Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc. Read online

  “Doesn’t sound like the music is starting yet, anyway.” Tristan tugs once at my arm. “We’ve gotta go down there, at least, check out the scene. I bet the water feels great right now. Come on, Butter-dud.”

  He’s completely wrapped up in the moment, eyes twinkling, arms swinging at his side with anxious energy. He peels off his turtleneck, leaving his long bangs ruffled about his forehead.

  Fresh air must be getting to me because I’ve seen him with his shirt off already—back at the spa—but for some reason, out here beneath the trees, in the bronze morning sunlight, I find myself wanting to drink him in with slow, tasteful sips. I have to look away. Kayla should be here, not me.

  “Hey, who’s paying for this little excursion, huh? Technically, you’re obligated to guide me.”

  Although I could argue that point, I find myself resisting, and I’m not sure why. I have to admit, there’s something about the way Tristan’s enjoying himself that fills me with envy—triggers a craving inside me I didn’t realize was there. Possibly even an inner desire for irresponsibility. Cruel irony at a time when I’m under the toughest scrutiny of my life.

  I remind myself that our current time string is off the surveillance grid. MIA means no one is watching.

  On impulse, I ditch my pink sweater and leggings beneath a nearby bush. Holy hell, my skin is zombie-white. Didn’t matter during spring in Manhattan, but here? In the summer of love? I’m the total opposite of my golden boy companion. What the hell, though. It’s sticky-hot.

  As we emerge into the fields with the masses, I realize that even though I stick out, I fit in. This is the world of anything goes, which suits Tristan’s white nylon snowpants, bare feet, and shirtless chest as well as it does my babydoll shirtdress over my black tank.

  At the shore, I sit on a log to people-watch. Keen observation is the number one skill application when it comes to field study. Any good time traveler knows this, and it’s a fundamental of trip guiding.

  Chicks are sifting through the water, fully naked, their boobs bouncing at the surface as they bathe right next to guys. No shame here. A be-free-and-naked extravaganza. Strangers sharing soap, chatting casually like co-ed baths are a regular everyday thing. Maybe they are, for all I know.

  Tristan strips down to a pair of pale blue boxer briefs and dives in, waves me over. I shake my head. No way I’m getting in that cesspool of germs after all those naked bodies. Who knows what’s been going on in there. Doesn’t seem to faze Tristan, though. He backstrokes past a couple of gabbing girls, their bare chests fully visible, and says hello.

  “Going in for a swim?” A wavy-haired brunette appears beside me, smiling.

  “Not right now.” I give her a once-over.

  Her hip bones protrude above her long white skirt, its waist resting below her navel. Her chest is covered only by a macramé drape with clearly no bra. She sits next to me, uninvited, pulls out a stick of rolled white paper, lights it.

  “Any favorite performers so far?” she asks, inhaling, then hands it over to me.

  The strange odor saturates the oxygen. I don’t like it, but I don’t dislike it either. It’s weird. Reefer, I think they called it. I forgot this decade is back when public smoking is still legal. I eye it a few more seconds, but before I can decide whether or not to take it, she’s slipping it between my fingers, where it teeters.

  She doesn’t seem to notice, her gaze fixed on the lake, her lids heavy. “Joe Cocker rocked for me yesterday. But when Sly and the Stones came on last night, I couldn’t stop the boogie, you know what I’m saying? It was beautiful. So fucking beautiful.”

  Her fingers find the joint again, oblivious I haven’t bothered to smoke any. I’m happy to get rid of it. The contact high alone is enough for me, and I’m determined to keep control of the situation this time.

  “Janis is here today,” the girl goes on, her voice strained from another toke of reefer. “I can get down to some Janis, right? Like I keep telling my old man, people need their music. This whole weekend right here, it’s about holding onto your neighbor and loving him. People need that.”

  I’m not sure how to answer, or if I even need to.

  In a swift motion, she’s lifted off the log by arms from someone who appears out of nowhere. She squeals, wraps her own arms around a guy in cut-off jeans, and hands him her joint. They kiss, longer than I care to see, so I refocus on the lake. Tristan’s chatting with some people in the water up to their waists. I half expect him to wave me over, and I want him to, just so I can resist. But he doesn’t even glance my way.

