Deja Who Page 10

  flashed through his brain: “We made out like our plane was going down!” Yep. That’s just how Leah was kissing him. Like she wanted to eat him while also pushing him away as she vigorously boned him and then never called him again on her way to get murdered.

  Not cool. He would put a stop to this right now.

  Right now.

  Any minute now. He would. It would allll be stopped.

  Thoroughly stopped. Stopped dead. Completely, utterly stopped.

  “Ouch!”

  “I’m so sorry. Here, I’ll kiss the stab wounds I inflicted and make them all better.”

  “You hear yourself, right?” Right. Although, now that he thought about it, the thought of Leah’s lips on his wound . . . and then his other wound . . . and then moving lower

  (oh please, God, let her move lower)

  was disturbingly erotic. He managed to pull back and got a heart-stopping, dick-stiffening look at Leah’s lovely face and glittering eyes, her dark hair mussed and flyaway, her mouth a rosy bruise from kissing. “Okay, we have to . . . mmm . . . settle down now. Ah!” She’d pounced on him at “okay.” “Why wouldn’t you listen to the rest of that sentence?” He extricated himself again—Leah was strong for her size, all the murder-prevention training, no doubt—but it took longer this time because his blood was bypassing his arms and heading for his dick. “And just . . . y’know . . . have a discussion. About something.”

  “I cannot think of anything I wish to do less,” she murmured in his ear, and then bit his earlobe. Which, Archer had just discovered, had a line straight to his dick. Who knew? Someone should do a study. Write a paper. Something. “I’m on the pill, and I saw your labs at the hospital. You’re fresh as a daisy, STD-wise.”

  “Uh . . .” Boundaries? Wait, he could go in bare? Go in Leah bare? Their first time and any other time? No, no. Boundaries. Bare boundaries. Wait. What was he worried about again?

  “I’d like to love you in your tower, so bring me there.”

  Huh. That was sort of sweet and romantic. And the tower was pretty great. And he did want to be a good host. Not showing her the tower would be rude. Think how shamed his mom would be if she found out about his lack of etiquette.

  (Do not think about Mom right now.)

  “No. Here.” He grabbed her wrists and sort of pulled her after him as he backed across the room to the couch. “We need to sit here and—”

  “Good idea. I like sectionals.” She pounced and once again his hands were full of Leah, only this time she’d knocked him prone which made it sooooo much harder

  (that’s what she said)

  (stop that! idiot!)

  to fend her off. Not that he was one hundred percent on board with fending her off. Her lovely, apple-sized breasts were mashed against his chest, her lips were tracing the line of his jaw, finding the stubble and running her tongue over it, one of her knees was between his thighs, spreading his legs

  (unhand me, you brute!)

  and she was holding one of his wrists and stroking a thumb across his pulse point, which caused said pulse to ramp up at least twenty beats. He could feel something hard pressing against his chest,

  (is that a balisong knife in your bra or are you just—cue punch line)

  no, there were two of them, one in each cup, and he should be alarmed but wasn’t, and really, what harm could come from letting her molest the bejeezus out of him? What possible harm other than accidental stab wounds from her bra knives?

  “Gah,” he managed to say into her mouth. “Nnnff. Of all the nights to forget my rape whistle.”

  That made her giggle and for a few seconds she just laughed and sort of shook against him. He took the chance and brought his arm up around her waist, raised his head, and kissed her gently on her soft, sweet mouth, and never had a closed-mouth kiss been so glorious.

  “Okay,” she said, sitting up. On him, but he didn’t mind. It did leave him well within pouncing range, though, so he couldn’t have escaped those hands and that mouth when she decided to start up again. Which was wonderful. Bad! He meant bad. “What seems to be the problem? Do I have to go on a condom hunt?”

  “Please stop distracting me with pictures in my head that are alarming and weird and devastatingly sexy,” he groaned. “Condom hunt. Would that be like a scavenger hunt? A sex scavenger hunt? Oh my God, someday can we have a sex scavenger hunt?”

