Mr. Real

by Carolyn Crane

  “Who is that?” she asked.

  “My old teacher,” Paul said, “back when he was young.” The next group of photos showed Veecha in his seventies, hair white as snow. “This was how he looked when I knew him. He died a few years back.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” he said softly.

  “And I want to say something, Paul.” She paused, as though it was something difficult. “I’m sorry I ordered Sir Kendall. It was thoughtless and selfish. Not just toward Sir Kendall, but toward you, too. Don’t think I don’t know it.”

  “Hey, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “We’re going to take care of this.”

  Her lips twisted slightly, and she looked away, dismayed. She’d heard the placating tone in his words and knew he thought the computer was bunk. Well, what did she expect?

  He pointed at the screen. “Click here.”

  She clicked and the building came up. “The martial arts school where you taught,” she said.

  “Where you spent all those long hours working so diligently.”

  She made a sarcastic little huff, and clicked along to the training rooms.

  “Stop—go back,” he said. “There. See that heavy bag? You’re telling me I’d get that exact one?”

  “An exact duplicate. The original bag would remain at the school. But this online image of it would be knocked out, and any copies of that image. As far as I can tell.”

  He squinted. “Really? Knocked out? Why?”

  “Don’t ask me. That’s how it works.”

  “Fine. I’ll take the heavy bag.”

  Would she really help him when the stuff didn’t arrive? Well, he’d have twenty-four hours to gain her trust in the meantime.

  She copied and saved the image.

  “Wait, can you select that old bench back there?”

  “Sure.” She went to work.

  He was maybe fourteen when he’d scratched something on the bottom of it: Kill G+G. His vow to kill Gene and Gary someday. But then he’d scratched it out, because Master Veecha was against killing. But if you stretched out underneath the bench and studied it, you could still see the vow—if you knew what you were looking for.

  “You do have a way to haul it, right?” She leaned over in her chair, shifted the orange curtains, and peered outside. “A little Honda. Ho-kay.” She turned back to him. “How exactly are you going to fit a giant heavy bag and a bench in there?”

  “Um–”

  “You need to take this seriously, Paul.” She typed in the words ‘monster truck.’ They ended up at a page about some expo. “Let’s see…” She zigged the cursor back and forth in front of a huge black truck with oversized tires and neon blue fire down the sides. “What do you think? Seems perfect for you.”

  “How ‘bout that one—” He pointed to an even larger and more outrageous truck, with gargantuan wheels and monster faces on the sides. Best of all, it was a computer illustration—not a photo. “Can I have one like this?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve never gotten something from an illustration…I won’t make any guarantees, but I’ll bet it works.” She copied, cropped, and pasted. “And just because you’re going to be like, ‘why the hell didn’t I order money?’ when the stuff shows up…” She located an image of money—bundles of fifties, neatly stacked in a block, and then a six-pack of Rolling Rock. “Because you’re going to need a drink when you see this.”

  She forced him to stand at the door while she did her mojo, clicking and fussing. “Done. It’s eleven fifty-three,” she said. “So tomorrow at exactly this time, you need to be out on the porch so you can see the stuff appear. And you will leave with the stuff. As promised.”

  “If it’s the stuff.”

  “It’ll be the stuff. I bet you even get the truck. And just to be safe, you should show up back here at eleven, tomorrow morning. That’ll give you plenty of time to get settled. And I need to keep Sir Kendall away from here. I don’t want him knowing about this until he’s ready.”

  “You think I’m leaving you alone with that nut job?”

  “You can’t stay,” she said.

  “Yes, I can. And when the stuff doesn’t show up, we’re moving right to implementing fake Sir Kendall’s care plan.”

  “Paul, it’ll be okay. There’s a motel outside of town.”

  “Sorry, but I’m staying, and I’m keeping this.” He pulled out the gun. Could he be any more of a jerk? But he’d do what it took. “And psycho stays cuffed to the radiator.”

  Her mouth fell open. “The hell he does.”

  “He gave up his privileges when he attacked you. He will remain cuffed to the radiator, if you don’t want the cops descending on the place.”

