Mr. Real

by Carolyn Crane

  This was so crazy! But, maybe he wouldn’t come. And yet, a part of her wanted him to.

  A shopping list began to form in her mind, because of course she would feed him. In the commercials, he liked to have a drink, but a good hostess offered food to a guest. And then what? Would he want to talk? Or go right to the sex-and-romance part? But who says Sir Kendall would be up for sex?

  Of course he’d be up for it. Sir Kendall was a madly sexual being.

  She stared at her half-eaten carrot, which no longer seemed like food. Her stomach felt like 99% pure stardust.

  No more beer! She grabbed a Coke.

  Her phone. She turned it on. Six calls from Karen.

  Crap.

  She called Karen at her conference hotel room.

  “Honey!” Karen said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be such a bitch, I was just freaked out.” Karen apologized some more. Alix assured her it was fine, and that she wasn’t mad at her—not at all.

  “Are you okay?” Karen said after a long silence. “Is something up?”

  “Um…sort of,” Alix said.

  More silence.

  “Damn,” Karen said. “What did you order?”

  Alix winced. “I think it’ll be okay.”

  “No way, you didn’t order anything. You’re messing with me. Are you drunk?”

  “That’s totally irrelevant,” Alix said. “It’s a good test—I swear! It’s just that…well, you know that commercial with Sir Kendall? The Denali man?”

  Karen gasped. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  Alix explained her thinking, why it was actually a good idea.

  A long silence.

  “Who are you? Harry Mudd?” Karen barked. “What are you thinking? I can’t even believe…I am on the floor, dumbfounded. A unicorn would’ve been way more practical.”

  “At least it’ll test the magic!”

  “Bringing an imaginary person to life? Yeah, I guess so. And what if it’s Hardass Paul? That’ll be a barrel of monkeys.”

  “It won’t be Paul,” Alix said. “I’ve been thinking about this. You get what’s in the picture, that’s why there’s always a blank space where the picture came from. When I talked to that jewelry guy, the real necklace was still in his case—my necklace came from the picture. And that barrel came complete with all the dents. It’s not like I got a bunch of lumber and metal instead of a barrel. So why would I get Paul instead of Sir Kendall? You get whatever’s in the picture, not the real thing.”

  “Is that supposed to be a relief to me?”

  “Kind of,” Alix said.

  “You may have just brought a human being to life. Not to mention the sexual slavery angle.”

  “What? Nobody’s making him do anything. He’s not a person, he’s a character.”

  “As if that makes it all right,” Karen said.

  “It’s his thing! He shows up, romances, drinks Denali, and walks out the door and dissolves. That’s his whole deal, like a character in one of your video games. Or a mosquito.”

  “God, Alix, couldn’t you have thought through the consequences for once?”

  “Don’t be mad,” Alix pleaded. “You have to help me. What do I wear?”

  “What do you wear? That’s your big question? What to wear?”

  “It’s not my only question.”

  And just like that, Karen hung up.

  Alix stared at the phone.

  She’d gotten drunk and ordered her magic computer to bring a sexy TV spy to life. To come to her home and fuck her.

  Okay, but it’s not like it would rip the fabric of the universe!

  She drained the rest of her soda, silver bracelets jingling, and stared out the window. The porch light cast a pale sheen over the backyard and the run-down carriage house. The forest beyond was shrouded in pure darkness. No stars, no moon.

  She thought about stripping some paint off the upstairs baseboards while she waited for the potatoes to cook. Like that would make up for what she’d done. Instead she grabbed a bag of cinnamon red-hots she’d been saving to put on cookies. She tore into them just as her cell phone went off. Karen’s tune.

  Alix gasped in relief and snapped it up. “Karen!”

  “Jeans with a nice top,” Karen said. “Sexy, but not too outrageous. You know that beige cashmere top of yours?”

  “Thank you,” Alix said. “I’ll wear that. That’s exactly what I’ll wear.”

  “Yeah, fabulous. You listen to me now.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Okay, I went and found that commercial. Same stuff, every time? He shows up, drinks Denali, romances a woman, and dissolves?” Karen asked.

  “Always. Exactly like that.”

