All Fixed Up (29 page)

“Don't worry, we can wait. Go pee, hon. Hurry up now, before the pizza gets cold,” Devon said. He held up both hands, fingers crossed, nudging my brother with his shoulder until James did the same thing. “Bring the sticks back out here—we'll pop a cold one for you the second we see a minus sign.”

“But—” I said, darting help-me glances at Billy, who only shrugged an
I tried
back at me.

Well, crap. I supposed it wasn't really fair to expect them to leave before the reveal, not when they'd gone to the trouble of arranging the pizza party cover story for us.

“Fine. Who needs privacy?” I muttered.

Billy followed me into the restroom, like he had before. He didn't joke around with me this time, though, and I held my own sticks. He did, however, take each stick as I was done with it, quickly handing me the next one. (If you think starting and stopping a full bladder four times is easy, think again.) Eventually we had all four laid out on a thick stack of paper towels on the vanity counter (because
ew
), and the waiting began.

Billy took my hand and we stared in silence. After three minutes, all the tests were negative. I squeezed Billy's fingers. After five minutes—the longest any of the instructions said to wait—they all still showed a negative result.

We looked at each other tentatively, like we were both afraid to read what was in the other's eyes. Our smiles started at the same time, mirroring each other's, until both of us were laughing and crying, entwined in our relief.

And it
was
honest-to-God relief I was feeling. If a few of my tears were maybe due to a tiny, stubborn sense of loss, I wasn't going to dwell on it, because when have my emotions ever been simple? It was probably because of the fertility hormones, anyway.

A tentative knock on the door, followed by James's voice, brought us back to reality. “Ciel? Billy? Is everything okay?”

Billy and I pulled apart and wiped our faces with a hand towel. “Yeah, we're great!” I said, and opened the door. Billy held up all four sticks, fanned out like a poker hand.

“Hooray!” Devon said, and grabbed both of us, sandwiching himself between us. (Yeah, probably not the first time he'd been squeezed between a guy and a girl, but I tried not to think about that.) James patted our shoulders, his relief evident if more restrained.

“Where's my beer?” I said. Because, damn, I needed a drink.

*   *   *

A beer and three pieces of pepperoni pizza later (no anchovies), I was feeling pretty mellow. James had succeeded in dragging his boyfriend away, reminding him they both had to work the next morning. Billy and I were alone, sipping our dessert—fully caffeinated Irish coffee with double shots of whiskey. Because I
could.

“I suppose we should tell the spook,” he said, as if reading my mind. “Shall I call him, or would you rather do it?” Again, he had a neutral look. He hadn't done more than hold my hand since James and Devon left, apparently giving me some emotional space.

“I…” I cleared my throat. “I think I should do it,” I said, keeping my voice businesslike.

The truth was, I wished I could tell Mark in person, and alone, so I could thank him for everything he'd done for me the night before. For being there, for being the cushion that saved me from breaking when I crashed. To apologize for using him the way I had, and explain how I didn't know how I would have made it through without him.

How could I say any of that in front of Billy?

Billy looked at me thoughtfully, head cocked. Nodded. “I'll be in the bathroom. Can't buy beer, you know. You can only rent it,” he said.

Yeah, right. Like Billy didn't have the world's strongest bladder. But I was grateful for his tact.

“Good news,” I said as soon as Mark answered. There was a pause. I rushed to fill it. “The tests—four of them—were all negative. I'm not pregnant.”

“Good. Great. I'm happy for you, Howdy.” Another pause. “Listen, I have to run. Tell Billy I'll call him tomorrow. I think I might know a way to lure Loughlin out of the woodwork, but we can't do anything tonight.” All business again.

“Mark … thank you. For everything. You…” I lowered my voice. “You saved me.”

Then I said goodnight, hoping like hell he understood what I meant. He was a smart guy. I was pretty sure he must. Still, I cursed the lousy timing of everything in my life, starting with Dr. Phil's kidney stone. If I hadn't been on the job when her NASA doc administered the hormones, none of this would have happened. Barring that, if only I'd found out about the freaking hormones before I'd opened my stupid mouth to Mark, then he need never have known.

