Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series (18 page)

“No, you’re not weak. You’re an addict. And you keep putting yourself in situations where you know you can’t say no. Addicts don’t get to have access to sedatives in case of emergency. Why would you even test your willpower like that?”

“Because I’d rather accept the fact I’m an addict and test my willpower than be scared shitless in the freezing Atlantic ‘cause the
Titanic
went down with me on it.”

“You’re blind to anything but your own problems.”

“After what happened in Manhattan and Woodstock, I’m too aware of unexpected circumstances.” He scowls, his attention drifting from me to the snowflakes blowing past the window. “Capra set me up that night. I didn’t want a drink, or anything else. But he was nice, and easy to talk to, and it’d been a long time since I just hung with the guys without counselors lurking over us in rehab. He didn’t seem to care who I was, just wanted to talk about the hockey game playing on the monitor. When he ordered me a whiskey, I just assumed the bartender would say no. But she didn’t. And there it was in front of me. And I remembered what it was like to be a normal guy, having a drink.”

I don’t want to cut him any slack, but my shoulders drop, and I feel the tension in my jaw ease.

“I’m not an idiot,” he continues. “I knew Capra slipped cerebrexal powder in my glass—I could taste the difference. But I kept drinking, pretending I didn’t know. In my head, I used it as an excuse. It wasn’t my fault. And for a few minutes there, I
was
just a normal guy. I didn’t know he was a reporter til after the damage had been done.”

“Tristan, how many times do bad things have to happen before you can stand strong? I can’t even trust you. I didn’t wanna trust you at all after that night, but I gave you the benefit of the doubt ‘cause I wanted so much to believe in you. Your detox in the ice shack was horrible. I promised myself I’d never go through that again. And now you’re saying you have no intention of staying clean if there’s any chance of surprises? It’s selfish, so effin’ selfish.”

He shoots me a look, then lowers his eyes, exhaling a long sigh. “The way you’re looking at me right now … it’s no wonder users keep using. Pity. Disappointment … Disgust. Users can’t break away from that look.”

I throw my hand in the air. “That’s such BS. I’ve forgiven you, believed in you, and put my family’s business on the line just to be with you … ‘cause I saw something in you, something that filled me with hope when hope was unreachable.
You’re
the one who keeps blowing it. Don’t you dare blame everyone else.”

My pulse is charging beneath my skin. I can’t deal with this right now. This is not about him. Pacing the time-craft, I move in toward the door and release it. Brisk gusts of icy wind swoosh in. It’s obscenely cold, and I’m still in this stupid maid’s uniform. Frost bite will set in within minutes, on anywhere it can sink its fangs into. But I need the wake up call to get my emotions in check before they implode and my brain blows a fuse.

I close the door, my body still shivering from the residual air. Tristan’s in his passenger seat, his head propped on his hands, elbows on his knees, leaning forward. I’m glad I can’t see his face—that boyishly good looking face that always manages to convince me of his sincerity. Deep inside me somewhere, a hatred has been kindled. It’s stirring. Not a hatred for him, but for his weaknesses. And for mine. I thought I could fix him, like I fix everything else, but I’ve been more loyal to him than to my own family—jeopardizing everything I know and love to stay his friend. I hate that I’m losing faith in him, but I hate even more that he’s abused my trust.

Garth’s last words echo through me:
It’s easy to forget where loyalties lie.

M
y hand falls
to my upper thigh and hits something hard and solid in the pocket of my maid’s uniform. Intrigued, I cup my fingers over it, tracing the round edges. Quincy’s pocket watch. I’d almost forgotten.

Reaching in my pocket, I wind the chain around my fingers and pull it out, where the weight of the watch swings and bobs like some kind of fancy fishing lure. The polished gold surface glimmers beneath Essence’s soft orange interior lighting. How could I have brought this with me? How could I have refused to?

