Flirtinis with Flappers (13 page)

Besides—
my brain reminded me as we cautiously tiptoed through the yard and toward the darkened house
—this was just sex in a stranger's
house. Not like what you went through last year. What's the worst that could happen?

We got to the house, and Sam put a finger to his luscious lips, reminding me both to be quiet and how much I wanted to continue kissing him. Then he walked over to a bottom-story window and hooked his hands underneath the sill. The window lifted easily.

"What about—?"
I started, then stopped. No ADT alarm system to worry about in the twenties. "Uh, never mind."

Sam raised the window and gestured me toward it. "After you, milady," he said with a mock bow. I giggled and grabbed onto the base of the window as I attempted to climb in. Not so easy with a short dress on, but I was pretty sure Sam would be seeing the undergarments I was exposing very shortly anyway, so what did it really matter? He gave me a little boost, his hands on my bottom, and I rejoiced in the fact that those hands would soon be ravaging my body once again.

The house was pitch black, and I wasn't sure at first which room I'd entered. But I managed to quash the rising fear of the dark rather quickly by thinking about what I was about to do in this particular darkness. There was nothing to fear here. Just a man who wanted me as badly as I wanted him.

I heard a thump as Sam came through the window and a millisecond later felt his hands grasp my shoulders and push me roughly backward. With a cry of surprise, I lost my balance, thankfully falling back on a bed. Without pause, Sam climbed on top of me, clamping his mouth over my own. God, he felt so good. God, it'd been so long.

"I want you," I whispered in his ear.

The instant the words left my lips, I regretted them. That was probably way too forward for a twenties girl to say. I lifted my head to look at him. To gauge his reaction.

He grinned, and for a moment, I was relieved. But then he lifted his hand, his index and middle finger forming bunny ears and wagging up and down twice.

The sign of "ditto."

A sign I knew all too well. One that, at this very moment, nearly had the power to shut down my heart. To spin my world off its axis.

Oh. My
God.

"Ditto," he said.

Oh no.

It was a gesture I knew, all right.

A gesture jokingly made by one man and one man only.

Nick "The Prick" Fitzgerald.

No, no, no!

It had been our private joke ever since we'd watched that old movie
Ghost
on DVD and something he knew drove me crazy. I'd say something loving, something sweet, expecting him to say something equally as endearing back. Instead he'd say "ditto" or wag his fingers. I'd usually playfully swat him in response.

This time I kneed him in the groin.

"Argh!"
he cried. "What did you do that for?"

But I was already off the bed. Desperately clinging to the shreds of my dress, I stumbled out of the window and ran through the woods, as fast as Louise's legs would carry me. I could hear Sam calling after me, calling after Louise, but I didn't turn around.

Turn
around and he may break your heart.

Of course, he may break your heart anyway.

I ran. My heart pounded. Tears streamed from my eyes.

I couldn't believe it. Why hadn't I seen it from the beginning? It all seemed so obvious now.

Sam was Nick.

Nick was Sam.

And I'd almost hooked up with him.

I'd almost enjoyed hooking up with him.

I didn't know what was worse: that I'd almost had sex with Nick-slash-Sam, or that Nick-slash-Sam had almost had sex with Louise-slash-me. Of course he had no idea that Louise-slash-me was really me, which meant that he really liked Louise. That he was more than over me and ready to decade-jump just to be with another woman.

Okay, fine, sure, if you wanted to be technical, it was I who broke up with him. And it had been a year ago. And he had every right to be dating other people.

But I didn't want to be technical. I wanted to be completely irrational and cry my eyes out. 'Cause it hurt. It hurt to know that another woman could turn Nick on as I used to.

Okay, fine, so that "other woman" was technically still me but not really. I mean, sort of.

This was so confusing.

All the moments of making love to him crashed back in waves of unwelcome memories. The moments of tender caresses, the times of nearly violent passion, even the quickies that meant nothing at the time but I would die to have the chance to experience again. Every encounter was special. Priceless. A celebration of our love for one another.

And now he'd rather screw a complete stranger.

