Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc. Read online

  My tittering stops, but not because I’m offended. I know how my contradictory look stalls some people in their footsteps. Live it every day. And unbeknownst to Tristan, I happen to love the nicknamedark bettie since it’s modeled after the retro-classic pin-up girl, Bettie Page. She was all glam in my book.

  “Touchè,” I say. “And just so you know, not that it’s any of your business, I’ve been to LA. Attended the 1957 Academy Awards two years ago.”

  “No shit.” Tristan’s smirk fades into genuine interest. Glimmers from the hearth highlight the sprinkle of dark blond scruff at his chin. “You just showed up?”

  “Sure. Dressed the part, of course. Getting tickets was a challenge, but we pulled it off. And let me tell you, it was way more chic than today’s commercialized glitz. Plus, seeing Marilyn Monroe and James Dean in person was pure magic.”

  “No shit,” he says again, staring with a furrowed brow.

  He studies everything from my charcoal eyeshadow to my jet-black pixie cut, with no obvious concern of whether or not he’s being rude. Any minute now he’ll get over it and move on from my appearance, even though to him, I’m the death of boy band bubblegum pop.

  “So let me guess, someone referred you to Butterman Travel,” I say.

  Without asking, he helps himself to the cappuccino machine, finds an espresso cup and sets it up. “A friend suggested I see you.”

  “And here you are.”

  “She gave me your address, said your agency is the best around. I …” he pauses, cradles his espresso cup, staring into it as if it somehow holds the right answer. “I’m in a time sensitive situation.”

  “Um, you’re at a time travel agency. Everything is time sensitive.”

  He squints at me. “Right. What I mean is, I’m limited. I need to book a trip as soon as possible. Like, today. Who do I need to talk to?”

  It doesn’t surprise me that he’s here and wants to time travel. Most people crave the experience, but simply can’t afford it. What does surprise me is the sparkle of urgency in his eyes. He’s not here for kicks. He needs something. Badly.

  And I can’t let Garth suspend our operation before finding out what it is.

  CHAPTER 2

  “I’m the one you want,” I say, my fingers drumming my desk. I love the sound of nails on granite. Bad habit of mine, but since I’m usually the only one in the office, it’s never been a problem.

  Tristan Helms eyes my neon blue nails, which makes me stop, close my hand.

  “So you’re the one in charge here?” he asks, forehead crinkling with doubt.

  I admit, if I didn’t already know he was the Golden Boy of Pop, I’d find his coy curiosity cute. But from what I’ve read and heard on celebrity gossip forums—of which I’m guilty of visiting only through best-friend-association—he changes girlfriends like he does underwear ever since his epic breakup with some supermodel from his pre-rehab days. And since this guy’s ego’s probably as big as his bank account, “cute,” would be a contradiction in terms when describing Tristan Helms.

  “I’m Bianca Butterman. All new clients go through me.”

  After maximizing the New Client file on my screen, I begin filling it out.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school or something?” he asks.

  My fingers freeze over the virtual keyboard and I look up at him through my black mascara. “Shouldn’t you be in rehab?”

  His jaw tightens, but after a few seconds, his shoulders slacken. “Guess there’s no point pretending the whole damn world doesn’t know about it. Look, I’ve been totally clean for almost three months now.” He pauses, like he’s trying on words for size. “Sorry if I was rude. I get these jolting mood swings ever since … Here’s where I’m supposed to tell you I’ll always be an addict, but I’m no longer addicted.” His cheeks flush into a nice scarlet tint.

  “Addicted to what?” Not that it matters, but I want to see how much he’s willing to share. Makes me wonder if it has anything to do with why he’s here.

  “To anything. I don’t touch any of it—not even the heliox.” He does have this genuine gleam in his eyes. Either he’s a fantastic liar, or he truly believes he’s recovered. “Almost ruined me.”