I fling the watch into my palm and press the top button so the face pops open. It’s gold beneath the glass, with fine etchings in some kind of abstract floral design. Along the outer rim are black Roman numerals outlined in lighter gold. It’s still ticking on Atlantic Standard Time. My chest sinks inward, and with it, I let out a ragged breath. An image of Quincy’s face pirouettes through my head—those last few moments when he was putting others before himself.

A dead man’s watch.
The thought stings and burns behind my eyes.

Tracing the face with two fingers, I let them slide over the cold metal, caressing it as if somehow the touch could sear the memory deeper into my mind, where it will never escape. The cover catches my eye—there are markings there. An inscription in elegant cursive lettering:

“Bianca? Say something, please. I can’t take the silent treatment right now—not here, lost in the middle of nowhere.”

“The tides of time.” My voice is low, distant.

“
What
?”

From my peripheral, I see Tristan’s hands fall from his face to his lap, his body still leaning forward in the passenger seat.

I click the pocket watch closed, gripping it between my fingers, the skin on my arms tingling. Now is not the time for a coincidence like this.

Turning, I slip the watch back into my pocket and shuffle toward Tristan, my body weak from time sickness and frustration. “Tristan, I don’t want to fight.” I stoop to his eye level. “If you’d only put as much faith in your strengths as you do your weaknesses.” My voice is more sympathetic than I expected and I hope it doesn’t betray the genuine sentiment behind it. “I put my faith in you, and you gambled it away. Why didn’t you trust me to understand?”

“Like you understand right now?” he says in such a small voice.

Silence. Uncomfortable and dense.

It makes me shift my weight from side to side, and I hate the awkwardness I feel.

On impulse, I grab his hand, cup it between both of mine. “I … don’t know what it’s like to be you, or have your struggles but I know that trust means the same no matter who you are or how much money you have.”

He strokes the back of my head like he might kiss me, but only searches my eyes. Every imperfection of his face is noticeable right now, but they’re as handsome as they are flawed.

“I’m not like you, Bianca,” he says. “My goals aren’t crystal fucking clear like yours. Life doesn’t just
make sense
. I went from a nobody late-bloomer to a rich superstar everyone wants a piece of … to a has-been junkhead … and now, just a guy doing everything he can to keep the trust and friendship of a girl who means more than she could ever know.”

The dilation of his pupils retracts, his irises shimmering with flecks of silvery-gray. Clear, but enigmatic. Unreadable. I want to back away, but I can’t bring myself to fully reject him. Not after everything we’ve been through. We’re connected in ways I don’t fully understand.

My fingers squeeze his hand to let him know I don’t hate him, but what this emotion is exactly, I haven’t a clue.

He seems so lonely and misunderstood. I don’t know what it’s like to need a substance, but I do know what it’s like to need a friend.

Releasing the back of my hair, he brushes a hand over my cheek. “Don’t you see—my weaknesses—they’re linked to your strengths. I can’t even try to promise you I’ll be perfect, but right now, right here, I promise not to keep anything from you. I should’ve told you, instead of trying to protect you from it.”

I let out a long sigh. “Tristan, you’ve said stuff like this before, back at the ice shack. How am I supposed to believe—”

“Because you know as well as I do that we belong together. My life changed for the better when I met you. You’re my fix—not drugs, not music.
You
. Why do you think I came back with you? Because of the media?”

All I can do is shrug, which makes me feel like a child. At times it feels like everything between us is moving so fast.

“It’s bigger than that,” he goes on. “I can’t explain it, but I thought you felt it too. All of this is related. I was meant to show up at Butterman Travel that day.”

His words send a chill up my spine. I do believe him, and there’s more here than I have time or presence of mind to piece together right now, but that doesn’t mean he gets to take advantage of me.

Stroking my hair again, his hand moves to my cheek, where it lingers. His expression is sober and intense, before fading to the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen. “Hey, no one ever said it’d be easy.”

