with her about going to a party at this exact moment, but my Halibut steak had been burned off during my flight and I was hungry again.

  Also, I was kinda hoping Jennifer Lawrence would be there because I had a feeling she would be a fun person to get loaded at a party with.

  I set down in front of Kat’s SUV just as the valet was stepping out to get the keys from the driver, a guy named Dan who looked like he was not happy to be on the job today. I nearly scared the valet as I appeared, causing him to draw a sharp breath and take a few steps back, almost stumbling on the pristine white brick driveway. “Dude, settle down,” I said to him as I walked to the back of the SUV, “you’ve probably opened a door for Miley Cyrus, don’t get all skittish over little ol’ me.” I grinned like an ass because, let’s face it, I was kinda being one.

  The door popped open (I didn’t open it because, well, I’m not Kat’s damned valet) and Karyn stepped out first. I’d learned she was Kat’s assistant from Scott just before we left. My reply when he’d told me that: “A
re we sure she’s not actually Taggert’s slave?” He guffawed.

  Karyn held the door open as Kat unfolded her skinny, long-legged carcass and stepped down in a gown that was slit up to the hip and made me wonder if she was trying to get some side-beaver photos taken “accidentally.” She preened a little, stopping when I rolled my eyes. The two photogs who were on the scene had already finished their pictures and moved down the line to the limo pulling in behind us.

  “No press,” Taggert said as he stepped out, buttoning up his jacket. The man was wearing blue jeans and a suit jacket with a button-up shirt that looked like it might have come from Hawaii. Like, sold on the street in Hawaii, not from a retailer. “That’s good for us.”

  “What do you mean, ‘no press’?” I asked, furrowing my brow as I waved at the two photographers who’d just snapped half a hundred pics of Kat. “What were those guys?”

  He smirked—again. “That’s like having no press. You’ll see what I mean tomorrow.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” A guy snaked out in a black suit with a white shirt and black tie. “I’m gonna need to search you.”

  “I’m a federal agent on a case,” I said, flashing my badge and keeping my patience under tight wraps. “So, no, you don’t.”

  He looked ready to argue behind black sunglasses, and I saw he had a companion just behind him. It’s night, boys. The “stars” aren’t bright enough to justify that look, you jackasses. “All right,” he finally said, “Ms. Nealon.”

  “Thanks for your cooperation,” I said, giving him a patronizing smile. “You should totally search her, though,” I said, waving to Kat behind me, who probably couldn’t have hid a toothpick in that ensemble. I watched with some satisfaction as a woman dressed exactly like the first Secret Service wannabe gave Kat a very thorough pat-down. Not gonna lie, it did my heart some good to watch it.

  “Hey,” Taggert said with a broad grin as he received a security screening of his own, “you do much more of that and I’m gonna have to charge you.” I rolled my eyes. I had a feeling it usually worked the opposite way.

  I led the way into the party, drawing a scathing look from a guy with a mohawk who had a chain stretching from his earring to his nose piercing. I felt a little strange being judged by Mr. Slightly Unconventional, but whatever, I guess. Maybe my hair was a little askew. Try flying cross-country without a plane and not being a little mussed.

  “Kat!” a woman in a glittering gown squealed. I didn’t recognize her, but that didn’t mean anything. Kat made a squealing noise of her own in reaction, and I let the girl pass without dislocating her arm trying to stop her, which was what I’d been preparing to do when Kat acknowledged her. I hadn’t done much bodyguarding in my time, though I’d certainly acted as protector to people on a few occasions.

  “Guarana,” Kat said, running her hands lightly and briefly over the girl's bare arms before folding them over each other and returning them to covering her nearly-exposed crotch. I frowned, wondering if Guarana was the girl’s given name or if she’d just been a fan of staying caffeinated. “How have you been?”

  “Just terrible,” Guarana said, holding a hand over her heart. “I heard what happened to you earlier. I felt so bad.” She was a terrible actor, too, but Kat’s sadface response made her look like an award-winner by comparison.

  What the hell was wrong with these people?

  “What the hell is wrong with these people?” Scott asked in a whisper, sidling up to me. Kat heard him and tossed us both a cold look, as though I had anything to do with his simple statement. You know, other than thinking the exact same thing at the exact same moment. What? She’s not a telepath, people. She couldn’t have known.

  “Maybe it’s just her and her friend,” I said. I glanced at Taggert. “And him.”

  “Kat!” Another voice called, this one belonging to a guy in a tuxedo that was so new-style I barely recognized it as a tux. “I heard about what happened, and I am so sorry.”

  “He doesn’t sound sorry,” Scott said. “He sounds … kinda jealous, actually.”

  “Whatever,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, “at least she doesn’t have the film crew following her around right now.”

  “Yeah,” Scott said, his face sort of scrunched up, “I wonder what’s up with that. I thought she didn’t go anywhere without it.”

  “Maybe they took my threat to heart.” Or anus, as the case may be.