  “It’s a date,” she said in a solemn tone, then spoiled the effect by snickering.

  “God, you’re gorgeous when you laugh.” He looked up at her and smiled, and hoped she wasn’t troubled by the enthusiastic presence of Lieutenant Winky, who was currently trying to rip itself free of his jeans, most likely because she was sitting on him.

  (Arrgghh yes that’s it escape Lieutenant Winky fly be free you lucky bastard!)

  He sat up and willed himself not to burst into horny tears at what he was slowing down. Lieutenant Winky would be furious with him. “Okay. Okay. Okay.” He shook his head to get clear. “Okay. God, you’re so—I love your mouth and think we should no no no!” He sucked in a steadying breath. “First, you’re the sexiest thing in the world and I am breaking my own heart by putting a stop to this. Second, you’re the sexiest thing in the world. Third, my penis is not a sleeping pill. Fourth, you’ve had a really emotional day and I don’t want to be That Guy and take advantage when you’re obviously vulnerable, and fifth, my status as life-blind might count as slumming for an Insighter, so—”

  “Wait. What?”

  “My penis is not a sleeping pill? That was the weirdest, so I’m betting that’s what you zeroed in on.” Might be the life-blind thing, too, but no, he was betting it was the penis pill analogy.

  She was scowling at him, which terrified him and also called up the urge to kiss the corner of her scowl. “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “Not that I have anything against comfort sex. I love it. Women are always crying when we . . . let me rephrase.”

  “By all means, rephrase. Then you can explain what you meant about slumming. Then let’s go back to discussing the sleeping pill qualities of your penis.”

  “You leave Lieutenant Winky out of this.” She blinked slowly, like an owl, but (thank God!) said nothing. “And you keep those things in there, thank you very much,” he said, pointing at her chest. “No fair stabbing me with them.”

  “Ah. What?”

  “And I’m not saying you’d be into slumming. But you can’t tell me the thought never even scraped the edge of your mind.”

  “What, because I can’t see your lives? That actually makes you much more attractive to me. Most people are so . . .” She shivered. “Crowded. In their minds. All those past regrets and deaths piling on top of each other in their brains . . . no wonder some of them go crazy. Poor things, they deserve better than me.”

  “Jeez, don’t say that.” He was honestly horrified that she had such a crap opinion of her skills. “And there aren’t better than you.”

  He hoped she’d smile and she did, but it was small and sickly. “That’s their bad luck, and mine. But getting back to you, I don’t know if blind is the right word. I have a theory . . . never mind, it’s boring. But you’re not boring, which is wonderful.”

  He snorted, disbelieving. It wasn’t especially pleasant, but he knew many Insighters saw the life-blind as developmentally disabled. You can’t do what billions of people can? What else is wrong with you, you pathetic freak?

  “All that aside, I don’t want to be the thing you use to distract yourself from getting murdered. And I won’t tolerate a one-night stand with you.”

  “Won’t . . . tolerate?”

  He checked the immediate area for knives. All clear. If she went for her bra, he was a dead man. “I’m too greedy,” he said simply. “I want to be more than that to you. So we’re gonna slow down and we’re gonna talk, and then I’m going t
o walk you to the door like a gentleman, and then I’m going to go upstairs and take a long shower so I can cry and masturbate in peace.”

  The pissy look on her face vanished and she cracked up. “Really? You are? That’s . . . ah, God.”

  “Yeah. Stop l-laughing.” He stuttered the “l” because he was starting to lose it, too. Did I really just tell that to my future sweetie please God let her be my future sweetie . . . “Not that I’m ruling out casual encounters in general, I just want more with you. Would you honestly be okay with scenarios where we bang so hard and so well you stumble home after pulling the tattered remnants of your clothes back on and I spend the next three days drinking cans of Ensure? Don’t answer that. That was a trick question.”

  All at once, he wanted to stock a supply of Ensure.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re so . . .” She gestured to the air as if she could pull down the word she wanted. “. . . uncluttered. Is it nice?”

