Prototype

by M. D. Waters

  Twelve narrow floor-to-ceiling windows line the two outer walls of his corner apartment. The sun works hard to penetrate the opaque white shades. White columns mark the corners of the spacious living room. To one side, a square three-quarter wall surrounds what must be a kitchen. A simple oak table for four sits just outside. Opposite the kitchen is a hallway with two doors. Along the inside wall over the teleporter and guest entrance is a white ladderlike staircase that leads to a loft the size of the living room.

  Noah sets Adrienne down beside overnight bags he must have dropped off earlier. “I had some food delivered if you’re hungry.” When I shake my head—I am too nervous to eat—he shifts his attention to Adrienne. “Want to watch cartoons, chicken?”

  Adrienne starts rummaging through a pink-and-white bag monogrammed AMT: Adrienne Marie Tucker.

  He helps her retrieve a set of watercolor paints and book, then takes my hand. He kisses my knuckles. “Come here.” He angles his head at Adrienne to follow. “Come on, you. We have a special corner.”

  She skips beside us and I ask, “Why do you not live here all the time? This apartment is beautiful.”

  “I hate it. It suits my image, but it isn’t a home. Besides, all this white with Adrienne on the loose?”

  “Oh, right. Catastrophe.”

  “Epic,” he says, and laughs.

  Around the wall to the kitchen is what looks like an office nook with a black-and-white painting on the wall. The art looks as if a child threw black color on a white canvas. A nice oak desk has been pushed up against the far wall to make room for a kid-size folding table. Nearer the outside is a drop cloth and paint supplies. An easel and blank canvas are already set up.

  “What do you think, Momma?” he says to me. “Feel like painting something?”

  Tears well in my eyes. This is the sweetest thing he could have ever done for me. “I could paint a million things.”

  He kisses my cheek. “So do it. We have all day and all night.”

  CHAPTER 36

  The afternoon carries on as if the three of us have followed this routine for years. Not that I do much. Noah takes care of both of us. He paints with and reads to Adrienne. He naps on the couch while she sits enraptured through an entire full-length princess cartoon. Twice.

  And all the while I paint a beach. The same setting I have painted a thousand times, except I change the angle. The new view is from the water, showing a long stretch of sand ending at green-capped cliffs. In the distance, I add a blond father walking with a blond daughter on his shoulders.

  After the sun sets, Noah takes Adrienne to the spare room off the hallway for bed. Not long after, the scent and sizzle of cooking steaks wafts from the kitchen. Light jazz plays from overhead speakers. I consider getting up to help with dinner, and my back aches from sitting on the stool for so long—I have not used these muscles in this fashion for well over a year—but I cannot bring myself to stop. There is no way I can finish the rendering tonight, but I would like to try.

  Noah appears and sets up two more stools—one behind me and the other beside me. He sets a single plate on one with a medium-cooked steak cut into bite-size pieces. For the side, he has placed baby spinach, halved cherry tomatoes, and tiny mozzarella balls on toothpicks, then drizzled them in balsamic vinaigrette. Last, he sets down a glass of pinot noir.

  My breath stalls as he takes the stool behind me and finds a clean paintbrush. His musk fills my senses and removes all traces of the sharp acrylic scent. Without a word, he begins working on my painting.

  Every now and then, the two of us eat from the plate and drink from the wineglass. I am warm and heady in no time, from both the alcohol and his proximity. The occasional kiss he places on my bared shoulder tantalizes and awakens forgotten places.

  While I work on the waves and sand, he adds a woman walking with the father and daughter. She has short dark hair. A tiny dark head of hair peeks out from her cradled arms. I love that he sees this future with me, no questions asked. One day I hope to give it to him.

  “Boy or girl?” I ask.

  “Boy.”

  I grin over my shoulder at him. “What is his name?”

  He grins back, lines fanning away from his eyes, but keeps his attention on the painting. “Mmmm . . . Good question. What do you think?”