  3.25 hours. That’s all I have to get this situation under control and present my case to Garth. Better even be back in two, just to make sure there’s no chance of getting stuck here. My thoughts keep returning to the fact that Garth sent her past-self to the Broadway Port when the DOT could see us in the time string anyway. Why? She had reason to suspect we wouldn’t return home? Our window was closing, we had to. Why bother intervening when she could slap us with a citation and suspend operation once we returned? Obviously, it was some kind of DOT scare tactic, but what good is scaring us when we’re already heading home?

  Except, we didn’t go home. We evaded the DOT. But how could Garth have known or suspected that? It was completely spontaneous. Are they tapping into people’s personal lives now to predict their actions? They couldn’t be—that’s an invasion of privacy, and Mom and Dad will fight that for sure.

  My stomach sinks at the thought of my parents. Could they have not trusted me to get back on my own—doubted my capabilities? And have I proved that I’m not proficient by showing up here instead of returning to Port Butterman? Not to mention an effin’ PUI. Our entire business is on the line.

  I have to find a way to make this up to them.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Here, sister.”

  I look up to find a small daisy extended between two fingers. A guy in a tie-dyed tee shirt and cowboy hat shielding his eyes grins at me. “You look all alone and sad out here. But you’ve got friends. We may be freaks, but we’ve got each other.”

  He can’t be serious. But he just stands there, waiting for me to accept his broken flower.

  I force a little smile, take it with a pinch. Looking at this guy’s genuine face, I’d be an ass to kill his love buzz.

  “Right on, sister.” He nods deeply.

  Okay, so the friendly sister endearment is way foreign to me. In my world, people express themselves with animated avatars, emoticons, and clever acronyms. And since I’m an only child, anyone who refers to me as their sibling, is also up for one of my trademark Creep-tastic Awards. However, my professional assessment reminds me I’ve entered a more primitive time, when people still shook hands with and hugged strangers, without fear of contracting bacterial diseases. Part of being a good time traveler is being able to adapt.

  Besides, these people are the legendary pioneers of peace and friendship that books and films reference all the time. Boggles my mind most of them are around my age. If this was my generation, I’d probably be here right now, having the time of my life. Smoking reefer and skinny-dipping.

  I let out a deep belly chuckle at this thought, which seems to please Flower Guy. He pats my shoulder twice, then squeezes once, as if he doesn’t want to let go.

  Holy hell, make him go away.

  I pull back a little, but nod with enthusiasm, say, “Thanks … brother. Er, uh, right on.”

  Speakers crackle in the distance and a man’s voice filters over it, calling out personal messages for meeting places, even mentions some guy’s wife’s having a baby behind a tent. Then an introduction to some performer I’ve never heard of.

  Thank God for interruptions. Flower Guy takes off, and in his place, shirtless Tristan appears, droplets rolling off his hair and body, splashing onto the ground. He’s wearing a long string of colored beads around his neck now, a bright smile on his wet face. “Providence has been bestowed, Butterman.” He gestures back at the lake. “That chick over
there is friends with Jimi’s stage manager’s girlfriend. Said she can introduce me. Is that far out or what?”

  “Far out?” I ask, a slight bite to my voice. How the hell does he make friends so fast? “How would I know how far it is?”

  “Come on, she said she’d take us over there. He performs later today.” Tristan can’t stop grinning.

  “Performs when?” I check my watch. “We only have about two hours. Anything more and it’s cutting it too close.”

  He ignores the comment. “Between you and me, I’m shitting bricks right now. Can’t believe I’m about to see one of the world’s greatest rockstars ever—if not the best. Most incredible day of my life.” He climbs into his now mud-stained white pants, then scuffs the water from his long bangs.

  I get the fascination. Really I do. It’s a big moment for him. Wahoo! and stuff. Guess I should be more excited to share it. But since I had to miss meeting Dirk Stiles, I’m not quite feeling it. Wasn’t Tristan’s fault, I know that, but he sure wasn’t in any hurry to introduce me to my rock hero back at the club.