  “Being uncluttered? And I’m ignoring the condescension in your tone, missy.” He was sitting up, ignoring the sullen throb from his pissed-off balls. They would, he knew, make him pay. They’d done it before. “Next you’ll pat me on the head and call me a poor baby.”

  “But is it?”

  “Sorry, my brain is missing a ton of blood right now and it’ll be another couple of minutes before it catches up. What was the question?”

  “Not being afraid all the time.” She had a strange look on her face, part wistful and part “I don’t really care I’m just making polite conversation until we can kiss again.” “Is it nice?”

  (Boom that’s it my heart just blew up oh Leah oh shit oh you oh oh oh)

  “I’m going to help you,” he said, and Leah’s gaze dropped and she couldn’t look at him as he continued. “We’ll fix this.”

  “Nothing to fix.” Now she was standing—yikes, she could move like a cat when she wanted. Standing and, yep, moving for the front door. “You were right. This was a terrible idea.”

  “Now,” he yelped, scrambling after her. “It’s a terrible idea now. Later, it’s gonna be the opposite of a terrible idea. I’ll get some Ensure and it’ll be a wonderful terrific idea. Just not now.”

  She shrugged, one hand reaching for the doorknob. “Sorry to haul you into my nonsense.”

  He blinked at the odd word choice. Nonsense? That’s her mother talking.

  “It was very nice meeting you.”

  No! Stop! Tilt! Abort!

  “Ow!” He shrieked it so loud she whipped around at once. “My wound! Wounds, I mean! They’re burning up and I feel all stabby inside! It’s a fever from an infection and ow-ow-owie! You can’t leave me in mortal agony argh the agony is overwhelming ow-ow!”

  She rolled her eyes but, thank God, let go of the door. “Ye gods, Archer. That’s awful. Do not quit the day job.” Pause. “What is the day job, besides stalking me, which we have agreed you shall no longer do?”

  “You don’t have the kind of time we’d need for me to explain. Right now, I’m a professional housesitter. It’s how I ended up living here. The pain,” he groaned. “It’s washing everything away, including the ability to let you leave. And also, your breasts are like apples, did you know?”

  “I’d like to have just one conversation with you that isn’t surreal,” she grumped. Then, “Apples? Like . . .” She glanced down at herself. “Crab apples?”

  “No, more like Golden Delicious. Or Honeycrisp. You’re a hammerhead shark with luscious Honeycrisp boobs, God, you are soooo hot.”

  Leah, meanwhile, had started laughing so hard she had to lean against the door. She’d self-consciously crossed her arms across her chest, which only drew his attention to the Honeycrisp goodies. She saw him looking and laughed harder, finally staggering away from the door. She reached for him, curled a hand around the nape of his neck, and drew him in for a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Oh, Archer,” she managed between snorts. “Never, ever change.”

  “I want to see you tomorrow,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t grab her, toss her on the couch, and go bobbing for apples. “And the day after. And the day after-after.”

  “Fine. I’m too tired and emotionally traumatized and giddy to say no to you. Honeycrisp apples. Christ.” She went back to the door, opened it, and headed out into the night. “Yes, all right. I’ll see you tomorrow. Assuming, of course, I don’t get murdered tonight.”

  “Don’t you dare,” he said, appalled. “That’ll screw up all my plans for you.” He heard how that sounded and groaned inwardly, but luckily Leah just found it funnier. Even after the door was closed behind her, he could still hear her giggles. It was a sound he planned on hearing, off and on, for the rest of his life.

  “Aw, nuts,” he said to the air. “We didn’t set up a time or anything.”

  Details. He’d see her again. She ought to count on it, since he was.

  TWENTY

  Another thing Leah liked about Archer: he never looked at her like he was expecting something. With anyone else, if they said or did something even slightly off, they’d look at her with that expectant “go on, Insight me, tell me why I’m like this” expression. It was, she decided long ago, like people who walked up to doctors in social situations and demanded a (free) diagnosis on the spot.

