Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series Page 2

  Tristan initiates the real-time video beneath the GIF and actual footage plays of him and I making out poolside—the same encounter that happened only minutes earlier, when my body was buzzing with desire—instantly streamed to Web broadcasting.

  Tears burn the backs of my eyes. “This is so not right.”

  Tristan closes the site down, tosses his device to the table. “It sucks, I know. But try to ignore it. They’re looking for a rise. These smut sites get off on provoking celebrities.” He scans the area again, gaze wandering up and down.

  “How can you be so indifferent?” I say. “This just happened.

  They’re watching us. Right now, right here.”

  He glares at me. “I agree it’s wrong as hell, but it’s not like I have any control over it. This is my life, Butterman. Privacy is a commodity celebrities like me go without. Thought you understood that.”

  I don’t know what to say. I want to yell, stomp my foot. How could he have compromised me like this? I know it isn’t his fault, but if it’s an everyday reality, why wasn’t he on his toes? Why did we even leave the safety of his house to come out here?

  “Bee? Are you there?” Kayla’s voice calls over my device screen.

  I hold it up, meeting her eyes. “I gotta go. Thanks for telling me.”

  “The Teen-Scene and Gossip-Guru chat rooms are already blowing up,” she says, then pauses. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but … Geez, I hate this. I know how long you’ve been waiting for this day, but …”

  “Kayla, just tell me.”

  She makes a sour face, her pointed little nose wrinkling. “They’re saying you’re Tristan’s new pusher. Your parent’s agency is all over the forums. They’re making it sound like, I dunno, you’re somehow in cahoots with illegal transactions. It’s BS, all of it. But, it’s getting ugly.”

  My eyelids fall closed. “Tell me you’re kidding, Kay. Please.”

  “I wish,” she says. “People are questioning everything from what kind of business your parents run, to previous violations. Some big name reporters are chiming in too—they’re calling it something like, the biggest scandal since regulated time travel. A perfect crime combination.”

  “Holy hell, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Kayla lets out an exasperated sigh. “I dunno, some crap about time-traveling junkheads cheating the system, erasing your sins by tampering with timelines.”

  My brain is reeling and casting so many hopeless thoughts right now, like a fisherman in the dark without a lure. How can they know about the Rewrite? They can’t. They don’t. They’re just gossiping. Get a grip, Bianca. That’s what gossip sites do, make stuff up.

  I inhale, long and slow. “Do my parents know?”

  Kayla shakes her head. “Not since I checked last, but who knows now. I’ll call them.”

  My shoulders slacken the tiniest bit. “No, don’t. I need to be the one to tell them.”

  Not that I want them to know, but I have a feeling it could be worse if they hear it from somewhere else. I cringe. Mom and Dad are clueless when it comes to celebrity gossip and scandal. They have no idea how slanderous and ruthless people can be. Everyone with a social media account is a reporter without a code of ethics. They blast rumors all over the interwebs the second they hear it, regardless of whom it hurts or whether or not it’s true.

  Mom and Dad don’t deserve this. It’s all my fault.

  Tristan snatches my device from my hands. “Thank you, Kayla. She’ll get back to you.” He disconnects, hands it back to me. “Enough, okay? It’ll only get you pissed and there’s no way to win. Trust me, I know. These things are better left ignored.”

  I gawk at him like he’s got antlers growing out of his skull. “It’s my family’s livelihood. How am I supposed to ignore that? Our family business is being dragged through the mud, thanks to me.”

  “Getting all bent outta shape is not the way to deal with it. Trust me, my agent is a genius when it comes to damage control.” Tristan lays a hand on my shoulder, rubbing gently. “We’ll use our heads and prove the bastards wrong. Just need to figure out some kind of comeback, prove your agency’s competency.”

  “Easy for you to say.” I shrug my shoulder away from his touch. “Once the Department of Transportation gets wind of this mess they’ll be all over our operation again, which means my Induction Day is as good as never.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Tristan, they’re already trying to regulate leisure time trips. My Induction destination breaks commercial time travel regulation. I’m never gonna get to Titanic, thanks to this—thanks to you.”