  Silence again. “Maybe you have a point about that being his lifecycle. Like a mosquito or a video game character. If I ordered a character from a video game, I’d expect him to follow the rules set by the game. Like, if there was a character that could be killed by a squirt of lemon juice or who needs to collect a sword to get power, I’d expect him to follow those rules in real life.”

  “His rules are that he arrives, he spies, he romances, he drinks Denali, and then he walks out the door and dissolves.”

  “So those are the conditions he must satisfy for his lifecycle—you must allow him to spy, to romance, to drink Denali. And then walk out of a doorway. You’ll definitely need to get Denali.”

  “See? It’s not so bad.”

  “Actually, it IS so bad. And I might be wrong. It’s not like this stuff’s on Wikipedia. Okay. Shit. He arrives at 7:46?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well for starters, I’m calling at eight to make sure everything’s cool. What if he wants to have sex and you don’t?”

  “Sir Kendall is a gentleman. It’s not like they’re going to put a rapist in a commercial that sells liqueur to women.”

  “Jesus,” Karen hissed. “I’m flying out there.”

  “You’re doing a launch. You can’t.”

  “I’ll phone it in.”

  “No! Don’t! Lindy will be here,” Alix said. “He won’t be trouble. Come on.”

  Karen sighed dramatically.

  They discussed the meal and decided on a pan of eggplant parmesan. If Sir Kendall didn’t show, at least she’d have something yummy to eat through the week.

  Friday night.

  Alix put the eggplant parmesan in the oven at 6:45, but she’d wait for Sir Kendall to arrive before she started it baking.

  If he arrived.

  She’d spent the day cleaning, shopping, and running errands, but now that she’d come to a stop, she felt nervous as hell. What did she really know about Sir Kendall? She knew Hardass Paul, even trusted him on a deep level, asshole that he was, but this wasn’t Hardass Paul. And unlike Paul, he’d want to have sex with her! Would that be weird? No. She’d rehearsed it enough in her mind.

  She’d dug out her favorite jeans, which were so threadbare that she only trotted them out on special occasions. This definitely qualified. With the jeans she wore the sassy, creamy cashmere top that Karen had recommended, the softest thing ever, with little pearl buttons. She’d also put on all of her favorite silver bracelets, and a bottle of Denali sat on the far counter. She’d opened it up and sampled it. Still gross. No wonder nobody drank it.

  She waited in the living room, reading the Malcolmsberg Herald with the comprehension of a rabbit, and then put it aside and scratched Lindy’s ears. “What would Hardass Paul say about this?” she asked Lindy.

  For once it wasn’t funny. When Alix thought it through, something she vowed to do more of from now on, she knew that she would be mad if somebody ordered a duplicate of her to have sex with, and she was pretty easygoing.

  She hoped Hardass Paul wouldn’t find out about this. But really, why would he?

  She went to the fireplace and tilted the blue pencil nude of Aunt Veronica, so that it hung perfectly level with the mantel. It wasn’t proper art for a bed & breakfast, but the picture was beautiful
and drawn out of love, and Aunt Veronica was a generous woman who deserved to be honored and remembered. People could screw themselves if they didn’t like it.

  Little by little, she was collecting old pictures and furniture, refinishing stuff in the basement. The mission-style couch and chair were just right—classic, comfy, and sturdy. She’d also found a fabulous marble coffee table, some brightly painted bird statuettes, and lots of tropical-looking plants. In fact, the plants could use some water.

  At 7:42, she filled her watering pail and started watering the plants.

  At around 7:46, Lindy began to bark.

  Footsteps on the porch. Three firm knocks at the door.

  Alix stood frozen, watering pail in hand, pulse racing.

  He’d arrived.

  She stared at the spot between the coat hooks and the foyer table—the Sir Kendall fucking spot—terrified and excited all at once.

  Lindy barked like mad.

  Alix shushed her in the stern way that meant business. She put down the watering pail, walked to the foyer like she wasn’t freaking out, and opened the door.

  And there he was.

  Sir Kendall leaned easily against a porch pillar, leaned there like he owned the entire house and grounds, perhaps all of Malcolmsberg. His black dinner jacket hung open, as his dinner jackets always did, and his deep blue shirt matched his deep blue eyes to a nearly feverish degree.