  A new look now: a beam of pure outrage, bright as her hair. He’d never met a woman with such a rich vocabulary of angry expressions. All aimed at him.

  Fine. He’d take it. He’d take it all. This was what he had in front of him now, a girl he’d once cared a great deal about in some sort of trouble. He’d find a way to help her.

  And she’d hate every second of it.

  “I can’t believe this.” She rose and stormed out of the office.

  He shoved the gun back in his belt, and only then and there did it strike him how very odd it was that the man pulled off the Master Veecha move—the slip. You didn’t pick that up casually. And then he thought about something she’d said—that Sir Kendall had shown up Friday night. Which would mean she’d ordered him Thursday night…the night Paul had gotten his urge to visit Malcolmsberg.

  He felt a bit of a chill.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alix sat on cushions on the floor next to Sir Kendall, eyeing Paul, who sat across the room on the couch, watching football and texting with some friend of his.

  Hardass Paul.

  He was still so handsome, so confident, and he still stirred her to attention as no man ever had—God, how she despised herself for that! And she despised herself for craving his good opinion, too. And, of course, at the moment, he was being a complete asshole.

  Paul expected Sir Kendall to stay locked up for the next twenty-four hours. He gave up his privileges when he attacked you, Paul informed her. Like this was his home, and she was his ward, who couldn’t stand up for herself.

  She’d arranged a little nest of blankets and cushions in front of the radiator for Sir Kendall, trying to make him as comfortable as possible. When she’d pointed out that Sir Kendall would have no way to pee, Paul had offered a Snapple bottle. A Snapple bottle!

  She’d once enjoyed his whole bossy, commandeering act. Well, she wasn’t enjoying it now.

  Sir Kendall had only smiled his sly little smile when Paul had set down the rules, as if Paul was just so—what had he called him?—boorish. Yes, Paul was being boorish.

  “You don’t have to sit there with him,” Paul had said to her. Meaning she should sit on the couch with him.

  “Yes, I do,” she’d snapped, heart pounding against her ribs. She was a new person now, a woman who took responsibility for what she did. And the people she brought to life.

  She’d been mortified when he burst in. Of all the situations for Paul to come upon, it was beyond her wildest nightmares. She couldn’t even think about it. Anyway, tomorrow he’d see that the magic was real and that she wasn’t crazy. That would be a relief. Even though he’d just laugh some more at the idiotic stuff she’d ordered.

  It didn’t matter. Her actions toward Sir Kendall were the important thing.

  Anyway, if Paul was good for his word—and she felt confident that he would be—he’d leave tomorrow, as promised.

  Good riddance, she said to herself…feeling entirely depressed.

  Paul had cleaned the blood off his face and commandeered the good ice pack for his eye and the nasty gashes on his eyebrow and cheek.

  Sir Kendall’s injuries were far worse—his horribly split lip had stopped bleeding, but she was sure it needed stitches. Yet he’d had to settle for
ice in a Ziploc bag. And, of course, his nice white shirt was covered in blood. Paul seemed to take perverse enjoyment in Sir Kendall having a ruined lip and a shirt covered with a shocking amount of blood.

  He’d fixed the door he’d busted—not perfectly, but it opened and closed and locked at least. And now he sat watching football.

  Of course he’d watch football, all sprawled out on the couch with his beer and his popcorn. Correction: her beer and her popcorn. Lindy perched on the other side of him, and Paul massaged Lindy’s neck in a way that made her doggie face go slack with pleasure. Now and then he ruffled the fur on her head.

  He still had Sir Kendall’s gun, and every time he left the room he brought Lindy on her leash with him, like Lindy was his hostage. Right. And Paul acted angry whenever she and Sir Kendall spoke to one another, yet he didn’t separate them. Maybe he felt conflicted about his assholeness. Well, he should feel conflicted!

  She felt conflicted, too.

  Paul had rushed in when he thought she was in danger, intending to save her. A standup thing to do, even though he’d misinterpreted things.

  Or half misinterpreted.