  “Maybe,” he said, blowing air between his lips, then stopping suddenly when he realized how rude it sounded. “Uhm … should we mingle?”

  I thought about that for a minute. “Parties are not really my scene, as you know.”

  He frowned. “How would I know that?”

  I froze. Of course he didn’t know that. It wasn’t like he could have remembered the awful Christmas gala his family held that he’d made me suffer through only a few years ago. I remembered it clearly, of course, every bit of it, but he didn’t. “Do you suppose there’s a buffet table?” I asked to change the subject.

  “Can’t have a party without something to eat,” he opined as another guest, this one I recognized from a daytime soap that I might maybe have occasionally watched now that I was working from home—came up to give Kat her not-so-sympathetic-sympathies.

  It took three rooms of hunting to find the food, and when I found it, I was actually kind of disappointed.

  “Hi,” a woman said as she came up to me with a bright, effervescent smile.

  “Hi,” I returned, already put on my guard by her chipper nature.

  “How’d you get here tonight?” she asked.

  “I … flew,” I said, blinking.

  She threw her head back and laughed. “Out of towner, huh?”

  “Is it that obvious?” I looked back and found Scott missing, nowhere in sight. Probably threw himself behind one of the lampshades when he saw this one coming.

  “You can always pick ’em out,” she said, arching her eyebrows. “What do you do?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “I’m in law enforcement.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “You’re a cop? No way! My next project has me playing this role as a minor—well, it’s not really minor, it’s a very integral part—”

  “Excuse me,” I said, instead of being exceptionally rude and just saying what I meant, which was, “Get away from me before I get sick right in your face.” I wasn’t feeling sick at all, but it was starting to become a danger because I was really hungry and the so-called buffet was not looking very buffet-y.

  I pushed past her and found myself in a kitchen that looked like Kat’s, except it was black and kind of brown-toned and … I really have no feel for decorating, as anyone who had ever seen my linoleum kitchen floors would be able to attest to. Ariadne still looked a little ill every time she lowered her gaze in the kitchen. There was no linoleum here; it was a beautiful wood floor with a white-yellow tinge. I was looking in the other direction when I ran into someone, shoulder-checking them into a marble-topped counter.

  “Ow,” the guy said, flinching and grabbing at his back. I spun on him, noticing two more of the black-suited security personnel focusing on me and my little disturbance. They even had the earpieces sticking out of their ears, and it made me wonder what nightclub rope line was missing its clown-car full of bouncers for the evening.

  “Yeah, you should watch where you’re going,” I said, giving the guy I’d run into the once over.

  “I guess so,” he said, sounding genuinely remorseful as he straightened back up. “You pack a full head of steam, huh?” He had brown eyes, chestnut-colored hair, and—

  Whoooooops.

  I realized after an uncomfortable second of staring that I’d just shoulder-checked Steven Clayton. The Steven Clayton. The one who had become Hollywood’s leading man in the last couple years, the one who was two parts Chris Hemsworth, one part Chris Pratt, and a little bit of Tom Cruise before the radioactive disaster site that was Oprah’s couch.

  “Oh, shit,�
�� I said, covering my mouth.

  “It’s okay, I’m good,” he said, stretching his back and finally taking his hand off his spine. He still had a pained look, but it was—uhh, well—it was kind of a goooood look. Like, really good. Like, ruggedly handsome, just got done filming an action scene where he did something super heroic and then fell off a building but was totally casual about it and—

  I’m gushing. In my own monologue. For shame, Sienna.

  “Hey,” he said, locking those coffee brown eyes on me, “aren’t you S—”

  “I’m nobody,” I said casually, shaking my head. “Definitely not that, uhh … crazy person.” I giggled under my breath and then considered briefly creating a distraction by pulling my CZ Shadow and shooting myself in the foot in order to get out of this awkward situation. It’s not like it would kill me, after all. I mean, I’d just giggled, for crying out loud. Who does that?

  “That’s soooo amazing,” Kat said, strolling by with a guy on her arm, emitting a throaty giggle as she threaded her way past me on the other side of the island in the middle of the kitchen.

  Oh, no. I’ve become that girl.

  Kat, as if sensing my horror, turned her head and looked right at me then scanned on to Steven Clayton. Her eyes widened in undisguised shock and revulsion, and she promptly rescued her arm from the crook of the elbow of the man she was strolling with, probably dislocating his shoulder in the process. I cringed. That meta strength … you really gotta watch that.

  “Oh, hi!” she said, moving around the island toward me with a hustle that I wouldn’t have expected to see from her in life-and-death battles, let alone in a kitchen in Hollywood. “Steven, I’m Kat. How do you do? We have so many mutual acquaintances—”

  “Oh, uh, yeah,” he said, looking a little startled by her sudden offensive. “Nice to meet you, Kat. I’m familiar with your show—”

  “Oh, you watch my show?” she asked, the falsely modesty oozing like green phlegm down an upper lip. Yeah. I went there. She was subtle as snot, okay?

  “Well, I’ve heard of it—”