Mr. Real

by Carolyn Crane

  Like he’d lost his mind.

  She pressed closer to him. He was so warm and supple, and so into it—the way he held her, the way he breathed.

  She told herself she was teaching him a lesson, but she only wanted more of him. More, more, more. She never wanted the kiss to end.

  She felt the jerk go through his body as he pulled his mouth off hers. “Alix, I’m sorry. It’s me. It’s Paul. I’m sorry.”

  She gazed at him. This would normally be a place for a joke or a smart remark, but her eyes dropped to his lips. She was full of the kiss, of him.

  “Alix.” And then he pulled her to him and kissed her again. She melted against him, loving his breathlessness and the feel of him, and the smell of him. He’d had such artistry in fighting but now he seemed undone with passion. She loved that, too.

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, kissing down her neck.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  “I know,” he breathed.

  She closed her eyes, drank in his kisses and the reverent way he touched her. Do anything, she thought. I just want you. It wasn’t even about her for once, soaking up a man’s affection. It was about him. And he was naked under that robe, too. She could kiss him everywhere.

  “God, Alix.”

  The sight of Sir Kendall’s briefcase brought her out of it. What was she doing? Paul was invading Sir Kendall’s privacy, and what did she do? She kissed him.

  She pulled away and got off his lap. “We can’t do this. And what are you doing?”

  Paul frowned and looked out the window.

  “Where is he?”

  “Out.” Paul pulled a note from the robe pocket and handed it to her.

  My pet. I’m off to do some errands. Back after lunch.

  She frowned at the tools strewn on the desk and floor. Whatever Sir Kendall had been building, it wasn’t there now. She glanced at the dark computer screen. Had Paul found anything? Like who the hell Sir Kendall had been emailing? “You shouldn’t be looking at his stuff,” she said.

  Paul woke up the computer to a rejected password screen. “Like I can get in. The man’s a spy, after all.”

  “I thought you were trying to make peace with him.”

  “I’m trying to understand him.”

  “So you can hurt him,” she said.

  “No…I don’t know. I need to get inside.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, okay?” He got up and walked out.

  She followed him into his bedroom. Paul grabbed some boxers from the floor and pulled them on under the robe. She felt so much of him, now. She felt his ragged pain and the way his secret isolated him. Yet the way he fought today—he was so strong in every way. He could handle anything because he had a kind of endlessness in him. He seemed all the more beautiful for all of those layers. Paul was complex and fierce and wounded, and it would take an eternity to know him. She’d never had that notion about a man before—that he’d take an eternity to know.

  She’d ordered Sir Kendall, but she’d gotten Paul. Nothing and everything she’d ever wanted.

  He looked around the room. “I can’t find half my clothes.”

  “Paul.

  “He’s up to something, Alix. I need you to see that. To get that he’s dangerous.”

  Something about the statement hit her sideways. He kept saying it, but it was off. Something…uninspected was there.

  “You always say that,” she observed.

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Is it?” She went to him, then. She grabbed the lapels of the robe and she did something she’d never done before—she trusted herself. She could be enough for him. Whatever this darkness was, it needed to see the light. She could be his light. “Tell me why he’s dangerous.”

  He looked at her as though he didn’t understand the question.

  “Why?” she tried. “What is your specific fear of him? Your specific worry? What did Sir Kendall do to you?”

  “He’s everything hateful.”

  “But that’s not what he did. What does he do? Who is he to you?”

  “Don’t,” Paul growled.

  She didn’t want him mad at her again, but she had to see this through, whatever it cost. And she saw it suddenly. “Sir Kendall was in it with you. He was a victim with you.”

  “He’s their creation.”

  She shook her head. She didn’t know a lot, but she knew about friends and loyalty. “He helps you. He’s your people.”

  “My people?” Paul broke away with force. “Why can’t you see that Sir Kendall is evil? You can’t make that leap?”