  I study him a few seconds. Kinda feel sorry for the guy, but I can’t help wondering how you can have as much as he did and risk it all? Once the designer hallucinogenic feel-good drug, heliox, hit the entertainment scene in compressed pill form, plenty of superstars got hooked, per Kayla’s trusty gossip celeb-website, and well, okay, the site I sometimes stumble onto said so too. Not sure how my parents will feel about booking a time trip for a former junkhead. Not sure they have to know that bit though.

  Feeling a polite exchange is in order, I soften a tad. “If you must know, I work here full time. Graduated high school last spring.”

  “Aren’t you the lucky one?” The spark of envy in his eye betrays his cool tone, but he offers a half-smile. “Must get all kinds of time travel perks, huh?”

  “You could say that.” I drum my nails once. “So, any more personal questions? Or can we get started?”

  “Fine.” He pulls out his device, punches some information in. “What’s your inbox link? I’ll stream you my IDD.”

  I recite the link address and two seconds later his Identity Data populates my screen: Full name, California address, driver license number, phone number, passport number, last four digits of his citizen ID, and a mug shot with his height, hair and eye color. Figured he was around my age—his birthday’s a few weeks before mine, but one year earlier.

  I glance up. “Baxter, huh?”

  He shrugs. “Just not the same ring.”

  Wait til I tell Kayla that Tristan Helms’ first name is really Baxter. But then, she probably already knows that from a how-much-do-you-know quiz from the U-Turn Forever Fan Club.

  “And who referred you to us?” I ask, fingers poised over the holo-keys.

  “My agent,” he says. “Valerie Danforth.”

  I type in the name, run a quick client search, even though I’m pretty sure we’ve never done business with anyone by that name. “No client record.”

  “She only suggested your agency, not that she’d traveled with you before. She heard you guys come highly recommended. I can get her on the phone if you want.”

  “Interesting.” My gaze lingers on him. “But don’t worry about it. I’ll track it later.”

  He sips espresso. “Is it important?”

  “In this day and age, very. We only work through referrals for that reason, but if your agent’s well-known, it’ll come up through internal tracking.” My screen populates with the trip plan shell and port map. “So, let’s talk about what kind of trip you’d like to book, then I can put together a tentative itinerary with prices, stream it to your device. If you concur, we’ll go over the terms and conditions, and once you sign the contract, we can set up a travel date. Are you looking for past or future travel?” My nails drum over the granite again and I catch myself.

  “Past,” he says.

  “What year?”

  “Last year.” He rubs the back of his neck. “April 12.”

  Interesting. I fill the date in.

  “Okay, what location?”

  “Manhattan. I, uh, need something from my old apartment. It was my home base while I was recording there, but I sold it later that year and … well, I need to get back.”

  I study the shifty expression on his face. “I should tell you right now that you can’t bring anything tangible with you, either going or coming. Against regulation.”

  “Not even my device, to record info, take pictures?” His eyes widen, almost defensively.

  I shake my head. “Only your body, and the clothes you wear on it. Currency cards are acceptable, of course, but no metals or electronic devices.”

  “Then that burns my whole point of going.” He fidgets with his sleeve.

  I lean into the desk. “May I ask what it is you want?”

  He hesitates. �
�Doesn’t matter now. Not if it can’t be done.”

  For some reason at this point, I feel a kind of pity for the guy. Why? Who the hell knows, because he sure doesn’t deserve it. According to Kayla, and if the rumors are true, he broke up from U-Turn so he could go solo and was too effed up on drugs to even carry a note anymore. Kayla and I heard the atrocity his producers tried calling a song, and even Kayla couldn’t give it her usual high-pitched fan-girl squeal.

  “It’s not the end all, you know,” I say finally. “There are tricks of the trade. Question is, how to apply them.”

  I’ve got his attention now. He moves in closer to my desk, firelight still dancing in his eyes. “You mean like, cheating?”

  “No. Cheating is out, so don’t get any ideas. But … there are ways.” I give him a sly smile because I have something he wants and we both know it.