Not the words I was anticipating. I get to my feet, angling away from him so I can see the snowscape out the window and form an action plan. “I’ve never expected anything to be easy, just real.”

I disrobe the maids’ uniform and begin tugging on my buffersuit.

“You want real?” he asks. “Real is having your mother snub you right before you check into rehab. Real is facing the one person you’ve always trusted and having them tell you they feel nothing for you anymore.”

I glance sideways at him, stretching my arms into the slippery sleeves. “Your mom said that to you?”

His attention falls to the seam of his vest. “At one time she was my biggest fan. Til she saw what stardom did to me.” He shakes his head with a wry little laugh. “Last time I saw her, I was so strung out. I actually dosed in the bathroom of the restaurant we were having lunch at. She knew I was high, but she didn’t say anything, let me believe I’d pulled one over. But I can’t ever forget that look she gave me when I said goodbye—it was so … sad. And the way she hugged me was like she’d never see me again. Then she told me not to contact her anymore … That was that.”

He broods into space, as if seeing the memory perfectly in his head.

“You haven’t talked to her since?” I step in closer to him. “Did she even know you went to rehab?”

“She knew, but not from me.” He half smiles now, with a tilt of his head suggesting it’s no big deal. “There’s this recovery step where you have to make amends, apologize to those you hurt. She wouldn’t even take my call.” He pauses. “It’s cool, though. I understand. She did what she had to, and it woke me up. I was so sure I had everyone fooled, and had my bad habit under control.”

“But she’s your mother.”

“It was enough to force me to give myself a long hard look in the mirror.” He lets out a dry laugh. “And you know what? That day, for the first time since I joined U-Turn, I saw the ugly truth. I was a junkhead throwing his life away, convinced I had everyone conned.” He pauses. “Checked myself into rehab two days later.”

“She could be more supportive.”

His eyes shine glassy and red. “You don’t know my mom. Once she makes her mind up about something there’s no changing it.” His chin lifts. “Someday she’ll come around, when I’m all straightened out.”

Pulling the cord, I zip the back of my suit and move into the dashboard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“How could you?” His voice is quiet and accepting. Melancholy. On his feet now, he moves in and touches my arm, peering down at me. “You’re what’s real. That’s why you’re so important to me. You know what I learned in rehab? More important than staying clean even? That the most valuable thing in this world is the people who love you enough to forgive you.”

My hands pause over the dashboard, my voice vanishing. Every word from Tristan’s lips right now seems to be lodging itself deeper into my chest, tiny stakes tunneling inward. He really does need me.

Facing him, I lean in and kiss his lips, gently and softly, letting the sweetness of his flesh swaddle me, before pulling away to meet his gaze again. “I forgave you once already, remember?”

His forehead creases. “I know. That’s why I trust you.”

“But, Tristan, you can’t afford any more gaffes. If I have to choose between you and Butterman Travel—”

He kisses my lips firm and hard, sucking my bottom lip between his before covering my mouth again. It’s such an eager kiss, my knees weaken.

Now resting his forehead to mine, he says, “That won’t ever happen.”

A tiny, helpless sigh escapes my lips. “Then don’t test me again.”

He cups my cheek now, half-smiling. “Let’s get back to our own timeline, huh?”

On that note, I plant my rear in the pilot seat and focus on-screen, performing a full maintenance scan. The numbers and graphs pulse and climb, creating a status report.

A bit of tension releases from my neck and shoulders, and I feel like I can breathe again, even though the air is a glaring icy cold. Outside, wind is still whipping past, and every so often, the time-craft rattles with the tiniest of rings.

Tristan joins me at the dashboard just as the report is finishing. “What’s all that stuff mean?”

I hesitate, rechecking the report to make sure I’m seeing it correctly. “We’ve taken some damage.” I expand the graphs, run the report again. Within a few minutes the same data appears again. “From what I can tell, there’s a rip in the vessel’s siding.”

“How bad?”

