Deja Who (11 page)

“A
w, man.”

“Breathe. It will be all right.” Leah was on her knees beside Archer, who was clutching his head in both hands. Cat, unconcerned, had stretched out on the now-unoccupied park bench, lying on her side like a large pinup model in a yellow and black bumblebee sweater (with black sweatpants) and watching Leah soothe him while she munched the last carrot. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just blurted it all out like—”

“Your mom killed you in another life? It fucking
murdered
you in another life?”

“Yes, but it's not so bad.” Leah tried for humor, not sure if it would work. “In this life she only killed my stage career. So, improvement. Right?” Nope. No response. A poor time for a joke, as she had suspected. She briefly wished she were better at
this sort of thing. “Listen, she's slightly less terrible in each incarnation, does that help?”

“No!”

“Uh, did you hear the one about the mother who killed so many family members reporters actually caught on and tipped off the . . .” Why couldn't she
stop
? She saw uncomfortable patients every day, people who couldn't bear what they were telling her or what she was telling him, and she rarely blinked.

But poor Archer just looked so anguished . . . and nauseated . . . like he would vomit and then burst into tears. Or burst into tears and then vomit. She could appreciate the sentiment while hoping he did neither.

“I'm going to throw up on my stab wounds.” Right: vomit,
then
cry.

“Terrible idea,” Cat offered from the bench. “You'd be looking at a nasty infection at the least. A pain in the ass.”

“And
you
.” Archer's head shot up. “You're so relaxed you're almost in a coma. Didn't you hear what Leah said? Did you doze off and miss the horrible horrible ending? She died puking and shitting her own blood, for God's sake, from arsenic-coated donuts! Darsenics! Or arnuts! Fed to her by
her mother
! This makes
Flowers in the Attic
look like
SpongeBob SquarePants
!”

“I don't know what either of those are,” Cat replied.

“You read
Flowers in the Attic?”
Leah had, of course. She read everything she could find about terrible mothers, starting with Medea and ending with Kris Jenner's latest biography.

“No, I saw the terrible movie. God, I'm gonna be sick.”

Astonished that he should care so much in such a short time about a dead preteen he had never met, Leah drew back. He
was so aggravated he didn't notice. And Cat, as was her way, was unmoved. It was why they were friends. “Bad shit happens. What have we been sayin'? There's nothing to be done about it now. You're just a kiddo. You'll get it eventually.”

“Ugh, you're awful, I hate you.” Archer was hiding his face again and out of nowhere Leah wondered how old he was. He seemed much younger than she was, and she hadn't been paying attention when he was filling out forms in the ER (mostly because of all the shouting). Twenty-three, maybe? Not more than twenty-four, surely. “But it's good you two are friends. You're her only friend, did you know?”

“Yup.” Cat raised an eyebrow at Leah. “Better take your boy home. He's had a tough week. Stabbed, exposed to your mom, exposed to
you
, stabbed . . .” The older woman got to her feet with a quick movement that made her seem smaller and younger. “Crazy Betty's saving a bed for me.”

“Sister Beatrice's name is not Cr—”

“See you tomorrow. Don't have to bring lunch. You're fun just for the company.” She poked a long finger at Archer, still on the ground. “
You
bring lunch.”

“It's a date,” he replied dryly, but he managed to smile up at Leah as she extended a hand to help him to his feet. He got up much quicker than she would have expected; his wounds were healing quickly.

“Come along, then.” It was almost impossible not to smile back at him, but she managed. “I'll take you home.”

And she did.

S
he walked with Archer up the sidewalk to his three-story brick house, tucked away in the tony Gold Coast area, the neighborhood so crowded with large lush trees you couldn't even see the house until you got close. She must have looked curious because he said, while digging for his keys, “I just rent the tower.”

“The tower?”

He leaned back and pointed. The third story jutted into a conical tower, big enough around that it was likely a small bedroom. Or a large bathroom. Or a large closet.
Why would they make the closet into a tower? Why am I thinking about towers? Does Archer go to sleep every night in a tower, like a prince in a fairy tale? What in God's name is happening to my life this week?

By now he'd unlocked the door and swung it wide. “Come in for a minute?”

She had to smile at his hopeful expression. What a sweet . . .
idiot. “I don't know,” she said demurely as she followed him inside. “Did you hide the pointy cutlery?”

“I'll risk it.” He shut the door for her and she found herself in a three-story living room, complete with blinding white walls and a floating staircase. The room seemed even larger because the only furnishing was a black sectional couch big enough to sleep a family of six, and a plasma-screen TV larger than her kitchen table. “Besides, you prob'ly wouldn't stab me ag— What?”

Leah was openmouthed. “You live
here
? But you're just a kid!”