Another choking sob wrenched from my throat. I guess I'd somehow always entertained the notion that he was up there, anchoring the news in Los Angeles, desperately sad and wishing on first stars and penny fountains that I would come back to him someday. I'd wanted to imagine that he felt incomplete without me by his side and wished to God I would change my mind. That I'd forgive him. I wanted to imagine him thinking that he would always hold a torch for me and could never really love again.

Evidently, not so much.

When we first broke up, he'd begged me to come back to him. He'd sent flowers. He'd even written poetry. Macho, self-assured, alpha reporter Nick had actually written beautiful verse, dedicated to me. I remember his brother delivering it to my door, begging me to give Nick another chance. But I'd been too angry. I was in no mood to hear explanations and excuses. There was no way he could justify what he'd done.

Yes. I'd been stubborn. Angry. Enraged. Full of hate. I'd blamed him for all I'd suffered while captured by those Iraqis. Blamed him for the scars I saw in the mirror each day, both physical and emotional. I'd thought I was going to die in that prison. All because of him and that stupid chick.

Have you seen Nick Fitzgerald?
I remembered asking every new prisoner during my month of incarceration—desperate for information, missing him, longing for him, holding out hope that he was doing everything he could to rescue me.

The reporter? Yeah, sure. At the bars. With some Iraqi girl,
they'd all reply.

Yes, while I was in prison. In the dark. Suffering, scared. During all this, Nick, it seemed, had found a new girlfriend with whom to carouse. He had probably met her earlier. She was probably the reason he hadn't shown up to the hotel bar that day. The day I got caught, he'd been too busy banging his new girlfriend.

The knowledge hurt worse than any of the knives. The gunshot wound. Had they asked me that day if I wanted to die, I would have gladly said yes.

You know, up until now, I'd really thought I was doing pretty well moving on with things. I thought I'd healed. Rebuilt my pathetic new life. But seeing Nick, even in the body of Sam, made it all come rushing back. My heart felt squeezed in a vise. My painful breath stuck behind a lump in my throat. My stomach hurt. My head hurt. I could quite possibly drown in the amount of tears my eyes were currently shedding.

This sucked.

Of
course
Sam was really Nick. It made perfect sense. That was why I was so attracted to him. Why I felt that instant ease kissing him. Touching him. Wanting him. And here I'd thought I was being pretty good—finally able to move on and feel attraction for a man other than Nick.

Machine Gun was right. I really was a Dumb Dora.

God, what was I going to do now? I still had to save the world, even if I couldn't save my heart. And that meant I had to hang out with Nick-slash-Sam some more. I had to convince him not to change history. But how could I do that? Just looking at him was going to make me fall apart.

No, Dora, you're stronger than that. You can do this.

I swallowed hard, shook my head, and brushed the tears from my eyes. Dora the Explorer was okay. I could do this. Just because Nick broke my heart didn't mean I was going to stand around and let him break the rest of the world.

"Louise! What's wrong?"

I looked up to see Daisy flying at me, a distraught look on her already pancaked-white, bow-lipped face. Great. The last thing I needed right now was for someone to see me in a torn dress, bawling my eyes out in the middle of the woods, alone. How had she found me out here? And how was I going to explain myself now that she had?

Don't mind me, I just almost accidentally screwed my ex-boyfriend. No, of course I didn't recognize him right away. He's hiding in someone else's body, you know.

"Nothing. I'm fine," I said, in a vain attempt to assure her that everything was hunky-dory. Not that I thought for one second she'd buy my act. Mainly because while the raccoon-eye motif may have looked cool when applied hours earlier, now, after a near-sex experience and a massive crying jag, I probably resembled Tim Burton's Corpse Bride.

Daisy shook her head, then grabbed me by the hand, pulling me onto my feet. She wrapped an arm around my waist and led me down the path. She didn't speak until we came to a small caretaker's cottage.

"It's too cold out here," she said by way of explanation as she pushed open the door and led me inside.

I shivered as I stepped over the threshold. In my grief, my body had hardly registered the chill. Now it hit me full force, making my head hurt and bones ache.