  “If the evil brothers hated Sir Kendall, doesn’t that make him good? And not on the side of evil?”

  “He’s everything hateable!” He was looking at her, but he wasn’t seeing her—he was swimming in pain. Shame. Anger. “And you had to go and bring him to life.” His words felt like a knife in her heart. “The nightmare of my existence. Of all the people, you had to bring him. What the hell, I’ll bring Sir Kendall. The whole thing’s just a fun game and we’ll have some fun. Who cares about anyone else?”

  Her gut twisted with guilt. He was right, of course. Leave it to her to not only team up with his nightmare, but to fuck his nightmare. “I did that,” she said. “I’m sorry for it in every way you can think of.”

  “Oh my god,” he whispered. “Shit, Alix.” He touched her arm. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

  She pulled away. “I did.”

  “You didn’t. I’m sorry. The thing is, I thought I was rid of him, you know? I burned every bridge to quit that commercial. And here he is.”

  “You can’t even say how he threatens you. How is he dangerous?”

  “He’s not my people,” Paul growled. “He’s not my helper, and he’s not my people.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But I think he is.”

  “No, it’s not okay. None of it is okay.” He pulled the bathrobe tie tight.

  The silence between them felt cold and hard. She wanted to break it but she didn’t know how.

  “Did you hear from your friend?” he asked finally.

  He needed time, she thought. She’d give him time. “Let’s go see.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  He felt like she’d slapped him in the face. Like she’d sided with Sir Kendall and Gene and Gary. Sir Kendall? His people?

  And then he’d freaked out on her.

  What was he thinking? This woman he supposedly loved. He knew that she was sorry. He admired that she was taking responsibility for what she’d done and even found it perversely flattering that she’d ordered his look-alike, but then that resentment would rear up. He wasn’t worthy of her as long as he couldn’t get a handle on his own emotions.

  He followed her down the stairs to her office and settled in behind her desk in the buddy chair he’d taken that first day. She turned on her computer and they waited for it to come to life.

  Lindy got up from her bed in the corner and came over, put her chin on Alix’s thigh. She petted her and began to type.

  “You don’t think Sir Kendall can get into your emails, do you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Why would he?” Ding. Her new mail symbol flashed on. Five new. She checked her inbox. “Just junk. None from Karen.” She sat back.

  “I wonder if we should drive through town and look for his car,” he said.

  She wasn’t listening; she was feeling around under her desk with her feet.

  “What if he can get into your email?” he continued. “You emailed Karen with scans from the book?”

  “But then I erased it all,” she said, kicking him as she searched the area under the desk.

  “Are you getting fresh with me?”

  Alix didn’t answer; she stood, yanked away her chair, and peered under the desk. “What the hell?” She sounded upset.

  “What?”

  “My white boots are gone. They should still be her
e. This is where I left them.”

  He stood and pulled his chair away. “Are you sure you didn’t move them? You thought you lost them once before. You think he took them?”

  “Hold on. Let me check something.” She left him sitting there and tore up the stairs. He adjusted his robe belt and went to put his clothes in the dryer out in the mudroom. He couldn’t find his jeans and his Moogie’s Clam Bake T-shirt and the rest of his clothes were dirty. He’d assumed Tonio had taken them—they had a lot of the same T-shirts, but what if Sir Kendall had taken them? Would Sir Kendall actually try to impersonate him?

  His people. It was outrageous—so outrageous he couldn’t quite look away. Sir Kendall his people.

  Alix practically mowed him down at the foot of the stairs. “They’re gone! My white belt and hat and the pocketbook!”

  “You’re sure?” Had Sir Kendall taken her clothes, too?

  “I’m sure this time!” She raced to the front door and flung it open, peeked out at the porch. “But the barrel’s still there.” She shut the door, backed up against it. “Paul. All the shit I ordered the second day is gone. Think about this—the necklace from the first day disappeared exactly a week after I ordered it, and now the stuff from the second day is gone. Exactly a week later.”