  He hesitates, his lips twitching to the side.

  “What are you worried about?” I say in a hushed voice. “Embarrassed or something? I mean, I’m your booking agent now. I’ll know everything about your time trip anyway. If you can’t tell me, then you’re only screwing yourself.”

  He leans on my desk, closing the space between us as if anyone else could hear. “You wouldn’t know this, but after U-Turn broke up, my solo career took some hits.”

  “You’re kidding?” I play along.

  “No, really. Things have been less than stellar for me lately. But April of last year, right before I got hooked on heliox, I had this really sublime day—the kind of day when you’re happy for no reason. I was at my Manhattan apartment and I was … inspired. For a few hours my future seemed so clear. I’d found that new direction I’d been looking for, wrote some lyrics that just sealed the moment.”

  “Wrote them on what? A digi-note?” I ask.

  “No, actual paper and I don’t know what I did with it.” He gets a far off look in his eyes. “I did my first hit of heliox later that night—never planned to, it just happened while I was celebrating. Seems like everything went downhill afterwards. And fucking A if I can’t remember a single word that was on that paper—only that, at the time, it was the best thing I’d ever written.” His face is pained, his chin dimpling with his frown. “It’s like my brain has all these memory holes in it from right before my addiction. If I’d have known … Look, I know it all sounds crazy, but my creative mojo isn’t what it used to be and I know if I can get those lyrics back, I can get back on track. I really don’t see how what I want should matter anyway if I’m a paying customer.”

  “Well, let me be the one to inform you that everything matters. There are terms and conditions, and you have to read the handbook before you go anywhere.” I fake a smile, reading him for any trace of ulterior motives.

  “Like what?” he asks.

  “Like a PF, for one. Paradoxical Factor. Instant infraction, costly to both the client and agency.”

  His stiff expression fades to curiosity. “PF? How does that happen?”

  “For example, being in the same place at the same time as your other self. You could erase yourself or something vital to your existence.”

  He rubs his chin, and I can almost see the rusty gears cranking inside his head. Clearly he knows nothing about time travel.

  “So what if one happens?” he says. “You’re saying who I am now could be different somehow?”

  I assume my seasoned-for-my-age professional tone to explain. “One rule broken on a time trip won’t necessarily upset the course of the future, or present, but you should be aware of the regulations to avoid unwanted issues. You’ll be accompanied by one or more professional trip guides to prevent anomalies. That’s what we’re here for.” I could go into the dangers of tampering with time strings and shifting into parallel universes just to freak him out … but it’s so not good for closing the sale. “If one should happen, however, we do offer trip add-ons, re-dos, and diversion protection plans. See the Quantum Solutions section of our handbook. Also, our time-craft is equipped with abort controls for emergency situations.”

  Tristan nods as if he’s absorbing the details by physically tossing them around in his brain. “So it’s a good chance my present self won’t be changed at all.”

  I can see he’s really concerned with that. Truth is, til people come here, most don’t have a clue what’s really going down with time travel. I could just refer him to the handbook again and make him do the work, but feeling generous, I throw him a bone, since he looks so lost.

  “First of all, booking a time trip never guarantees a change in your life’s present course. That’s exactly what federal law doesn’t want to permit, hence all the regulations. What Butterman Travel offers is what the government would have us refer to as an observation technique—one we access by climbing up and falling through tiny tunnels in space and time. A phenomenon we call Cosmic Chutes and Ladders.

  His eyes glaze over.

  With a verbal whip of the tongue, I refer to my parents’ trusty old clarification. “As a time traveler, think of yourself as an actor’s understudy in a live play. You’re not really part of the show, but you’re following along backstage, and unless something catastrophic happens, that’s where you stay. If for some reason you’re forced to assume a role, you can never ever add your own lines or change the story. Got it?”

  He arches a brow. “I think so. But maybe you could say it slower for an even greater patronizing effect.”