He frowned and shook his head, messy bangs tumbling almost into his eyes. “I rent the tower, like I said, but I don't know for how long—my landlady's moving and the house is going up for sale. And I'm twenty-eight.”

I must stop gaping like a moron.
“You are not.”

He sighed. “Don't you remember what I yelled in the ER?”

“There was a lot of yelling,” she replied, swallowing fresh guilt.

“‘I've been stabbed seven times so far and I'm not even thirty, if this is what my twenties were like, I dread my thirties, blah-blah.' Do I have to fish out my driver's license?”

Seven times? In one life?
She actually thought about it while he groaned and started digging for his wallet. “No, no, I believe you,” she finally said, trying and failing to keep the uncertainty out of her voice.

“I'm flattered, I think.”

“I thought you were younger than me.”
Much younger
.

“I'm flattered, I think.”

“You seem so—” Immature. Goofy. Lackadaisical. “—younger than me.”

Archer laughed. “You're an old soul, Leah. Literally. Y'know, I hear that phrase all the time but I never really got it. Sounded like one of those things dumb people say when even they don't know what they're talking about. But everything you've been through—even the stuff you don't exactly remember, it's had an effect on the you of
now.
” He spread his hands like she was arresting him. “Of course I seem younger. I'm not trying to walk around with the weight of all my past mistakes smashing me down. As far as my brain's concerned, there's just one of me. God, how many of you are there?” He had moved closer and was looking down at her with a wondering smile. “Can you even see them all? Do you know?”

She shook her head. Five, ten, a dozen, thirty, a hundred, a thousand. Most doomed to die young, doomed to end badly, or begin badly, or get bad in the middle and stupefyingly dull at the end until death was a relief, and why wasn't she more worried about that? No, what she worried about were the ethical considerations of jumping the bones of someone she'd stabbed repeatedly (was twice “repeatedly”?). And beyond the bone-jumping, ethical or otherwise, was she actually entertaining the thought of pursuing a relationship with the fresh-faced boy who was two years older than she was?

He can't see anything about himself, so you can't, either. You can't quantify him. He's an unknown factor and he is throwing you off because he is not someone who keeps happening and happening and happening to you.

The thought stirred something inside her.

Not her heart. Lower.

“I don't know how many of me there were,” she replied. Her
voice sounded, to her ears, too slow. Slurred, almost. Yes, lower than her heart, much much lower. Ummmm . . . “Come here.”

“Are you okay? You look kind of . . . nnnffff.”

I am not considering pursuing a relationship. I merely want to bang him. Repeatedly.

W
eird day weird day weird day
weird goddamned day!

That was about all Archer had time for while Leah was backing him into the empty living room, snogging him

(mental note: stop watching so much BBC)

like she was—ha, ha!—gonna get murdered tomorrow. Or something. One of Elaine's lines from
Seinfeld

(God, is that why I'm crushing so hard on Leah? she reminds me of a dour Elaine? God, what if she dances as horribly as Elaine does, the whole “full body dry heave set to music” thing? that would be so hot)

flashed through his brain: “We made out like our plane was going down!” Yep. That's just how Leah was kissing him. Like she wanted to eat him while also pushing him away as she vigorously boned him and then never called him again on her way to get murdered.

Not cool. He would put a stop to this right now.

Right now.

Any minute now. He would. It would allll be stopped.

Thoroughly stopped. Stopped dead. Completely, utterly stopped.

“Ouch!”

“I'm so sorry. Here, I'll kiss the stab wounds I inflicted and make them all better.”

“You hear yourself, right?” Right. Although, now that he thought about it, the thought of Leah's lips on his wound . . . and then his other wound . . . and then moving lower

(oh please, God, let her move lower)

was disturbingly erotic. He managed to pull back and got a heart-stopping, dick-stiffening look at Leah's lovely face and glittering eyes, her dark hair mussed and flyaway, her mouth a rosy bruise from kissing. “Okay, we have to . . . mmm . . . settle down now. Ah!” She'd pounced on him at “okay.” “Why wouldn't you listen to the rest of that sentence?” He extricated himself again—Leah was strong for her size, all the murder-prevention training, no doubt—but it took longer this time because his blood was bypassing his arms and heading for his dick. “And just . . . y'know . . . have a discussion. About something.”

“I cannot think of anything I wish to do less,” she murmured in his ear, and then bit his earlobe. Which, Archer had just discovered, had a line straight to his dick. Who knew? Someone should do a study. Write a paper. Something. “I'm on the pill, and I saw your labs at the hospital. You're fresh as a daisy, STD-wise.”

“Uh . . .” Boundaries? Wait, he could go in bare? Go in Leah
bare
? Their first time and any other time? No, no. Boundaries. Bare boundaries. Wait. What was he worried about again?

“I'd like to love you in your tower, so bring me there.”