“Everything okay?” Billy's voice came from the doorway of the bathroom.

“Yeah. It's safe to come out now.”

He came and took me in his arms. “I don't know what you mean. When a man has to pee, he has to pee.”

“Uh-huh.” I tilted my head up and saw the understanding in his eyes. “You're a good guy, you know that?”

“Good enough to marry even if you aren't pregnant?” he asked.

I sucked in a breath. How did you diplomatically answer a question like that without hurting the feelings of the man you love? Or, you know, without winding up married?

I made a valiant stab at it. “You are most definitely good enough. But could we keep eating dessert for a while longer before we order the whole meal? Now that we aren't under a deadline crunch?” I said, giving him my most seductive smile.

He laughed. (Yeah, maybe not as seductive as I hoped.) “Is it weddings or marriage that terrifies you more?”

“Weddings,” I said at once, mostly sure it was true. “And since Al's roses made it inconveniently plain I can't elope, I'm afraid we're going to have to wait until I feel mentally prepared to face the white lace and organ music.”

“How do you feel about black silk sheets and playing a ‘flute'?” he said, with exactly the right amount of wicked innuendo to get my heart racing through my giggles.

Laughter and lust, a salty-sweet combo more addictive than kettle corn.

Twenty minutes later I was breathing heavily and swearing at the same time. “What do you mean you don't have any condoms? How can you not have condoms?”

“I'm sorry, but I threw them all out because I
thought
I didn't need them anymore, you being on the patch and all. I didn't want you find them here and jump to the mistaken conclusion I hadn't given up my wayward lifestyle.”

I heaved a disappointed sigh. “I took off the patch when I thought I was pregnant.”

Which, it occurred to me with a thousand-watt jolt, meant I hadn't been fully protected when I was with Mark.

No. God cannot be that cruel.

“Look, it's probably okay,” I said, trying to convince myself as much as him. “I haven't had the patch off for very long.”

“Uh-uh. No way. Not after you had a dose of fertility drugs.”

Crap. Crappity, crappity, crap-crap-crap. He was right.
“Argh!” I said. “This is so not fair.”

Fortunately, Billy seemed to think it was my sexual frustration talking, and not my new worry about Mark's swimmers. “I can call James and see if he'll come back over with some. I'm sure he'll understand our dilemma,” he teased.

I rolled away from him, pulling a sheet around me. We were in his loft, on his king-size bed, but my clothes were still downstairs. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Or why not ask Al if he has a spare in his wallet? Because that wouldn't be embarrassing either.”

“Come back here. We don't need a condom.”

“But you said—”

He pulled me to him. Started nibbling my neck. “Ciel, there are lots and lots of other ways we can make this”—he licked one of my nipples, and blew on it softly—“a very satisfying experience”—his hand found its way up my thigh, fingers teasing and delving everywhere, gliding over places that would normally make me flinch, but somehow not with him—“for both of us. And I know all of them.” His voice held a world of promise.

I moaned and stopped thinking about condoms, patches, and Mark's swimmers.
Sufficient unto the day …

 

Chapter 24

I looked out over the small auditorium at fifty or so alert and interested faces. Every one of them appeared honored to be included in this special NASA presentation, ostensibly set up to explain in greater detail the parameters of Dr. Phil's mission on the space station.

Man, I hoped Loughlin would come after me before anyone asked me a question I didn't know the answer to, because dodging death seemed, at the moment, preferable to what I was about to do.

Mark had given me a folder full of facts to study on the flight back to Houston (in an Agency plane, so I didn't have to worry about nosy passengers reading over my shoulder), so, theoretically, I had all the knowledge I needed to get through the next hour. And I was pretty sure all the details
were
in my head. Somewhere. Only I was terribly afraid they might have gotten scrambled a bit in my rush to wedge them into my memory.

