Flirtinis with Flappers (22 page)

I wanted to protest. To hear more of the story. And I still had to talk to him about the whole waking-up-Bugs thing. Which, of course, was the whole reason I'd met up with him in the first place.

"But—"

Nick put a finger to my lips. "No buts," he said in a soft, teasing voice. "Sleep now, princess. We'll talk in the morning." He reached over and switched out the light and settled onto his side, back toward me.

I sighed. Sleep. As if I could sleep after that whole inadvertent confession. I wanted to jump up and do cartwheels. To laugh. To cry. To scream. To tie him to a chair and interrogate him further. I wanted to do all of that and more.

Because, for the first time since I was captured in Iraq, I was beginning to think I might be able to forgive him.

Maybe.

I woke up in his arms. Somehow during the night we'd shifted into one another, melting into each other's unconscious embrace, his heavy arm draped over me, and his body spooning me close. I could feel his slow heartbeat against my back, and his warm breath tickled my ear. He felt so good. So warm. So safe. I never wanted to move again. In fact, even if someone had told me they were serving Oreo cookie ice cream in the next room, I'd probably have stayed put. And Oreo cookie ice cream was my absolute favorite.

My thoughts drifted back to what he'd said the night before. Did he really care about me as much as he claimed? I didn't want to believe him, but at the same time, why would he lie? There was no reason, nothing to gain by telling Louise his true feelings. After all, he had no idea that I was inside her body. That he was actually confessing to the one person who really needed to know.

Was it true what he'd said? Had I been so angry so long for no reason? It still didn't explain everything. He never said why he didn't show up the day I was captured. Never mentioned the other woman who people saw him with while I languished in prison. But for some reason, his unintentional confession made me want to believe for the first time that there had to be some kind of rational explanation for everything that had happened, some piece of the puzzle that had fallen on the floor and been eaten by the dog. There had to be some missing link that I didn't know about and had refused to believe existed.

Could I have wasted this last year hating him? Wallowing in self-induced misery for no reason except my own stubbornness and inability to uncover the truth? Sticking to principles that were founded on incomplete or even bad information?

It was a lot to digest here and now, when I also had so much more on my mind. I still wasn't any closer to making sure history played out as it was supposed to. Stupid me, getting too drunk to accomplish my mission. The old Dora would have never allowed herself to do that.

That said, it had been a blast. Downing shots and dancing like we hadn't a care in the world—I couldn't remember the last time I felt so liberated. Not even when Nick and I were a couple. As he had described last night, back then I was too worried about my job and the casualties of war to let my hair down.

You know, for a girl living in someone else's body, I was beginning to feel very comfortable in my own skin.

Speaking of skin, I had an itch on my leg. I scrunched down to try and scratch it without moving too much, without waking the man beside me before I had a chance to work out what I was going to do. What I was going to say. But he shifted at my movement and rolled over onto his back. Nick always was a light sleeper. I mourned his closeness, his comforting touch, the second he turned away.

I listened for a moment, trying to determine if he was still asleep. But his deep, rhythmic breathing had subsided, and a moment later, he gave definitive proof by clearing his throat. He was awake. No more time to weigh my options, to plan. I'd just have to wing it.

I rolled onto my side, propping my head up with my elbow, looking down on him. He opened his beautiful almond-shaped eyes, blinking a couple of times, and then smiled up at me.

"Sorry," he said, his ears reddening at the edges in a way that could only be described as adorable. "I must have rolled over during the night." He scrubbed his face with his palm. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," I murmured, unable to resist reaching over to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes. The strands felt silky smooth and slightly damp. I studied his face. He really was handsome. And to know my Nick was inside—well, that made my heart soften all the more.

I had been so angry. So, so angry. I thought I was being strong. But maybe I was just being an idiot. And now, now I just wanted to let go. To collapse in his arms and soak in his strength. To allow myself to feel again. To be tender and not hard. To be sweet and not bitter. To be me. The me who had once allowed herself to love a man like Nick—a man who perhaps deserved that love after all.