“Can’t tell from here.” I rise, my body still sluggish from time sickness, and now the cold air as well. “I’ll have to check it out.”

“You’re not going out there?” Tristan’s brow furrows. “You’ll freeze.”

“I’ll amp up the thermal threads in my suit. Speaking of which, you should change into yours.” I toss him his from the left storage bin.

Activating the little button on the underside of my right sleeve, I maximize the thermal circulation, then wait for Tristan to get his suit on and do the same for him, before zipping up his back.

“Just gotta move around a bit to get it going.” I start jogging in place.

“What about your face? Your cheeks are still chapped from being on
Titanic
.”

I shrug, jumping around. “I’ll have to take my chance. I can’t repair what I can’t see, and that means going outside.”

“Butterman, don’t do anything stupid. Even
I
know you can’t be out there for more than a few minutes—it’s the freaking Arctic in December.” His face is stoic, stern.

It sends a little zing across my back.

Motionless now, I breathe in deeply, feeling the warm currents pulsing through the lining of my suit. “Give me five minutes. If I’m not back, come and get me.”

I grab my long skirt and wrap it around my head, tucking the corners in so it doubles as a kind of head-consuming turban. Only my eyes are showing.

Tristan sets his hat on top and works it down over the skirt. “There. You look like a homeless Eskimo.”

“Thanks.”

We stare at each other for a moment too long, and I don’t know what to say.

He breaks the silence. “What if it can’t be fixed?”

I speak from behind the material on my face. “Then we have about twelve hours before we freeze to death.”

“No, really.”

“Really.”

It’s not a subject I want to dwell on, so I turn, rummage through the vessel supply pack in the storage bin, and pull out a pair of Dad’s gloves and an LED flashlight. “Sorry, I’m not good at sugarcoating the facts. But as long as Essence has power, we’ll have heat. And as long as our nano-generators are working, the thermal threads will keep us warm.”

“But?” he asks. “Give it to me straight.”

“If the damage is irreparable, we won’t be able to operate the time-craft. Eventually the power will drain, then the reserve, and all that’ll be left is the thermal thread in our clothing.” I release the vessel door so it barely cracks open and wind whistles past.

“Those recharge as long as our hearts beat, though, right?”

I let out a sigh and there’s no denying its slight sound of helplessness. “Once the power in Essence is gone, it’ll get even colder in here. The cold will force our heartbeats to slow …”

I don’t have to explain further. By the bitter look on his face, he understands what comes next.

“But don’t you know this area? There’s gotta be somebody else around.”

“Doubtful. People didn’t settle this far north back then, except for the natives. You should check the historical database while I’m gone. Problem is, if we go out there looking for help and get held up for any reason, we could speed up our freezing process.” I pause, glance out the cockpit window, which is now like a lens to a hazy snow globe. “This mountain’s my home though. Kayla’s shown me places nearby where her ancestors lived. We’ll figure out something.” I force a smile to give him hope.

“Any chance her ancestors know how to fix a time-craft?” he asks.

I let out a wry chuckle. “How do you feel about living in the year 1912?”

He smiles, but I can see the hard swallow in the movement of his throat.

I slide on the gloves and they’re bulky over my fingers. “Okay, five minutes. Got it?”

Tristan nods.

My heart is pounding faster with adrenaline now, which is good because it prompts the nano-generators to work even harder so the heat courses through my suit in toasty fluxes. I release the vessel door and quickly climb out. Subzero gusts soar past my face like minuscule daggers to the skin around my eyes. I tuck the shirt in higher around my head. I forgot how windy December can be. The Bering Sea drives in strong gales that scrape over the barren ice plateaus, which drops the temperature even more, before beating right onto our mountainside at wind chills too offensive to even describe.

Being out here without a fur parka is insanity.

But for the moment, I’m fairly warm. And while I’d love to stand here and marvel at how nothing but nature exists where my home should be, there simply isn’t any time, and Nature is not to be trusted.