Prototype (22 page)

T
he 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 response.

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.

N
oah’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.

Noah’s hand tightens. “What about the rest? Do they know she’s resistance? Or was?”

He sounds calm. I cling to that, hoping for an infusion of the same, because inside I am all over the place. So many emotions clamber to be first it is a wonder they have not trampled me into unconsciousness. It matters. It does not matter. I do not know which to hold tight to anymore. I have my family and it does not matter, but they cannot be my entire world—I need to have an identity outside them—therefore it does matter.

“No,” Foster says. “Shockingly, he left the resistance part out. Guess Burke wasn’t his goal with this revelation.”

“He wanted to get back at his parents,” I say. “
Our
parents. But he also wanted to protect their name. Revealing my being resistance would make them look bad, and him by extension.”

He is such a selfish bastard.

Noah nods at Foster in a way that dismisses him. “Thanks for the update.”

“No problem. Burke is scheduled to have a press conference at one.”

“All right,” Noah says. Once we are alone, he turns to face me. “You okay?”

I give him a single tight nod. I have to be, because I have bigger things to worry about. “You should go to work. I have to find Dr. Malcolm. My commanding officer is sort of a tyrant, and if I do not—”

Noah kisses me into silence. He pulls back a moment later and rests his forehead against mine. “Thank you.”

Well, that was unexpected. Nice, and leaving me near breathless, but unexpected. “There are clear rules against this,” I whisper, glancing around to count the number of voyeurs. There are more than a few. “Are you trying to get me in trouble? I could be court-martialed or something.”

He chuckles. “I’m the one in trouble, and the punishment will always be ‘or something.’ I can promise you that.”

“Scoundrel.”

He beams me a smile that could level entire cities. “Reprobate.”

A couple walks by, staring openly at us. Their chatter regarding our current state begins the second they pass.

Grinning like a love-struck fool, I hide my too-warm face in his chest and whisper, “God, I hate you.”

He cups the back of my head and presses a kiss to my crown. His chest bounces with a silent laugh. “You’re doing me no favors here, either.”

 • • • 

“Dr. Malcolm?”

I catch him exiting the cafeteria after his breakfast. Something that looks suspiciously like ketchup stains the front of his wrinkled shirt.

He spins so quickly I am surprised he does not fall over from dizziness. “Miss Emma. How are you today?”

How do you feel today, Emma?

I shake my head to rattle away Dr. Travista’s voice. “Is there someplace we can talk privately?” I shove shaking hands into my back pockets. “I will not take up too much of your time.”

His smile is large and bright. “I would devote as much time as need be. Anything for you, Miss Emma.” He swings an arm in a wide arc. “Shall we go to my office?”

His office is on a whole other sublevel from the hospital and living quarters, and we have to pass the shooting ranges to get there. The muffled sound of simulated war fills the stone corridor. We are nearly past the area when a door to one of the rooms opens between us and a thick crowd of men spills out, laughing and slapping each other’s backs. The cool air fills with the scent of sweat. Dr. Malcolm whistles and bounces toward his office, upbeat as always, unaffected by the sudden gathering of loud men.

His office is twice the size of Noah’s. I pause just inside and take in an examination table that sits opposite his desk, silver stirrups folded neatly inside square front cavities. I did not expect that, and it makes me reconsider what I am doing. But Noah promised Dr. Malcolm would be different. I just hope he is right.

Dr. Malcolm walks along a row of bookcases and taps the tops of vibrant-colored animal figurines, their paws curled over the front of the shelves. Their too-large heads bobble on spring necks. Medical books double-layer the shelves, but so many trinkets sit in front of the books, they leave little room to remove any of the gold-embossed volumes.

“Come on in,” he says. “Have a seat.”

Still hesitant, I glance around at the rest of the room. Pictures drawn by small children cover every available wall space.

“Do you like the art?” Dr. Malcolm asks as he sits behind his desk. “I know they’re no Emma Wade original, but the kids and I think they’re magnificent.”

“The children color pictures for you?” I had not meant to sound so astonished, but I am.

He smiles with a twinkle of pride in his eyes. “I get a new one after every checkup. A work of art for an extra lollipop. It’s a fair trade. Besides, the tots get a kick out of seeing their work displayed.”

This is a side of Dr. Malcolm I never expected. There is a standard in which we love our children while maintaining some level of maturity. Then there is the degree where I find Dr. Malcolm: intelligent beyond reason yet still a child at heart. He must feel nothing but joy at all times.

This knowledge is all it takes to put me at ease. I know now I can trust this funny little man with my life, and he will treat it with all the care and tenderness of a devoted father.

Dr. Malcolm leans back in his chair and tops his shining bald head with his palms. “What can I d—” He tilts back too far, scrambles, and rocks forward with eyes wide and mouth set in an oval. He lays flat palms on the desktop and grins. “That was close.”

I sit opposite him and begin fiddling with a zippered pocket that runs diagonal across my thigh. “I would like to speak to you about something, but I want to make sure it stays between us.”

“Strictly between us? No other doctors or—”

“Nobody.”

He stands and skirts around his desk. Before I realize it, he kneels before me and takes one of my hands. He kisses my knuckles and smiles warmly up at me. “Miss Emma, will you—”

“What are you doing?”

“—be my patient?”

“Excuse me?”

He stands and reaches across his desk for a computer tablet. “If you officially become my patient, then I can’t talk to anyone.” He sits in a chair beside me and starts typing on the screen. “My files are password protected against the other doctors.” He glances up with a sheepish grin and bobbles his head from side to side. Not unlike one of his dolls. “Unless I die, of course; then obviously they’ll transfer.”

That covers Sonya finding out before she leaves. “Noah does not have access either?”

This makes him pause and look up. “This must be serious.”

More than I have been willing to admit, but if it is as bad as I imagine, I want to be the one to tell him. He cannot find out through my records. “Maybe. I do not know yet.”

He hands me the tablet. “Press your thumb to the scan box for a digital signature; then everything that passes between us will be confidential.”

I do as he asks, relieved I do not have to talk him into complete silence. Then again . . . “You will not use the excuse that I am a clone with no rights and share anyway, will you?”

“Of course not.” He scoffs. “You can trust me.”

That will have to do. It is not as if I have another option available. “You mentioned there may have been an upset of the electromagnetic balance during my transfer.”

“Yes. Considering the sensitivity of the mind-body, one has to wonder how it will try to balance itself out. Basically, where will your soul go when its home has vanished?”

“I call it an abyss. Lydia Farris calls it a void.”

Dr. Malcolm grips the arms of his chair and sits back, blinking. “So it’s true.” He sits forward again, eyes wide. “What’s it like?” Just as quickly, he pinches his eyes shut and waves his hands between us. “I . . . uh . . . you can . . . never mind. Just tell me later. Sorry. Please continue.” Then more to himself says, “Very unprofessional,” as if scolding himself.

“I do not know if your theory is right or not. That is why I am here. I thought they were just nightmares, but I have recently had episodes while awake. It feels like dying.” I look down at my clasped hands lying in my lap. “I promised Noah I would not leave. But what if there is no choice?”

“There’s always a choice.”

I meet his kind eyes. “I want you to run your tests. Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“If something is wrong, and if Noah asks, please let me be the one to tell him.”

“When would you like to start?”

After last night, I do not feel there is much time. Ruby collapsed and died of seemingly nothing. If the abyss can pull me from my waking state . . . I want to keep my promise to Noah, and I also want to see my little girl grow up. “As soon as you have time to fit me into your schedule.”

Dr. Malcolm tosses his tablet onto the desk and grins. “Does immediately work for you?”