  He stares at me a few seconds and all at once a spurt of guilt rises from my guts. I’m being selfish. Tristan’s name is being dragged through the mud too, and I have no right to blame him for all of this.

  I bow my head, fidget with a sequin on the seam of my shift-dress. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

  He moves in, rests his chin on top of my head. “I know. This is all new to you. But there’s plenty of time to fix it, make it right.”

  I clutch the small of his back, sighing into his chest. “Looks like my trip just got cut short due to damage control.”

  He pulls back, half-smiling so the creases around his lips accent his face with maturity. “Guess that means you won’t make the Toronto Music-fest with me then.”

  I feel my eyes widen. The Toronto Music-fest? Only the biggest music event of the decade, that every musician all over the world bids for a slot in? “You want me to go with you?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, why not? I mean, I was gonna surprise you with it. It’s not til next month, but sounds like things just got complicated. I know what your Induction Day means to you.”

  “Well, yeah.” I scoff. “I’ve waited my entire life for it.”

  Before the Timeline Rewrite last month, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see the day my Induction became a reality, and me, an official Butterman Time Traveler on the family tree of scientists. Postponing it would be like postponing Christmas, or graduation. But now with all this, maybe it’s the right thing to do. The Toronto Music-fest would be a nice distraction.

  I fall back onto the lounger, letting out a sigh. “I don’t know what to do …”

  A faint grinding buzz snatches my attention to the air above me—unnatural and mechanical, not the perfect harmony of nature’s design. “What’s that sound?”

  Tristan notices it now, his senses seemingly on full alert mode as he halts mid-step and scans the area. “Don’t move.”

  The perfunctory buzz whirrs louder now with a hitch every half second.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I ask, my gaze darting about but unable to pinpoint the source.

  “Shhh …” Tristan inches to the right, as if tracking something in flight. He freezes for an instant, then swats at the sky and snaps his hand into a fist.

  It happens so fast, I have to blink a few times and refocus on him. He’s already at the indoor gazebo at the corner of the patio, motioning me to follow him.

  Inside the octagonal enclosure, Tristan fixes his hand flat on the arm of the overstuffed sofa and presses down. There’s a little crunching sound, and when he removes his hand, the remains of what must be a microdrone lies mangled on the surface.

  I’ve never seen one up close before, so I examine its housefly-sized body and mechanical camera head. Hard to believe so much grief can come from such a tiny device.

  “Where’d this one come from?” I ask, still studying it.

  “Who knows. Most are untraceable by design. Guess we’ll find out once this episode goes live. I’ve never heard one so clearly before. Must’ve been broken already. Maybe we got lucky and the camera malfunctioned too.”

  Okay, so I don’t freak out easily, but this zero privacy existence is off my freak-o-meter scale. I can’t function like this. I’ve got a business to help run, and an Induction Day to finally experience. Me all over the media is not on the a
genda. Ever.

  And this is Tristan’s norm. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter Two

  I kick the comforter from my legs, sit up straight. My hair is damp with sweat, and it makes me shiver. I check the clock. 4AM PST. Figures. I finally fall asleep and I have a stress dream. Ever since I teleported last month—or T-cubed as Evangeline would say—my dreams have been dark, dreary. Doesn’t help that my internal body clock is totally off.

  Taking a deep breath, I sink back into the oval-shaped mattress. It’s a perfect combination of squishy-firmness. Tristan definitely spared no expense with guest room furnishings. This might be the most comfortable bed I’ve ever been in. And of course I can’t sleep. Mom would say it’s anxiety. But I can’t help wondering if the T-cube really has screwed me up in some way. Evangeline said it could without proper mind conditioning afterward, but it was only one time. Why would she suggest it if it wasn’t safe?