  Paul narrowed his eyes. “And you’re sure.”

  “Like a lifecycle,” she whispered. “Wait! There’s this thing that happens to the images. She rushed back into the office, back to her computer. He sat down beside her.

  “When the stuff appears in real life, it disappears from the jpeg. There’s just white blank space there. So maybe…” She clicked on the necklace file, and there it was. The red ruby necklace on black velvet. “Oh my god,” she said. “It’s restored.” She traced her finger over the screen. “That was all blankness before. When it was in our world. Now it’s back to its old world.”

  She brought up another image—a page from an online catalog. “My boots and accessories. Restored. But let’s see the barrel.” She clicked on another image. There was a white space where the barrel would be. “So the barrel will go back next. Later today.” She turned to him. “And then Sir Kendall will be gone tomorrow.”

  Paul bit his tongue, fought to hide his jubilation.

  She glared and looked away. “Just a day and a few hours,” Alix whispered. “That’s all he has left.” She crossed her arms.

  Was she at least a little bit relieved?

  “If he has a day left,” she said, “I think he’d want to know. Seeking truth is his way. But then again, he is so committed to facts and truth. Does he want to know his very life here is a fiction?” She dragged the Denali man picture out of the trash and opened it. Sure enough, there was a white form in the doorway. That would be Sir Kendall. The car behind him was a white form, too. The way it was placed, it made Sir Kendall look like he had misshapen wings or something. “I never even thought to look at this,” she said. “Or I wouldn’t have been so shocked he came with a car. I guess you get everything in the image that’s not nailed down.”

  “What’s this?” Paul pointed to a small protrusion above the car silhouette, a shape that seemed almost to be emerging from the hood, right about where the antenna would be. “That’s not part of the car.”

  “Maybe a blobby animal with little stick arms was sitting on his car.”

  “And got blinked in with him and the car?”

  “Wait, this is a still from the commercial,” she said. “Maybe only this frame is knocked out. Which would mean that we could still see what it is…” She clicked the link for it.

  He smiled—he couldn’t help it. He had to give her shit. “It’s on your toolbar? The link to the Denali commercial sits on your toolbar.”

  Her face went red. “Oh, shush.”

  “Kind of handy, I suppose. When you only have a few minutes to take care of business.”

  She hit him in the arm.

  “Ow.”

  She called up the commercial. There he was, Sir Kendall, standing in the doorway. She slowed it down. The images flashed white in the frame she’d used. She paused it in the next frame and blew it up to 150%, 200%. “What is that thing?” Paul asked.

  “You were on the set. You tell me.”

  “It’s a backdrop added later,” he said. “We filmed in front of a green screen.”

  She went to 250%. “Is that top part some sort of hat? Like a cowboy hat?”

  “Maybe.” Paul craned his head forward. “But…a guy in a hat hiding behind Sir Kendall’s car?”

  But that’s what it looked like. The man’s face and hat and long, blond hair were perfectly camouflaged by the yellows and browns of the leaves behind. Deliberately hidden there.

  “What the hell?” Paul said.

  Alix enlarged it a bit more. The thing was pixilated, but yes, someone was there. “This is bad. I could’ve brought two guys to life.” She tried different treatments on the photo. Nothing made the man clear.

  “Even if he materialized,” Paul said, “okay, maybe one of the area taverns suddenly has a new customer. He’ll go in a day when Sir Kendall goes. .”

  “It was bad enough I conjured one guy. Now some other poor guy is wandering around? He could’ve been arrested, or worse.” She sat back against Paul and hugged her arms around herself, seeming distraught. “Who is this guy? We have to at least know who else I’ve done this to.”

  Paul put an arm around her and pulled her to him. She laid her head on his shoulder. It felt so normal, so right. “We’ll figure this out together,” he said. “And I know where to start. With the people who make the digital backdrop. We just need to call around and find the guy who made this. See what we’re dealing with.” He stood. “My phonebook’s up in my room.”