Huh. That was sort of sweet and romantic. And the tower was pretty great. And he
did
want to be a good host. Not showing her the tower would be rude. Think how shamed his mom would be if she found out about his lack of etiquette.

(Do not think about Mom right now.)

“No. Here.” He grabbed her wrists and sort of pulled her after him as he backed across the room to the couch. “We need to sit here and—”

“Good idea. I like sectionals.” She pounced and once again his hands were full of Leah, only this time she'd knocked him prone which made it sooooo much harder

(that's what she said)

(stop that! idiot!)

to fend her off. Not that he was one hundred percent on board with fending her off. Her lovely, apple-sized breasts were mashed against his chest, her lips were tracing the line of his jaw, finding the stubble and running her tongue over it, one of her knees was between his thighs, spreading his legs

(unhand me, you brute!)

and she was holding one of his wrists and stroking a thumb across his pulse point, which caused said pulse to ramp up at least twenty beats. He could feel something hard pressing against his chest,

(is that a balisong knife in your bra or are you just—cue punch line)

no, there were two of them, one in each cup, and he should be alarmed but wasn't, and really, what harm could come from letting her molest the bejeezus out of him? What possible harm other than accidental stab wounds from her bra knives?

“Gah,” he managed to say into her mouth. “Nnnff. Of all the nights to forget my rape whistle.”

That made her giggle and for a few seconds she just laughed and sort of shook against him. He took the chance and brought his arm up around her waist, raised his head, and kissed her gently on her soft, sweet mouth, and never had a closed-mouth kiss been so glorious.

“Okay,” she said, sitting up. On him, but he didn't mind. It did leave him well within pouncing range, though, so he couldn't have escaped those hands and that mouth when she decided to start up again. Which was wonderful. Bad! He meant bad. “What seems to be the problem? Do I have to go on a condom hunt?”

“Please stop distracting me with pictures in my head that are alarming and weird and devastatingly sexy,” he groaned. “Condom hunt. Would that be like a scavenger hunt? A sex scavenger hunt? Oh my God, someday can we have a sex scavenger hunt?”

“It's a date,” she said in a solemn tone, then spoiled the effect by snickering.

“God, you're gorgeous when you laugh.” He looked up at her and smiled, and hoped she wasn't troubled by the enthusiastic presence of Lieutenant Winky, who was currently trying to rip itself free of his jeans, most likely because she was sitting on him.

(Arrgghh yes that's it escape Lieutenant Winky fly be free you lucky bastard!)

He sat up and willed himself not to burst into horny tears at what he was slowing down. Lieutenant Winky would be furious with him. “Okay. Okay. Okay.” He shook his head to get clear. “Okay. God, you're so—I love your mouth and think we should no no
no
!” He sucked in a steadying breath. “First, you're the sexiest thing in the world and I am breaking my own heart by
putting a stop to this. Second, you're the sexiest thing in the world. Third, my penis is not a sleeping pill. Fourth, you've had a really emotional day and I don't want to be That Guy and take advantage when you're obviously vulnerable, and fifth, my status as life-blind might count as slumming for an Insighter, so—”

“Wait. What?”

“My penis is not a sleeping pill? That was the weirdest, so I'm betting that's what you zeroed in on.” Might be the life-blind thing, too, but no, he was betting it was the penis pill analogy.

She was scowling at him, which terrified him and also called up the urge to kiss the corner of her scowl. “Yes, that's the one.”

“Not that I have anything against comfort sex. I love it. Women are always crying when we . . . let me rephrase.”

“By all means, rephrase. Then you can explain what you meant about slumming. Then let's go back to discussing the sleeping pill qualities of your penis.”

“You leave Lieutenant Winky out of this.” She blinked slowly, like an owl, but (thank God!) said nothing. “And you keep those things in there, thank you very much,” he said, pointing at her chest. “No fair stabbing me with them.”

“Ah. What?”

“And I'm not saying you'd be into slumming. But you can't tell me the thought never even scraped the edge of your mind.”

“What, because I can't see your lives? That actually makes you much more attractive to me. Most people are so . . .” She shivered. “Crowded. In their minds. All those past regrets and deaths piling on top of each other in their brains . . . no wonder some of them go crazy. Poor things, they deserve better than me.”

“Jeez, don't say that.” He was honestly horrified that she had
such a crap opinion of her skills. “And there aren't better than you.”

He hoped she'd smile and she did, but it was small and sickly. “That's their bad luck, and mine. But getting back to you, I don't know if blind is the right word. I have a theory . . . never mind, it's boring. But you're not boring, which is wonderful.”

He snorted, disbelieving. It wasn't especially pleasant, but he knew many Insighters saw the life-blind as developmentally disabled.
You can't do what billions of people can? What else is wrong with you, you pathetic freak?