  I let my hand trail down my neck and chest, resting at my belly. It’s stirring in a strange way that almost feels good, as if, physically, my body knows Tristan’s just down the hall, asleep in his own bedroom, and I’m responding viscerally, beyond my control. Maybe I was too cold before. Maybe I should’ve joined him in his room when he invited me. I wanted to, but …

  Effin’ relationships. I know nothing about them—how to play this boy-wants-girl-but-girl-isn’t-quite-ready-to-go-all-the-way game. Will he get tired of waiting? Does he think I’m the biggest dweeb ever? I’ve latched onto my virginity for so long—not as some kind of purity vow, but because it’s been the one thing in my life that I can control. I have the final say on who gets what, and I like that.

  I let out a heavy sigh. Maybe I need a glass of water. Ha, maybe I need a cold shower.

  Hopping out of bed, I wrap my lavender Asian silk robe around me and head down the hallway toward the stairs. It’s dark, but the tiny track lighting along the floor of the hallway illuminates my path. This house is nothing like Tristan’s Manhattan penthouse. It’s homey, and well-tailored, in favor of garden-cottage style instead of urban-chic.

  Blue-hued light flickering from Tristan’s bedroom catches my attention and I peer inside his cracked doorway. The room is shaped like the letter P with a long stretch of balcony over the pool patio that’s obscured behind the far French doors. A king-sized mattress hovers to the right, draped in neutral toned bedding against an ornate, oblong headboard that extends up the wall and looks freshly carved from a tree trunk out of some fantasy story world. Oddly uncharacteristic, yet equally beguiling. Tristan had it custom-made, he told me last night, which reassures me there’s still a secret part of him tucked away that he hasn’t yet shared with me.

  To the left of the room, Tristan’s slouched over an oversized mahogany desk that looks like a captain’s command helm, and staring at the holo-screen projected into a panel above him. Motion blinks on-screen, but it’s silent. I find the contrast of modern tech and cozy cottage comforting. So much like my own home in Alaska.

  Moving closer, I see his wireless cone-buds fixed over his ears. He doesn’t even hear me approach. He’s captivated by what looks like a concert on-screen, his hands moving virtual levers, obviously controlling the sound in some way, although I don’t hear a thing.

  I press my hand on his shoulder and he jumps, turns.

  “Can’t sleep either?” I ask.

  He grins and pops off his cone-buds, his eyes glassy and bloodshot. “No. What’s wrong? Not comfy enough?”

  “Too comfy, maybe. And lonely.” I pause, searching his face for a response then chickening out. Need to change the subject quickly. “I’m glad you got rid of the Manhattan place and kept this one. It’s way more homestyle.”

  He gives a little nod. “Yeah, that’s what my mom said too. She had this place decorated like she wanted. Gave her a thrill, you know, getting down with her inner Better Homes and Gardens side.” He chuckles. “Not really my thing, but it reminds me of her.”

  “You say it like she’s dead or something. Doesn’t she still live in L.A.?”

  He turns back to his screen, rubs his neck lightly, obviously uncomfortable with the subject. “San Diego. Don’t see her as much as I used to. Things got … patchy when I was using all the time.”

  “But she knows you’re clean now, right?”

  “Relationships don’t repair themselves over night,” he says quietly. “Learned that in rehab.”

  “Right.” I glance on-screen. “What’re you watching?”

  “Old concerts. Not even holographic they’re so ancient, but you should check some of these out. Sublime stuff.” He minimizes one screen, expands another with a gesture of his hand. “Been watching these 1990s bands perform—how they innovated their own sound of the decade … I’m telling you there’s a hidden magic here that needs revival in today’s pop culture.”

  Guitar music and singing swells from the hidden speakers now, filling the room as Tristan tinkers with the volume. It’s a primitive rock sound symbolic of its pre-millennial era. Heavy on electric guitar and scratchy voices, but different from the retro feel of Woodstock. Relentlessly unforgiving.