  “Hold on.” Alix printed out the still. “Okay.”

  Alix followed Paul up to his room and settled onto his chair with a pen and paper. Lindy squeezed in next to her. Paul grabbed the phone. He called a friend at the studio, got the number for post-production and after that, a string of receptionists.

  He pointed and repeated a number, which Alix dutifully wrote down. He clicked off. “Got her. The woman who designed it. Avon. She lives in L.A.” Alix handed him the paper. He dialed and put the phone on speaker, so she could hear. He asked the woman who answered if he could speak to Avon.

  “This is she,” she said, sounding young, and slightly defensive.

  “I’m calling with kind of a weird question about the background you made for one of the Denali man ads.” Paul began. He explained which one, the dates.

  “Sure, I made those backdrops. Is there a problem?” Her youthful tone made Paul think of skateboard kids and Venice beach. “Are you from the agency that had the account?”

  “No, it’s for my own personal interest,” Paul assured her.

  “I can’t talk about it. You should talk to the agency.”

  “Look, I just really want to know, what’s up with that figure behind the red car?”

  “What figure?”

  “There’s a figure in the backdrop. You can see it when you enlarge a still. Some guy behind the car. You made the art for it. You gotta know about it.”

  Silence on the line. Then, “How did you, um, hear about…the figure? Is that something people are finding? Is it online?”

  “No, it’s something I found now. Look, I just need to know about him.”

  “Do people know?”

  “Just me and my friend.”

  “You can’t say anything, okay? It’s just a goof.”

  Paul exchanged glances with Alix. He said, “We won’t say anything if you tell me who this guy is. I have no interest in screwing up your career, but I really do need to know.”

  Alix raised her eyebrows at him, playing with her bracelets, which made a soft jingle sound. He loved having her there.

  “You promise you won’t tell,” Avon said. “I’ll lose that job.”

  “I won’t tell if you’re honest.”

  “You
can’t.”

  “Who is it?” Paul asked.

  An angry sigh sounded over the phone. “Fine. That’s a badass by the name of Hyko.”

  Fuck, Alix mouthed.

  “Hyko?” he repeated.

  “Hyko’s this character from Derangerous, a comic I put out. Hyko’s like, this very extreme villain.”

  Paul swallowed. “Does Hyko have any superpowers?”

  Alix clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

  “Besides being a badass?” Avon laughed. “My friend, when you’re as badass as Hyko, that’s a superpower in a class of its own. Hyko’s into chaos and extreme crime. Like extreme sports, but for the criminal. That’s the concept. And he has a dirty-talking assassin friend named Brutus.”

  “Is there a way to get the comic? Cause I’d like to read it.”

  “We’ve got four issues up right now online at Derangerous dot com—that’s the name of the series. Hyko’s like, about to launch these sunspot machine things that erase all computer information and destroy all electricity and will plunge the entire world back into the Dark Ages. Then he’s gonna release some shit into the water supply.”

  “But that weapon, that’s not in your video backdrop, right? His sunspot weapon? Or whatever he’s releasing?”

  “No. Just Hyko.”

  “Why put him in?”

  “I know it sounds weird, but it’s sort of an ongoing dare with a bunch of us artists—we hide Easter eggs to make the commercial work funner. Hyko’s kind of my Easter egg.” Avon lowered her voice. “Hyko’s been in the background of ads for aspirin and diapers. In a picture on the wall in a home in an interior design magazine. I can’t believe you randomly found him.”

  “Derangerous dot com?”

  “Don’t forget to make a PayPal donation.”

  “Does he have any enemies?”

  “Hyko?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Interpol, CIA, basically, all agencies hate Hyko. One of his enemies even cut off his thumbs.”

  “What enemy?”

  “Just some nameless agent. It’s backstory.”

  Alix waved her hand. “Ask her when she invented Hyko. When.”