  She’d always wanted to have sex while wearing handcuffs. Hell, that was part of what she’d ordered when she ordered Sir Kendall—the masterful, commandeering super spy. But not the tickling thing. It was okay at first, but it had gone a bit too far. They should’ve established a safe word—that was partly on her. She’d read enough books where people did that beforehand if they were being responsible. Still, Sir Kendall should’ve listened to her. It bothered her that he hadn’t. Should she be worried about it? Or did Sir Kendall feel like it was part of the game they’d agreed to? Or was it a cultural thing? Something normal for his home world? It bugged her that she couldn’t tell.

  Anyway, it didn’t call for him getting beaten up.

  And it had seemed like Paul had wanted to do more than that. His reactions to Sir Kendall were nothing short of psycho, going from choking him to almost shooting him in the head to practically kissing him.

  Alix had noticed that the shape of Paul’s jaw would change a little every time Sir Kendall spoke, as if Paul was gritting his teeth because he couldn’t bear even the sound of the man’s voice. Why was he so reactive to a man he’d played in a few commercials? She wanted to ask him. And how was it that he’d arrived? Had the magic called him?

  But she’d made a vow to do right by Sir Kendall. She wasn’t sure what exactly that meant, but she definitely had to get him away from this place.

  Ugh! Being responsible was so hard.

  Even if Paul didn’t freak out on Sir Kendall again, she couldn’t let Sir Kendall see Paul’s stuff appearing out of thin air. That would lead to questions, and she wasn’t ready to tell him the awful truth about himself: that he was a man created for a TV commercial, a man with an imaginary mission and a big zero for a life.

  Inwardly, she shuddered. She didn’t want him to feel less than, to be laughed at and disrespected. Crazy Alix the cocktail waitress. Sir Kendall the Denali man.

  She’d decided she’d break it to him carefully and help him see that he was more than his origins, that he was a worthwhile person who deserved respect. She’d fight for him the best she could. That included teaching him how to behave in the world. That was her mission in life now.

  At halftime, Paul muted the TV. “You guys hungry?”

  “Hungry for you to clear out,” Alix said.

  Paul grunted. “Not gonna happen.”

  Sir Kendall smiled at Paul. God! Could he stop goading Paul? She shoved an elbow into his ribs, and he winced in pain. Oops. Was he more injured than she realized?

  “Maybe we could have some burgers,” Paul said to Alix. “You have all the stuff. I saw it in there before.”

  “Knock yourself out,” she said.

  “Come on,” Paul said. “It’s your kitchen. Your stuff. I know you’re hungry.”

  “I’m supposed to make you a meal?”

  “I think a little cooperation could go a long way to making the upcoming hours more pleasant.”

  Alix smiled sweetly. “Sure, Paul. How much spit do you like in your burger?”

  “Fine. Burger for one. Or actually, two. Come on, puppy.” He grabbed Lindy’s leash, and walked backwards out of the room, brandishing the gun. “One move and somebody will be very sorry.”

  Alix watched him disappear, then she turned to Sir Kendall. “If I got you a paperclip, could you escape from those handcuffs?”

  “Would you want me to?”

  “Could you?”

  “I’d hardly need a paperclip, my dear. If I had wanted to be free, I would be free now.”

  A swell of pride. Her super spy.

  “It rather suits me to stay for the moment, though. No better way to study a man than when he thinks he’s in the driver’s seat,” Sir Kendall said. “Or one’s clone, as it were.”

  Clone?

  Alix fought the urge to snort as she imagined Paul’s reaction to this bit of news. She could just hear him— He thinks I’m the clone? Paul had that angry streak, but that sense of humor inside it. Sardonic. Such a guy’s guy. Me? The fucking clone of HIM? Really, it would be fun to walk in there and tease him with that tidbit. Probably not so funny if he heard it from Sir Kendall.

  A pan banged onto the stove. Cupboards were opened and shut.

  She addressed Sir Kendall under her breath. “We have to get out of here. A certain something is going to happen, and it’s best if we’re gone.”

  Sir Kendall narrowed his eyes. “How many? When?”