  “What’s with you?” he asks, poking my arm with a playful jab, still grinning. “Feel the love, man. You’re right smack in the middle of the biggest music fest in history!”

  I stand, stretch. “You really get off on all this, don’t you? I admit I’m surprised. I pegged you for more of a here-and-now, twenty-first century kinda guy. Not so retro-fabulous. You’re a hippie wannabe.”

  He glares at me. “So what if I am?”

  I head back up the shore. “Freak.”

  Next thing I know, my body tumbles to the ground, my face meeting the grass so I have to spit gritty blades from my lips. Tristan’s pressed on top of me, pinning me to the dirt.

  “The hell?” I try to lift my neck, but his forearm’s holding it down.

  His mouth is at my ear, his breath moist as he whispers, “You need to loosen up, Butter-dud.”

  My jaw goes rigid-stiff, but I suppress my voice to a lovely patronizing quality. “Great idea, let’s get into more trouble, Golden Boy. Let me just loosen right up and not worry about our future outcome, ‘cause the only thing that matters is that Tristan Helms has some fun, gets to meet his rock idol.” I go off a little more than I wanted, but damn, he body-slammed me.

  He rolls off me, sits on the ground beside me. “You really think I don’t care about your family’s business, or the timeline?”

  Brushing off, I right myself onto my knees beside him. “You don’t act like it.” My shirtdress has a rip and it’s smudged with dirt. “And if you wanted to ruin my clothes, you coulda just thrown dirt. Would’ve been less painful.”

  I’m not hurt—it was a soft blow, but he doesn’t have to know that.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” He’s closer now, concern on his face, puckering the dimple in his chin.

  His arm reaches out, and just as I think he’s going to caress my shoulder and check on my well-being, he topples me over again, this time pinning me to my back. His body covers me, our faces millimeters apart, and he’s smiling suggestively. Guess he likes to play rough.

  I could act like I’m totally insulted right now and knee him in the crotch, inflict serious pain, but then … that would make him move … and for some bizarre reason that makes absolutely no sense to me right now, I’m not sure I want him to move.

  “You’re not hurt, big baby.” His full lips curl into a wry smile.

  I haven’t budged. It’s so obvious I’m stiff with surprise.

  Wriggling beneath his bare chest, I find I’m locked in place. His strong thighs are tight against mine, his elbows firm at my sides, hands over my shoulders.

  Finally, I find my voice. “You know I can leave your ass here, right? So you may wanna nix any future body slams. ”

  My poor attempt at covering up the thrill now stirring between my legs. Holy hell.

  “You wouldn’t do that,” he speaks with confidence, but there’s a faint flicker of concern in his eyes. “You’re too much of a rule nazi, Butter-dud. Tampering with the timeline would forever crush you.”

  “Stop calling me Butter-dud.” I don’t want him to know how much it bothers me, or he’ll use it even more. But he’s right about the rest. It’s the way he said it that baffles me—like he knows me so well. I’m amused and insulted at the same time. “Somebody has to assume responsibility, and since it’s obviously not you …”

  “Cut the crap, Bianca. Last I checked, you work for me, so if we’re here, we’re gonna make the most of it. We’ve got a full two hours starting now, right?”

  He used my real name. Instead of Butter-dud. He actually listened to me.

  “One hour, fifty-five minutes,” I whisper, and wriggle beneath him again.

  He clenches his elbows tighter at my sides. “Fine. But til my time is up, I’m the customer and the customer’s always right. So stop worrying and let’s have some fun.”

  I’m supposed to be the one giving orders, but seeing him like this—full of fiery zeal to experience this time and place, taking charge to make sure it happens … holding me down for emphasis …

  Makes my body quiver.

  I swallow hard, fighting for the control I know I should have, but it feels threadbare at the moment. “I have to figure out—”

  “We’ll figure it out together.” He grips my wrist tighter in his hand, his voice softer now, but with undeniable confidence. “I’m telling you, the more you try to force the answers, the farther away they get. Been doing it with songwriting for the last six months. Couldn’t figure out why it wouldn’t come to me like before. You and me both, we gotta stop trying so hard.”