  The name comes to me, and maybe it will sound crazy to him, but it feels right. “Wade.” For the woman he once loved as much for the woman he loves now.

  Noah catches my gaze. “Perfect.”

  I turn back to the painting with a shuddering breath, because that one word sums up everything about today. I know we cannot stay forever, but this one day, this one memory, will remain untouched. And the best part is that it is mine, not Hers.

  Noah’s brush dips into the color I have mixed for the sand, and instead of taking the tip to the canvas, he runs the bristles up the length of my forearm until the paint runs out.

  A warm shiver travels up and weights my eyelids. A smile twitches on my lips. “What are you doing?”

  His nose skims over the length of my neck. Moist, hot breath coats my skin. “I’ve tried painting you like this. In this position.”

  An arm bracelets my waist and draws me nearer the center of his lap. His hard length presses against me and I float into a pleasant, tingling weightlessness.

  He dips the brush and, again, paints another trail up my arm. “I can’t ever get it right.”

  “All you need—”

  A warm lap of his tongue pulls my earlobe into his balmy mouth. Teeth graze tenderly as he pulls free.

  “—is a little practice,” I finish on a wisp of breath.

  Noah takes more paint and has to raise my arm back up to lay claim with another stroke.

  “I think you know exactly what you are doing,” I tell him.

  He smiles against my shoulder, then kisses the skin. “I may have an idea, yes.”

  I glance back. “But I do not.” He does not appear to know what to say, so I stand and turn. “Take off your shirt,” I tell him, then straddle my stool, facing him.

  He bites his lower lip, studying me. His gaze travels down my neck and along my bare shoulder. To the swell of my breasts. Every second of silence burns me alive. When his eyes settle back on mine, he reaches behind and grips the collar of his green T-shirt, then strips it over his head. His scent wafts around and stirs my already heated center. With his arms free, he grips the backs of my knees and pulls me toward him, wrapping my legs around his waist.

  I hold the paint palette aloft and soak up every dip, curve, and angle of him. He is incredible to behold. “I think I can work with this,” I say, and dip my brush.

  Chuckling, he leans back to let me trail the tawny brown down the center of his chest. Once the brush runs dry, I nose his chin up, giving myself access to his neck. His pulse throbs heavy and fast under my tongue.

  Pulling away, I note the flush creeping up his neck and how shallow his breathing has become. It gives me a lot of satisfaction to know this transition is my doing.

  His heated gaze falls to my mouth, turning me into one throbbing heartbeat. My lips pulse for his mouth, my breast for his touch, my insides for his length to slide achingly deep within. He makes me ravenous, but I need to make a memory of this. I need to draw this in my mind’s eye. Every torturous line of him. A memory I will never forget.

  I let the paintbrush drop onto the cloth and settle for using my fingertips instead. A compromise between my aching body and covetous mind. I trace smooth, colorful lines into grooves of shoulder muscle and along his biceps. I paint the channels of his rib cage and curves of pectoral muscle. I pay special attention to each scar and comb my fingers through the dusting of his chest hair. I rub his nipples hard under the pads of my thumbs, pausing to kiss his collarbone, neck, chin. I then graze my teeth over the soft edge of his earlobe, eliciting a shudder in respo
nse.

  His fingers knead deep into my hips. I roll against him in response. He nearly growls into my neck. “Shirt off.”

  I pause for only a moment to consider the fact that I could not wear a bra with this top. Noah slips the palette off my thumb so I can remove my shirt. Air-conditioned air hits and tightens my nipples.

  With a groan, his mouth takes the curve of my neck. His chin is deliciously abrasive against my sensitive skin. I grasp the sides of his head and fist his hair, heedless of the paint coating my fingers. His chest hair tickles against my breasts, only adding to the rapid firing of my nerve endings.

  “I think you know exactly what you’re doing,” he whispers against my skin.

  I tilt his head up so I can look in his eyes. “I may have an idea.”

  “My turn,” he says with a husky tone.