I watched dully as Daisy grabbed a log and tossed it into the fireplace. She crumbled up a few newspapers and lit a match. Soon, smoke tunneled up the chimney from the small but comforting fire.

"Louise, sit down. Take a load off," she scolded, walking back over to me and leading me to the couch. I followed, seeming to have no will of my own. Was this what shock felt like? Was I in actual shock over seeing Nick again?

Daisy sat down beside me, grabbing my hands in her own, much warmer ones. "Okay, now tell me what happened, Louise. You're shaking, and I know it's not just 'cause you're cold. Did a fella mess you up or somethin'? Was it that guy Sam? I told you he was no good. You need to stay away from him. I told you that."

I shook my head, unable to speak. She was more right than she
could
ever know. No-good Sam/Nick. I should have stayed away. Far, far away. Like back in the twenty-first century far away. Maybe even twenty-first-century Tibet far.

Daisy reached up to brush a lock of hair from my eyes, still studying my tear-blotched face. "Louise, I keep telling you. You don't need to be hanging around some guy who'd rough you up like this." She rummaged through her beaded purse, pulled out an embroidered handkerchief, and handed it to me. "You're too good for this life. Me, well, maybe I deserve it. I don't know. But you…" She shook her head. "I saw you on stage tonight. You were terrif. Really terrif. I'm sure Don thought you were the cat's pajamas. Why, I bet he's already got you cast in his next picture. You'll be a star, Louise. A real star."

I smiled through my tears. "You're sweet," I told her. And I meant it. Louise was lucky to have such a supportive friend. Even if she was a chain-smoking, tough-talking flapper who didn't get
The Great Gatsby.

Daisy laughed. "Just don't tell anyone," she said, wrinkling her button nose. "Would ruin my reputation."

"Your secret is safe with me."

We laughed for a moment, then fell silent. The flames licked at the logs, and the fire crackled. In the distance you could still hear the tinny sounds of jazz from the party, which evidently was raging without us. I wondered if Nick had gone back to search for me. To find out why I'd reacted the way I had. Or maybe the kick to the groin was enough to dissuade him from future advances. That wouldn't be a bad thing, I guessed.

I released a long sigh. How could I have gotten myself into that situation to begin with? How had I let my hormones lead me by the nose instead of concentrating on my mission? Now I had to convince a guy who not only hated me in the twenty-first century but was not my biggest fan in the twentieth either, not to change history.

It seemed somewhat impossible.

"Are you ready to tell me what happened?" Daisy asked in a comforting tone. She really was a good friend. Louise was lucky to have her.

I shrugged. "It doesn't matter. It's really no big deal."

Daisy opened her mouth, as if to say something, then closed it again. After pausing for a moment, she said, "Can I tell you a story then?"

"Okay. Sure," I said, shifting myself to a more comfortable position on the sofa. After all, it was better to let her ramble on than to field more questions about how I'd ended up in the woods. "What about?"

"My mother," Daisy said, motioning for me to push over to make room for her petite frame. She sat down beside me. "God rest her soul."

I raised an eyebrow. This should be interesting.

"We grew up in the slums of Chicago. My father never had a proper job. Ten kids and no food to feed 'em half the time. It was a lousy lot in life, for sure. But instead of my father trying to better himself, to get a real job or somethin', help out his family, he took it out on my mother." Daisy shook her head. "The poor woman put up with years of abuse from him. Dinner was cold? Bam—clock her in the head! That was his way. And yah know what? It was her own fault. She was as bad as him. 'Cause she didn't do nuthin' about it. Nuthin'. She just let that palooka use her as a human punching bag anytime he felt like it. He'd go out to the juice joint every night and come back corked and smelling like whores. Usually confessin' that he'd gambled away the week's grocery money again."

"Ugh," I said. I thought about my safe, suburban upbringing. My loving, gentle father who was still married to my sweet, church-going mother after thirty-five years. The caring and support and encouragement they gave me all through my childhood. I'd never wanted for a thing. I couldn't imagine what it'd be like to grow up as Daisy had. To have nothing. No one. To feel unsafe in your own home. No wonder she was bitter toward men.