  “This show here is live in Seattle. Listen to this guy’s voice …”

  I indulge him for a few minutes, and it’s an interesting voice, but I don’t see the big deal. Tristan’s voice is crisper, more honest, and I’m amazed he doesn’t realize it. I glance at the way he’s nodding his head in time to the music, seemingly experiencing every note as if bathing him in ecstasy. I forgot how wrapped up he gets in music. Okay, so I do too, but I mean Tristan really loses himself in this retro stuff. I have to admit, it makes me smile all over again. There’s an undeniable cuteness to a superstar who gets off on long-dead performers. He becomes an artist in his zone. That’s what attracted me to him in the first place.

  “It’s good,” I say. “So is middle of the night your usual time for concert surfing?”

  His little smile fades, and he leans into his desk til his arms are flush against it. “Only when a deadline is hanging over my head.” He glances at me. “And it’s still tough sometimes, you know? I can’t hide from the cravings. Need something to take my mind off it.”

  “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit.”

  His brows arch, his lids heavy over his now smoldering gaze. “Maybe. Music does squash some urges … but it increases others.” He cocks a half smile that hides nothing of what he’s suggesting.

  My chest gives a little heave and I know my face is blushing. “Well, can’t you … chew gum or something?”

  He ignores my question as if I never said it out loud. “I was weak at Woodstock, but that doesn’t count. You know, when in Rome and all. But it did remind me how fun it is to be high.”

  “Um, Tristan, it does count. Just ‘cause you’re in a different time string doesn’t mean it’s not real. You used. And … so did I. But that won’t happen again.”

  “That’s because you’re a control freak.” He chuckles, casting a sideways glance my way. “But it’s cool. I could use one in my life about now.”

  “Obviously.” I rest my hand on his shoulder in an effort to show him some warmth, and that in a bizarre way, I understand. “If it’s any consolation, you haven’t done any heliox since I’ve known you, and that was your major offender. So in a way, you’re still clean … but weak.”

  He lowers the music to a soft background noise. “I haven’t done heliox in over four months. My rehab counselor would say it doesn’t matter. Substance abuse is substance abuse, and I can’t be around any of it.” His tone deflates, as if every ounce of self-confidence and pride has been sucked right out of it.

  I caress his bicep from beneath his black tee shirt, letting my fingers outline the shape of his muscle. “You’re not using now, that’s what’s important. I wouldn’t be here if you were.”

  He angles his body so his eyes meet mine. Serious and pointed. “But I’ve wanted to. Every night I can’t sleep, I’ve wanted
to.”

  I nod, clear my throat. I don’t know what to say, so I look away, watch the shaggy-haired singer on stage beside a retro-saxophone player. Then it hits me.

  “You have to get back to recording,” I announce. “Music is your fix, remember? That’s what you told me that first day we met.”

  “We met twice that day,” he says, a far off look on his face.

  I pause, think. We did. But I can only remember one of them.

  He lets out a little laugh. “The memory of it’s so crazy. Meeting present-you from this timeline, just before meeting past-you from a different one.”

  I shrug, like it’s not that big of deal, but I know it is. A day like that can boggle the mind forever, especially for someone not accustomed to time travel. I need to tell my dad about Tristan’s analog recall. It could be dangerous to his sanity.

  His fingers touch mine, his expression changing. “You weren’t too easy convincing that day either.”

  I’m used to a happy-go-lucky gleam in Tristan’s eyes and his superstar grin, but now he’s distant, contemplative in an oddly defeated way. Sends a chill across my skin. I don’t want to know too much about that day he met two different mes. I have enough mind-bending conundrums to deal with as it is, and my brain is still struggling from T-cubing.

  On impulse, I wedge myself into his lap, wrap my arms around his shoulders. “How are your new songs coming then?”

  “Not fast enough, or so my agent says.”

  I’m aware of his body in every way—the strength of his thigh, the warmth of his chest at my shoulder, the damp breathiness from his lips at my neck.

  I ignore the little somersault in my belly. “Fall is number four on the national billboard, what more does she want?”

  “More hits, that’s what she wants. The new production company she signed me with gave me til January to get out five more singles.” His jaw tenses and he rests it against my shoulder bone. “It’ll complete an album, but I can’t give them shit, you know? They’ve gotta be freakin’ sublime songs.”