  “Hey, I don’t make the rules, I just repeat them. And you better know what they are ‘cause you have to sign a contract, and if you’re found in violation, we’ll all be paying astronomical penalties.”

  He leans in so close to me now, the sprouts of new eyebrow follicles are visible from where they’ve been previously groomed. “Understood, Butterman.”

  I roll my chair to expand the distance between us. I don’t get the impression he’s being totally honest with me, but his desperation intrigues me enough to move forward with his plans.

  “Let me see what I can do.” I reposition my seat and focus on-screen.

  “You said there were tricks of the trade. What’d you mean by that?”

  “We’ll discuss that later. First things first.”

  Building the new time travel itinerary, I attach the perfect time port. NYC Broadway Port is a popular one. I crunch some numbers on-screen, then wait a few seconds for a tentative travel plan.

  “Okay, so looks like I can offer you a full twelve-hour time window once you arrive in Manhattan on April 12, 2068. That means you should be able to get to your old apartment and obtain the information you’re looking for, before getting back to the port for an on-time departure and return here.”

  “Great, when can we leave?”

  “Um, maybe you should take it slow first, Golden Boy,” I say. “You still have to read all the terms and conditions, and sign the contract.”

  He turns his slim nose up a little. He didn’t care for the nickname, I take it. “Stream it to me, then. We can leave later today.”

  I flash him a you-must-be-outta-your-mind look, then go over the port programs again for availability. “So far, next Monday’s looking pretty good. I can hold the space for you with a valid currency card.”

  “Next Monday?” His face tightens. “That’s almost a week away. I need to go sooner.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s kind of a bad time right now. We’ve already got someone booked for Thursday and we’re in the middle of a DOT protocol review. My parents won’t be available til later in the week.”

  “What the hell’s a DOT review?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” I assure him. “Means they’re making sure we follow regulations.”

  Tristan paces in front of me, squeezing his hands together, then stops, turns toward me. “I’ll pay double if you get me out today.”

  “There’s no way.” I snicker. “And you don’t even know the cost yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, I can pay it.” His eyes plead with mine. “P
lease.”

  “Why is this so important now? The past is still the past whether you leave today or next week. Won’t change anything over the next few days.”

  He catches me off guard when he moves around the front of my desk, sets down his espresso and swivels my chair toward him. My skirt scrunches halfway up my fishnet thighs. I tug it down, baffled by the crazed look on his face.

  “You don’t understand.” His voice has a sharp edge to it. “It has to be now, Bianca.”

  I swallow hard at the sound of my name coming from his lips. It feels odd and comforting at the same time, like icy wind on sunburnt skin. “Why?” I ask again.

  He lays a hand on my lower arm. Okay, so I’m not a touchy-feely kinda person at all, and I prefer plenty of personal space, but I have to admit, his gesture has a certain power effect that has my full attention.

  “Because at any given moment I could relapse, go back to being an addict. I need something to believe in, and I need it now. Music has to be my fix, and I was at my creative height on April 12, 2068.” His voice is low, but so determined. “I need to get that back.”

  My breath hitching, I swivel away from him, breaking his touch from my arm and whatever spell he was starting to cast. Compelled by his resolve, but still playing it cool, I enter new details on-screen to see if I can schedule a port link for tomorrow. “I’ll have to speak to my parents, and I can’t make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do. Tomorrow would be the soonest, though. Anything before then is impossible.”

  Tristan sighs. “Okay. Tomorrow. That can work.” He lays a hand on my arm again, which makes me stop typing and look up. “I know it may not seem like a big deal to you, but it means a lot to me. I was told I could trust your agency, that’s why I’m here.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it already. I nod, return my gaze on-screen, even though he’s still touching me.

  With a light squeeze, he adds, “Thank you,” and removes his hand from my arm.

  “Don’t thank me yet. Convincing my parents won’t be easy. Not likely either of them can leave while the DOT is here. And you can’t go without a trip guide. However, if they’re within legal rights, and the fare still turns a decent profit, they may be willing to—”