  My arm hurts when I do like this.

  So don’t do that.

  I’m scared of heights. How come?

  Because you live in a penthouse you cannot afford? Go away.

  Her rather abrupt thought segue had been brought about by her newest patient, a referral from her colleague.

  “I was only clinically dead for three and a half minutes,” Chart #2256 was bitching. “And look! I’m back. Everything’s fine. I’m fine. You’re making way too much fuss here.”

  “Five minutes,” she corrected in an even tone. His chart was on the desk, closed. She knew the contents. “I cannot believe you simply went ahead and discounted all my warnings.”

  #2256 speared her with a level look. “First off, my past lives are my own business.”

  Do not smile. But what a delightful attitude. Do not smile.

  “Second,” he continued when she didn’t smile, “what? I’m supposed to believe you were sooo motivated by concern for my well-being? It’s just CYA for you.”

  “I was motivated by concern for you.” Or at least concern for her license. No, #2256’s well-being was also a consideration. The man was the poster child for “my way or the highway,” and Leah could not help liking him. “I warned you to leave Insighting to pros.” She had. “I warned you there was an excellent chance of brain damage.” There was. “I warned you that you might die.” He had! For several minutes.

  “You said Rain Down has caused a lot of flatlines, which isn’t necessarily the same thing.” #2256 shrugged. “I wanted to see for myself. I’m not comfortable putting all that control in someone else’s hands.”

  “And yet, here you are.”

  “Yeah, and we’ve been over this. The only reason I even came to your clinic is because I lost another job and my wife drew a line in the sand. It’s not personal, Ms. Nazir. I don’t even trust my own mother.”

  “We have that in common.” Reindyne was a hypnotic used exclusively for one purpose: it was often necessary to bring a patient back to revisit past lives. What made it so effective also provided enormous potential for misuse. Without an Insighter and a controlled setting, users could get lost in their past lives. “Nothing like all your past orgasms raining down on you,” a user once pointed out, except all your past disasters did, too, and your past deaths. Every one of them. At once. People could drown in their minds. People had drowned.

  For herself, Leah could control seeing past lives, but it had taken years of training and practice. When she was little, other lives would just spill over her. Swamp her. Sometimes that mea
nt a three-day migraine; other times it was a seizure. Her mother figure had not been pleased.

  “I wanted to see for myself,” #2256 continued, scowling. “Frankly, I wasn’t sure how necessary you were to the process.”

  “How about now?” she asked dryly.

  His pale blue eyes met her stare straight on. He was a small man, not much over five-three, but had presence and a gaze it was difficult to look away from. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Mmmm.”

  Once upon a time, #2256 was an escaped slave named Henry Brown. In 1849, understandably fed up with the institution of slavery, Henry escaped the Virginia plantation where he was considered property and mailed himself to freedom. A fellow slave who was a fair carpenter made a three-by-two-foot wooden crate for the five-foot-eight Henry, who somehow managed to cram his two hundred pounds in it. Two friends took him to the post office, where Henry had himself marked Dry Goods and mailed express. He was in Philadelphia the next day, proving once and for all to the good people at FedEx that there is no excuse for anything not to arrive overnight in the twenty-first century.

  Brown later moved to Boston and gave himself the middle name Box. Leah wasn’t sure why. It was unlikely he would have needed reminding of the twenty-seven-hour ordeal, some of those hours spent upside down.

  “This isn’t the first life where your stubborn nature, coupled with the impulse control of a fifth grader, nearly got you killed.”

  “It seems to keep working for me, though,” #2256 said comfortably, and she had to smile.

  “I wish more of my patients had your determination.”

  #2256 yawned. “That’s a lie.”

  “It is. How’s the claustrophobia?”

  “The wife and I did it in our closet last week.” At her smirk, his stony features softened. “Granted, it’s a walk-in closet, but still.”

  “No, that’s—well. That’s very good progress, actually, uh . . .” She glanced at the chart. “Henry. Hooray for you.”