  Her mouth went dry.

  In a movement more animal than human, Sir Kendall pushed off the pillar. His shirt tightened briefly on his chest, seeming to caress it. He moved toward her, eyes twinkling triumphantly, as though he knew all of her secrets, all her saucy scenarios. And relished every dirty detail.

  “Ms. Alexis Gordon?”

  It was weird hearing him say her name. Had he read it off the mailbox?

  She tilted her head, shambled on an inquisitive expression. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The fact that the girl recognized him the instant she opened the door—and then attempted to conceal her reaction—led Sir Kendall to a number of linked realizations.

  First, this girl was one of Hyko’s operatives and not a very experienced one at that.

  Sir Kendall had been annoyed by the abrupt change in plans—he had barely begun questioning that barmaid half a world away before being pulled here. But Hyko wouldn’t have put an operative in place if he didn’t need to safeguard something. Sir Kendall being sent here was clearly for the best.

  His second realization: her mission would be to distract him from learning what there was to learn in this place, which undoubtedly had to do with Hyko’s deadly launch. Third: Sir Kendall would be better off playing along with the girl, at least for the moment. Fourth: he would have to kill her.

  And he would not enjoy it.

  All this ran through Sir Kendall’s mind in the moments between Alexis Gordon opening the door and her saying, “Yes? Can I help you?”

  Inwardly, Sir Kendall sighed. Why, after all these years, would Hyko send a woman to deal with him? It was like sending a dove out to handle a fox. He would kill her while she was unconscious—that was the least he could do for her.

  “Perhaps you can. So sorry to intrude on your evening.” He smiled and proffered his card. “My name is Sir Kendall Nicholas the Third, and I work for an agency that tracks suspicious activities of various sorts on various fronts, and it seems your name has come up in the course of an international investigation.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Wow!” She studied his card, surprised, it seemed, that he’d produced one. He waited as she inspected it, front and back, with frenetic movements, wrist bangles ringing like sleigh bells. Nerves. “Wow.” She finally looked up, flicking her head to clear a chunk of her silvery-pink hair from her eyes. “Can I keep this?”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She looked back down at the card. It was as if she found the card more mysterious than the idea of her name coming up in the course of an international investigation. This woman was quite possibly the worst spy he’d ever encountered.

  At this point, the dog, who had been sitting behind her, began to growl.

  “Lindy!” she said. “Don’t worry, she won’t bite.”

  Sir Kendall took a bit of beef jerky from the small bag he kept tucked away just for these instances and gave it to the dog.

  Alexis laughed. “International man of preparation,” she said.

  “Yes.” He knelt to scratch the dog’s ears and gave her some more jerky. The dog calmed. “Ms. Gordon, let me put it to you this way—” He stood. “You seem to have become a person of interest to one of our own persons of interest.”

  “Uh oh,” She widened her eyes. “Gulp.”

  Gulp?

  “Nothing to be alarmed about.” He gave her a brief song and dance: likely no danger, but it warranted great caution.

  The girl seemed nervous…yet curiously unsurprised.

  The real Alexis was dead now, no doubt. Hyko wouldn’t keep an operative in the middle of nowhere in the American Midwest. The Alexis imposter wore her pink hair in an unkempt bob, probably just like the real Alexis Gordon wore it. Maybe the two women looked similar; maybe that’s why this one was chosen. She wasn’t beautiful so much as conventionally attractive. Her garish makeup gave her the look of a tart, but she had good bone structure and a strong jaw. Eyes the color of light caramel. A bit meaty, this one, but she stood well, carried it well. A change of pace from the dark, smart, sinewy girls he typically favored.

  Alexis Gordon, or whoever this was, suddenly seemed to recall her manners. “Well, Sir Kendall,” she stepped back. Big dimples appeared as she grinned. “Come on in.”

  “Nick,” he said, breezing in past her. “Call me Nick.”

  “You should call me Alix.”

  He watched her shut the door, then went to her. He could see her pulse banging frantically in her neck as he reached around her and flipped the thumb lock. “Word of advice. Locks. Being that you’re a person of interest.”