  “Hey!” Paul was back with Lindy. “If I catch you whispering again, I’m separating you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She rearranged the bangles on her arm in the order she liked, feeling Paul’s eyes on her, then smiled up at him. “You don’t mind if I keep these on, do you?”

  The moment heated. Sizzled. She’d meant only to distract him from the whispering but…god, she liked him.

  “Where’s your oregano?” he asked.

  “Why do you need oregano?”

  “I blend it into the patty.”

  “Next to the sink. Upper right.”

  He grabbed his beer bottle. With the two fingers, he pointed to his eyes, then at them. “I mean it.”

  “Ten-four, Wolfman Puck.”

  He smirked and walked off.

  She would love to be there when Paul’s stuff appeared. He’d be so shocked. And she’d say something hilarious and just revel in his reaction. What fun it would be!

  But she had to put Sir Kendall first now; he was counting on her.

  “We have to get out of here,” she said to him. “Where are your car keys?”

  “I can handle a group, as long as I have the element of surprise, which I do.”

  “Trust me, it won’t matter. You can’t be here.”

  “Why?” Sir Kendall watched her face. “Who are they?”

  “All I can tell you is that it is in our best interest to get the hell out.”

  He peppered her with more questions.

  “Look,” she finally said, exasperated. “I cannot tell you more. Are you going to make me sorry I’ve divulged this much?” A spy thing to say. Much to her surprise, he accepted that. As if he expected it.

  A few quick movements and his hand was free.

  “Oh! Wow. Okay.” A sizzling sound from in the kitchen. Chopping. Alix got up and crept over to the front door, opening it carefully. She grabbed her purse off the foyer table. Sir Kendall rose, brushed off his pants, and simply walked out the door, all man of leisure. She slipped out after him, into the sunshine, and hurried toward the Alfa Romeo.

  Sir Kendall sauntered in the other direction, toward Paul’s car. Something flashed in his hand. A blade. He stabbed the tire. Just as quickly, the knife was gone.

  A knife. Slashing Paul’s tires. Well, why should it surprise her that Sir Kendall was a bit of a junkyard dog?

  And then he strolled back toward her so casually,
you’d think he was boarding a yacht.

  “Come on, Houdini!” she whispered loudly. “Step it up!”

  He squatted next to the driver’s door, reached under the body of the car, and stood back up with a metal box from which he extracted keys and a gun. He strolled around to her side.

  “What are you doing? Just get in—”

  “My dear,” He unlocked her door and opened it. “I’ll go against my grain and run from a fight at the insistence of a lady with inside information, but don’t expect me to abandon my sense of chivalry.”

  “Jesus.” She lowered herself into the very molded bucket seat. He closed the door, got in his side, and gunned the motor, making it sound like an explosion.

  Yup. Paul would hear that.

  They roared off down the driveway. Sir Kendall took a pair of aviator sunglasses out of a compartment between their seats. The sunglasses were very cool and spy-like.

  She sat back and directed him left at the bottom of the driveway. “He’s going to be so pissed you slashed his tires.”

  Sir Kendall smiled that mysterious smile of his. “Apoplectic, I’d wager. Seems the art of cloning has a ways to go.”

  It was just like him to take meeting his own clone all in stride, like it was just another day at the office. It made him seem a bit…unreal. Insubstantial.

  “Well, he needs to be less reactive, that’s for sure,” she said. She thought of Paul’s face when he’d really looked at Sir Kendall for the first time after he’d bounced to his feet during the fight. Horrified. Disbelieving.

  Real.

  She felt bad for slipping out.

  Sir Kendall took a curve fast, working the controls like an Indy 500 driver. He was back in his element, all suave in a fast car with its strange bubbly roar. “Have you ever been in a car chase?”

  “Oh yes. Bangkok. The Alps. Moroccan Sahara once, though that ended when my pursuer ran out of gas.”

  “Wow,” she said. Surely none of that had really happened, yet here he was driving a car rather expertly. A man who’d only thought he’d driven a car wouldn’t be able to handle this strange, complex car with such precision, would he?