  He’s linking us together now? Like a pair?

  The creases in his forehead dissolve. “For now, let’s absorb some kick-ass vibes and let the answers find us. Stop forcing it.”

  “Hey, man,” a voice over us says. “If you guys plan on balling it out, take it to the field over there.”

  Our heads jerk in unison to see a guy in a white tank sauntering past, two little butt-naked kids trailing after.

  Ball it out? Like sex? My cheeks go white-hot.

  Tristan grins, calls out, “Nah, not even close. No worries, bro.”

  The guy nods back, still moving toward the lake.

  I stare up at Tristan’s profile, surprised by how truly perfect the shape of his face is. He really needs to get off me now. And what did he mean by “not even close?”

  “So do we have a deal?” He faces me again.

  “Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. Suddenly, I want more than anything to show him I can relax and enjoy this with him. “One point seven six hours, but that’s it.”

  His face brightens, his gaze wandering my entire face. “Long as that includes a Jimi Hendrix performance, deal.”

  I feel like a cross between a specimen and a display model. “What’re you looking at?”

  “Your prettier without all that dark shit.”

  I’m sure my face is apple-red now. “Is that supposed to be a compliment? If so, it sucked. Sounded more like a half-ass obligation.”

  He chuckles, rolling off me and onto his back beside me. “That bad, huh?”

  I sit up straight, stare down at him for a change. Grass is all over my clothes, and I’m sure my hair too. “Let’s just say you won’t win any Casanova awards.”

  My gaze falls over his abs. They’re toned enough to see there’s more than one muscle there, and the rogue hairs just below his navel add a splash of darker color, before disappearing inside his pants. He rolls his body upward, dried grass decorating his shaggy bangs, the bright sunlight creating a visible aura around him like a halo. And I can’t deny it—he’s stunning. Truly golden, with a smile that beams right up to his eyes. No longer the posh boy band superstar the world knows him as, but uninhibited and vibrant. Ruggedly natural. If they could see him now they’d only fall deeper in love with him.

  But they can’t see him. This is my moment.

  Tristan stretches h
is arms over his head, now sitting cross-legged in the grass, grinning. “Wasn’t sure how you’d take a real compliment. Thought I’d better tone it down.”

  I’m not sure how to take this and instinctively avert my eyes, fidget with a long blade of grass. “Oh.”

  “But you are pretty,” he says. “Amazing green eyes, when they’re not clouded with all that black.”

  I’m holding back a sigh.

  In a flash, he’s on his feet, extending a hand, which I accept and stand beside him. Not sure yet whether I’m glad the intensity of that moment is broken or not, but my head seems to be clearer. Noticing my clothes, I brush the dried grass and dirt from them. Tristan’s hardly concerned with his own appearance, laughing at people frolicking in the lake. He taps my elbow, nods in the opposite direction where music is already playing over loud speakers. I’ve been so caught up in the moment, I hadn’t noticed it.

  We trudge through the field, eventually reaching open mud. By the time we emerge into the full bohemian assembly, my boots are caked with clay-grass gunk. Tristan’s feet are a nice dogshit shade, which from the looks of everyone else, seems to be the local trend. But not even the historical pictures from Essence’s database could prepare me for what I see next.

  CHAPTER 14

  Fingers strumming acoustic guitars; palms drumming over canvas. Feet tapping, bodies swaying, hips gyrating. And this is what’s going on in the audience, as far as the eye can see. Heads with everything from picked afros, to long frizzy tresses of every color, all bobbing in time to the music. It’s a bubbling sea of humanity. Some are sprawled on filthy blankets, others meander in dance; weaving in and out, while others stay fixed in place, facing the stage with dazed eyes and convinced smiles—believers before their deity.

  Craning my neck for a glimpse of who’s performing, I find it’s impossible to get a good view from this deep in. Even so, the psychedelic power from the speakers transfixes me. An irresistible itch crackles through my fingers, arms, and before long I’m clapping along, same as the audience. A rhythm-starved bee joining the collective hive.