  His fingers paint the curve of my breasts, my collarbone, and around my shoulders. I feel his passion with every molten caress, and I mold into a new shape that is not square or round or triangular. My new design is his and will slide seamlessly into whatever hole he fashions.

  He finishes his rendering and grips the back of my neck. We breathe hard and fast. I drink in the utter devotion swimming in his eyes and feed him with my complete rapture.

  “You’re beautiful,” he tells me on a slip of breath.

  “Not beautiful. Yours.”

  His mouth slants over mine, and the sweep of his tongue enkindles the building fire inside me. It is a small wonder my entire body does not disintegrate into a pile of ash; my temperature has risen to astronomical degrees. My blood is no less than a flash flood of lava racing to the point of utter devastation.

  Noah pushes my hair back to cup my head and holds my mouth to his. I kiss him deeply. Passionately. Endlessly. I explore the ridges of his back, chest, and abdomen. Trace the waist of his pants, wanting inside, gently running my fingernails across his soft skin.

  He pulls back, robbing me of his mouth. Various paint colors adorn his luminescent skin. “I need you,” he says, his voice deep and husky.

  “Need” is exactly the word to describe this situation. Need to feel loved. Wanted. Whole. There is also a need to turn back the clock and forget the last two years ever happened. Forget that I was ever lost to him, in body and in mind. A need to make love as if this could be the last time.

  “So take me.”

  “Hold on to me.”

  He knocks my stool aside and carries me off with my legs locked around his waist. I watch the white ceiling go past as he devours the unpainted curve of my neck. He takes me up the stairs and into the dark loft, lit only by the glow of the downstairs.

  Once I am on my feet, we work at our clothes, shuffling free of our pants and undergarments. He kisses me until I am edged to the bed and lying on the cool black comforter. He kneels over me and crawls, shoulders bunching, until I have been successfully maneuvered to the center.

  I am more than ready for him, but instead of positioning over me, he laves slowly up my belly. Goose bumps rise in a trail behind his hot tongue. Then he kneels between my legs and looks me over; a flame in his eyes makes my skin flush. Moist heat swirls in my lower abdomen and my ache for him increases. I forget how to breathe. How to move. I want to lie here rolling in his tide for eternity.

  He seeks my hand out, then presses our palms together, threading our fingers together. He rests our clasped hands over my head and hovers over me.

  His hot breath clashes with mine. “There are no words for how much I love you,” he whispers.

  Words are too insignificant. Too human. Too tied to a single existence. I lift my head and stop just shy of laying my lips on his. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  He sinks inside me. I gasp and press my head deep into the mattress. His weight settles against my body, though nowhere near heavy enough. Heat surges, branches out, and I know completeness. Draped in his warmth, submersed in his sigh, my heart swells with new understanding. Why I loved him while never knowing his face. Why my soul clung to his memory after death and well into this new life. Nothing and no one in this world, the heavens, or the universe stood a chance of keeping us apart.

  He eases in and out, his clear eyes watching me intently. I lift my head and take his mouth, relishing the burn of his whisker-coarse skin, but I need more. I roll him over, never releasing our linked fingers. He sits up and nudges my chin skyward with his nose, then traces his tongue along my neck. The moist heat of his breath coats my skin, sending shivers racing along my flesh.

  Our lovemaking swiftly turns into a passionate frenzy, as I cannot kiss him hard enough or take him deep enough. Fast enough. He lets me set the pace without complaint or pause.

  His only refusal comes when any slip of air passes between our palms—this hold he will not relinquish. This hold I once found too firm has finally managed to hold on to me. I am no longer fleeting. I am anchored. No longer glass blown to its thinnest point, and yet I am still beautiful because he loves me. Still shining because he sees me. Still solid because he accepts me. I am, and always have been, his.

  Always his.

  • • •

  We shower the paint off, make love again, then take a long bath in an enormous soaker tub. Just like in my memories, we plan our future with as many babies as my body can handle. This time there is no worry of a cutoff date. No doubts. No fears. I have years and years to carry children.