“All that aside, I don't want to be the thing you use to distract yourself from getting murdered. And I won't tolerate a one-night stand with you.”

“Won't . . . tolerate?”

He checked the immediate area for knives. All clear. If she went for her bra, he was a dead man. “I'm too greedy,” he said simply. “I want to be more than that to you. So we're gonna slow down and we're gonna talk, and then I'm going to walk you to the door like a gentleman, and then I'm going to go upstairs and take a long shower so I can cry and masturbate in peace.”

The pissy look on her face vanished and she cracked up. “Really? You are? That's . . . ah, God.”

“Yeah. Stop l-laughing.” He stuttered the “l” because he was starting to lose it, too.
Did I really just tell that to my future sweetie please God let her be my future sweetie . . . “
Not that I'm ruling out casual encounters in general, I just want more with you. Would you honestly be okay with scenarios where we bang so hard and so well you stumble home after pulling the tattered remnants of your clothes back on and I spend the next three days drinking cans of Ensure? Don't answer that. That was a trick question.”

All at once, he wanted to stock a supply of Ensure.

“I've never met anyone like you. You're so . . .” She gestured to the air as if she could pull down the word she wanted. “. . . uncluttered. Is it nice?”

“Being uncluttered? And I'm ignoring the condescension in your tone, missy.” He was sitting up, ignoring the sullen throb from his pissed-off balls. They would, he knew, make him pay. They'd done it before. “Next you'll pat me on the head and call me a poor baby.”

“But is it?”

“Sorry, my brain is missing a ton of blood right now and it'll be another couple of minutes before it catches up. What was the question?”

“Not being afraid all the time.” She had a strange look on her face, part wistful and part “I don't really care I'm just making polite conversation until we can kiss again.” “Is it nice?”

(Boom that's it my heart just blew up oh Leah oh shit oh you oh oh oh)

“I'm going to help you,” he said, and Leah's gaze dropped and she couldn't look at him as he continued. “We'll fix this.”

“Nothing to fix.” Now she was standing—yikes, she could move like a cat when she wanted. Standing and, yep, moving for the front door. “You were right. This was a terrible idea.”

“
Now
,” he yelped, scrambling after her. “It's a terrible idea now. Later, it's gonna be the opposite of a terrible idea. I'll get some Ensure and it'll be a wonderful terrific idea. Just not now.”

She shrugged, one hand reaching for the doorknob. “Sorry to haul you into my nonsense.”

He blinked at the odd word choice.
Nonsense? That's her mother talking.

“It was very nice meeting you.”

No! Stop! Tilt! Abort!

“Ow!” He shrieked it so loud she whipped around at once. “My wound! Wounds, I mean! They're burning up and I feel all stabby inside! It's a fever from an infection and ow-ow-owie! You can't leave me in mortal agony argh the agony is overwhelming ow-ow!”

She rolled her eyes but, thank God, let go of the door. “Ye gods, Archer. That's awful. Do not quit the day job.” Pause. “What
is
the day job, besides stalking me, which we have agreed you shall no longer do?”

“You don't have the kind of time we'd need for me to explain. Right now, I'm a professional housesitter. It's how I ended up living here. The pain,” he groaned. “It's washing everything away, including the ability to let you leave. And also, your breasts are like apples, did you know?”

“I'd like to have just one conversation with you that isn't surreal,” she grumped. Then, “Apples? Like . . .” She glanced down at herself. “Crab apples?”

“No, more like Golden Delicious. Or Honeycrisp. You're a hammerhead shark with luscious Honeycrisp boobs, God, you are soooo
hot
.”

Leah, meanwhile, had started laughing so hard she had to lean against the door. She'd self-consciously crossed her arms across her chest, which only drew his attention to the Honeycrisp goodies. She saw him looking and laughed harder, finally staggering away from the door. She reached for him, curled a hand around the nape of his neck, and drew him in for a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Oh, Archer,” she managed between snorts. “Never, ever change.”

“I want to see you tomorrow,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets so he wouldn't grab her, toss her on the couch, and go bobbing for apples. “And the day after. And the day after-after.”

“Fine. I'm too tired and emotionally traumatized and giddy to say no to you. Honeycrisp apples. Christ.” She went back to the door, opened it, and headed out into the night. “Yes, all right. I'll see you tomorrow. Assuming, of course, I don't get murdered tonight.”

“Don't you
dare
,” he said, appalled. “That'll screw up all my plans for you.” He heard how that sounded and groaned inwardly, but luckily Leah just found it funnier. Even after the door was closed behind her, he could still hear her giggles. It was a sound he planned on hearing, off and on, for the rest of his life.

“Aw, nuts,” he said to the air. “We didn't set up a time or anything.”

Details. He'd see her again. She ought to count on it, since he was.