"What?" he asked softly, his eyes flickering up to the ceiling, not able to meet mine. Gone was his outer bravado, and in its place was the Nick I remembered. The one behind closed doors that no one saw but me. He shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them, this time daring to look back at me. "What are you looking at?" he asked in a curious, almost little-boy voice.

I smiled. "You."

He chuckled. Pulling his arms out from under the covers, he wrapped them around me, pulling me down into a warm embrace.

"You're sweet, Louise," he said. "A really nice girl."

Hm. There sounded like there was a
but
in there.

"But?" I asked.

He patted me on the back and then gently pushed me away so he could sit up in bed. I sat up too, wondering what was bothering him. What he was going to say.

"You're beautiful. And you're fun. And you're fascinating," he told me. "And you remind me, as I said before, of my ex-girlfriend, which makes you all the more of a temptation." He raked a hand through his already tousled bed head. "But I can't do this. I can't start anything with you. I'm not ready." He stared across the room at the wall. "I'm still in love with Dora."

I stared at him, hardly daring to breathe. He was still in love with me? He'd give up his opportunity to sleep with Louise because he still felt loyal to me? After I'd discarded him and refused to hear his apology? After ignoring him and hating him for a year?

"I know it sounds stupid," he continued. "I mean, I know for a fact she hates my guts. After what happened in, uh, France, she'll never trust me again. We'll never get back together. I know that in my head, but in my heart…" He shrugged his shoulders. "In my heart I will always love that girl. And there's just no way I can move on and start something new until I reconcile those feelings. Hopefully, someday I'll be able to." He sighed. "But it's not going to happen anytime soon, that's for sure. And it'd be completely unfair of me to lead you on."

Was it possible for your heart to literally burst with love? At that moment it seemed likely. If only I had known the truth, how much Nick loved me this whole time. Why had I been such a moron?

Suddenly, I realized I had to tell him. I had to let him know the truth. That I was actually Dora. It might take him a moment to digest the information. In fact, he might completely freak out and be pissed off at me for not telling him earlier, but I had to take the chance. I had to.

"I've got something to tell you," I said, gathering up my courage. "This may seem weird and totally bizarre, but—"

Before I could spit out the words, machine gun fire erupted in the morning air.

"What the—?" Nick bolted out of bed with a start. He looked around the room, then at me. "Great. It sounds like they're in the building."

A sudden rap on the front door made me agree with him.

"Sam and Louise! We know you're in there," said a heavily accented Chicago voice on the other side. "Machine Gun wants to talk to you."

Talk, shmalk. Somehow, the mobster had found out that Sam and Louise had hooked up, and was warming up the executioner's chair. I was sure. I glanced over at Nick, whose eyes were wide with worry.

"I don't think he's really interested in talking, do you?" he asked quietly as he stuffed his feet in his shoes. Thank goodness we'd gone to bed in our clothes.

"Not likely," I replied, wishing for my own footwear. But I had taken off my boots in the living room, and I sure wasn't going to ask mobster man to hand them through the door.

Ugh. Why had I been so stupid, gotten wasted and ended up here at Sam-slash-Nick's apartment? Why'd I passed out and stayed the night? Now I'd really gone and screwed up history. Instead of being Machine Gun's alibi, Louise would be his victim. And what if he got caught and went to jail for her murder? What if the St. Valentine's Day Massacre was cancelled altogether 'cause the boss who planned it was arrested for killing his own girlfriend? Life, the universe, and everything would be changed forever.

Of course, I'd be dead, so it'd make little difference to me. At least, I assumed I'd be dead. I really should have asked those FBI guys what dying in Louise's body back in 1929 would do to Dora in present day. I guess I never really considered that I would find myself in a situation like this.

"I know you're in there," the voice said, sounding more than a little cheesed that we hadn't just swung open the door and greeted him with a rousing rendition of "Kumbaya
.
"
"I just riddled your landlady full of holes. You wanna be Swiss cheese too, then I suggest you keep stalling."