  Her pupils dilated ever so slightly. “Person of interest.”

  She expected him to kiss her.

  Yes, she knew who he was alright. Clearly Hyko had told her about him. Slowly he reached into his pocket; to her credit, she barely tensed. Interesting. Did she know he didn’t carry there? He pulled out another card. “I’m working for an organization contracted to an organization that’s loosely associated with the CIA, and this man, George Frame, is my contact, in case you want to confirm I am who I say I am, which I would highly recommend.”

  “Another card,” she said, taking it and studying it in her hyper-kinetic way. This girl was in constant motion, like a bird. “George Frame, CIA. That’s so…” she narrowed her eyes at it. “Weird.” Then she stuffed it into her jeans back pocket, bracelets jingle-jangling. “I don’t think I’ll need to, though. I know an honest face when I see one.”

  He smiled. “Handy skill.”

  “Yeah,” she replied with gusto, spinning around and leading him into a living room containing a bright mix of leather seating, palms, and vintage accents. The breezy lack of focus in the décor reflected the personality assumed by this Alix imposter.

  There was something off here; he knew it in his gut. Something more than a nervous spy. What?

  She removed a pillow from a deep chair, gestured. She’d expected him to kiss her back at the door, but now she set him in the seat instead of the couch next to her. She wanted him to make a proper play for her. Desire her.

  Women.

  He settled in and slid his hands slowly along its leather arms, which really were startlingly supple, even buttery. He smiled.

  Her chest rose sharply.

  “Italian leather,” he said.

  Surprise lit her features. Not one to hide her expressions, or so she wanted him to think. Her breasts were wrapped in curve-kissing cashmere. Men could resist gowns, and little black dresses, and even cleavage-baring si
lks. But few men could resist a fuzzy sweater with jeans. Women rarely understood this. The woman impersonating Alix Gordon did.

  “How can you tell the leather’s Italian?” she asked.

  “How do you think I can tell?”

  She eyed him warily. “I don’t know how you can tell,” she whispered.

  “By the exquisite and supple feel, of course.”

  He could see by her dimples that she was suppressing a grin. At least her chaotic focus had finally rested somewhere—on the continuing slide of his hand, up and down, up and down. Imagining it on her body, no doubt. His for the taking, this girl.

  “Were you expecting somebody?” he asked.

  “Me? No.”

  Terrible liar, too. Maybe.

  “Oh.” She sprung up. “I bet you’d like a drink.”

  “Only if you’re having one.”

  She shrugged, putting on a casual attitude. “I might have a beer. But, I have pretty much everything here.”

  “I’ll join you in a beer.”

  “Really? Nothing special, or…” her hands flitted, bracelets jangled. “I have lots of other options…liqueurs, even. What do you usually—”

  “A beer,” he cut in, holding her with his eyes, “would be splendid.”

  “Okay.” Dimples again. She responded to his sternness, this one. Liked it, even. “Beer it is.” She walked off.

  Had she expected him to ask for a Denali, as if he were in a bar for God’s sake? What did Hyko tell his people about him, anyway? He sighed. Something wasn’t adding up here. The launch—his man on the inside still hadn’t determined its precise location—was just days away. Hyko apparently imagined this woman was capable of distracting him and detaining him, which was Hyko’s only option at the moment; Hyko wouldn’t dare kill or imprison him—not now, with the Falcon letters hanging out there. Beautiful bit of insurance, those Falcon letters.

  Sir Kendall walked across the room to the fireplace. The home was quintessential Victorian, with a brick exterior, white wood trim, and a white wood wrap-around porch. Dental molding, fluted pillars, all with a fresh coat of paint. He traced a vertical line of the maple surround with his finger. Likely a hotel in an earlier incarnation. The interior was mostly original. The faint smell of solvent told him the real Alix had been fixing the place up, and that they had gotten to her within the last twenty-four hours. The corpse of Alexis Gordon would be buried out in the woods, no doubt. Or maybe they’d sent it down the Mississippi. He kneeled to scratch the dog’s head and fed her another piece of beef jerky. At least he wouldn’t have to kill the dog.