  Noah takes warm, even breaths behind me, his chest humming with the sound of his whispered words in my ear. Our fingers play, linked over my belly. Water pings from the faucet at our feet. And everything is perfect.

  Except perfection never lasts.

  The abyss comes for me. The glacial nothing sweeps across the hot water and sucks me through its wormhole until I float, helpless and alone. My incorporeal form jerks against the fragile tether banded around me. The unknown obsidian yanks, and I hear the strain and creaks as my bindings weaken. This is it. The abyss will finally take me.

  Wake up, Emma. Wake up!

  But I cannot wake up. This is no dream.

  This is death.

  CHAPTER 37

  Noah’s frantic voice manages to break into the looming dark and pulls me free. I wake, fluttering wet lashes and squinting at a white ceiling. My entire body racks with cold shivers that have nothing to do with lying free of the hot water. Nothing to do with the cool tile under me.

  Noah lifts me into his arms so fast my vision whirls. I gasp for breath. Fight the walls threatening to close in around me. I hold fast to him, grounding myself to something real and solid.

  I am not the only one shivering.

  • • •

  Noah walks out of the day care, where he just dropped Adrienne off. He is already suited up for a long day of work at Tucker Securities. An hour ago I watched him pace the floor, trying to talk himself out of going in, but he could not. He has meetings with potential new clients today, one being a government official. Tucker Securities first.

  He takes my hand outside the room and continues our argument as if there had been no pause. “I could pull rank. Make you go.”

  The threat is only half-serious, so I let it go. “You would not do that.”

  “I would. You weren’t breathing.”

  “I still think that is a bit of an overreaction. I just fell asleep.” I know better, of course, but his worry is not helping.

  “I was about to do CPR, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Lower your voice,” I hiss. People are starting to stare. Or they already were. Everyone knows by now about his breakup and why. Even by holding hands we are fueling the gossip.

  Stopping, I groan and drag my hands through my hair. “We cannot have this conversation in public.”

  “Phillip Malcolm is nothing like Travista. He would never hurt you.”

  The desperation in his eyes tugs at
every string untethered by my resolve. “I will think about it.”

  “Today. Please go today.”

  Please. This word is akin to using “trust” on me. He knows I cannot refuse him. “I said I will think about it. I do have to work today.”

  He rests his hands on his hips, making his suit jacket flare back. The material is as black as my mood. “You officially have the morning off. Report back to work after lunch.”

  Damn it. He has a workaround for everything. “You are the worst boyfriend ever.”

  This brings a smile to his face, and I can tell he wants to kiss me, but that would cross the boundaries we laid out last night. Holding hands in public is our limit. He glances furtively around before leaning in and lowering his voice to say, “You’re so damn cute when you pout.”

  I push him away and wish I could halt the grin leaking its way to my lips. The attention we are gathering from both ends of the corridor siphons heat from my center and infuses it into my cheeks. “Will you go to work, please?”

  He walks backward, hands up in defense. “You’re going?”

  “I guess you will find out later.”

  Foster appears around the far corner and raises a hand, signaling for us to wait. Unlike everyone else, he shows no special interest in finding us together. “There you are.”

  Noah stops and I walk forward to catch up. The look on Foster’s face does not sit well with me.

  Foster slows to a stop beside Noah and rubs a day’s worth of whisker growth on his chin. “Something happened last night. I was going to call you about it, but Reid said you were unreachable for the night and not to bother you.”

  Noah’s hand slides into mine automatically as I sidle up beside him. “With what?”

  Foster frowns at me. “I’m sorry, Wade, but you’re out. Who your parents are. How you’re really the Original Clone. The media cited Daxton Thomas as the source. Guess he was pissed as hell about the revelations that came out at the ball.”

  So the world now knows how damaged I am. No matter how this ends, I will never walk down a street without someone staring at me as if I am a freak.