"Window," Nick instructed. "Quick."

I followed his pointing finger to the far side of the room, to a window that led out to the second-story fire escape. Together, we rushed over, Nick getting there first and wrapping his fingers around the frame to yank it upwards. Then he motioned for me to climb through.

"Always climbing through windows for you," I said with a laugh, not at all sure why I felt it okay to make jokes when I was about to get killed by a hail of machine gun bullets. Maybe I was learning to lighten up in the face of horrific situations.

"Less talking, more climbing," he scolded.

I started to scramble through the window. Stupid gangsters, interrupting my confession at the worst possible moment. Now I wasn't sure we'd live long enough for me to get the words out.

Boom!

All thoughts flew out of my head as an explosion suddenly rocked the apartment. The force of the blast threw me out the window and onto the fire escape. I landed with a sickening thud—face-first into wrought iron.

The force of the collision made me see spots, and for a moment, I thought I'd black out from the hit. But if I blacked out, I knew I'd probably be caught. Or killed. I fought with all my might to remain conscious.

I managed to latch onto the fire escape bars and pull myself up to a kneeling position. I glanced back at the window, fear pounding in my heart.

Had Nick made it out?

Thick black smoke puffed out the window in sooty plumes, hampering my view. I knew that smoke, that smell, that look all too well from my days back in Iraq. They'd set off some kind of grenade.

"Sam?" I cried out, not knowing what to do next. The fire escape swayed dangerously under my weight. The force of the explosion must have knocked it loose from the wall. One false move and it could collapse completely, throwing me down two stories onto the unforgiving pavement below.

"Sam?" I yelled again. Had he gotten hit by the grenade? Oh God, what if he was killed! Would that mean Nick was dead too?

I had to see. Placing one hand after the other, I crawled down the fire escape into the cloud of smoke. My lungs seized up from the dust and smoke, and I coughed my way blindly back down to the window. I knew I wouldn't last long sucking in this smoky air, but I had to make sure Nick was okay.

But a millisecond before I reached the window, the fire escape gave one last heaving groan and gave way, taking me with it. I crashed down into the alleyway, a big pile of garbage somewhat breaking my fall. Unfortunately, whoever had taken out the trash must have picked that day to throw out his Pet Rock collection or something, because those bags provided little cushion or relief from the hard pavement.

I was seeing stars left and right, but knew I couldn't black out here. Not directly under Nick's window, where the gangsters could see me. I spotted a lone doorway across the alley and started crawling toward it. My ankle panged in protest, and I hoped it wasn't broken.

I reached for the door handle, looking back toward the apartment building one more time—much like Lot's wife must have done before she turned into a pillar of salt. Smoke billowed through the broken window, obscuring any chance of spotting Nick. If he were even still alive. Could anyone survive that grenade attack? And if he had managed to survive, what would McGurn's men do to him once they found him?

I wanted to go back. To save him somehow, but I was just coherent enough to realize those kinds of heroics would only get me killed along with him. Better to hide and live to fight another day. At least, that's what my brain told me. My heart begged me to be much more irrational.

I managed to crawl through the doorway, pulling it shut behind me, then looked around. I was in a small, dusty storage room that looked like it hadn't been used in some time. I used my last reserves of strength to drag the heaviest box in front of the door, hoping that would convince McGurn's men I'd run away elsewhere.

Then I curled up in a pile of rags and let the darkness take me.

When I came to, I had no idea where I was or how I had gotten there. All I knew was my head hurt like crazy, and my body felt like it'd been run over by a tractor trailer.

I forced my sluggish brain backward, trying to remember where I was, what had happened. Then the events of the night before came raging back in a flood. Nick. McGurn's men. The grenade attack.

I sat up, shivering through my thin dress. The storage room I'd passed out in had no heat, and I had no coat or shoes. The walk home was going to be a lot of fun. But first, I had to find out what happened to Nick. If he was okay. If he'd somehow escaped.