Didn't matter, I told myself. It wasn't like the people in the audience were really scientists. Mark had set up the whole thing using the best agents at his disposal, each of them posing as a representative from the science department of a university or college. The thing was, knowing Mark's standards, they had all studied assiduously for their roles, and could no doubt come up with super-intelligent questions to fill the time until Loughlin might strike.

Yeah, I was bait. Mark's big plan was twofold: one, to set up something too tempting for Loughlin to resist, and thus lure him away from preying on the adaptor population in New York, and two, to catch the bastard. The venue he'd rented for the day was specially selected to look invitingly open while in fact being highly containable, with the right personnel.

Billy had objected—big-time—until Mark had assured him I would be surrounded by the best field agents in the country. Billy himself was sitting right next to me onstage, in the guise of Phil's husband. Misha was a strong guy. With Billy's defense skills behind the aura, I felt pretty safe.

The real Phil and Misha were locked down at their house with yet more agents. They knew enough not to answer the door or their landline. Billy and I had their cell phones, so no worry there.

In the front row, about as close to the stage as you could get, was Dr. Phil's brother, Rudy, the one who'd come to Mark about the job in the first place. It wouldn't seem out of place for Rudy to be there—why wouldn't a brother attend an important event for his sister?

Mark was in a back corner, pretending to be a generic NASA employee. He had a good view of every way in or out of the big room. He was himself, though with his loose-fitting suit and black-framed glasses you'd never guess it at first glance.

The “host” of the event—an especially pompous-looking gentleman of about sixty, who Mark had assured us could kill someone a hundred different ways if the need arose—said something about mankind thus far being in a gestational period, but on the brink of our true birth into the universe. (Good God, was I
never
going to escape the pregnancy allusions?) He went on to say that with the advent of procreation in space, we would be able to explore our galaxy unbound by our short life spans, and the future was full of unlimited potential, yadda yadda. Applause, applause. All very inspiring, but I was too busy scanning the auditorium for Loughlin's face to give it the attention it no doubt deserved.

No sign of him. Mark had warned us this whole thing might be a wash if Loughlin got skittish. If we didn't catch him today, we'd just have to keep our collective guard up longer. Which would be a total pain in the ass for all involved, especially the security details who'd have to miss their own holiday celebrations to watch over us through ours. Of course, Mom would make them cookies. (And if they were truly fortunate, they wouldn't get her Snickerdoodle Surprises, the “surprise” being caviar, because “everyone loves caviar!”)

When it came my time to speak I faked my way through the first few softball questions obviously planted with agents by Mark to put me at my ease. Faking became more difficult as time went on. My answer to one question about zygote morphology elicited raised eyebrows and a delicate cough from Billy-Misha, who probably not only knew the real answer (which apparently had nothing to do with goats), but could tell you which page of the file it was on. Fortunately, the audience pretended to think I was joking.

I pointed to a woman raising her hand in the second row. She stood and said, “You explained how you're getting hormone treatments to make sure your ovulation syncs with your time on the ISS. How are you feeling?”

Ha. At last something I knew the answer to firsthand. “You mean aside from the bloating, queasiness, and mood swings? Super!” I said with a big smile, to the amusement of all in attendance. (Hey, they already thought I was a comedian. Why not make the most of it?)

Inspired (or desperate, take your pick), I invited Misha up to the podium with me. He was asked about his “involvement” in the mission. He described it, very scientifically, as “me, a dirty magazine, and paper cup.” The audience roared. Good thing the reporters among them weren't any more genuine than the scientists, or the general public might get the idea he wasn't taking his wife's mission seriously.

After the questioner recovered he said, “Thanks for the visual, but I meant your company, Spaceward Ho.”

“Oh. I see,” Billy said, with Misha's adorable Russian accent. “I will tell you, but frankly it is not so fun.” And then he (of course) proceeded to outline Spaceward Ho's innovative improvements in cargo (“human and otherwise”) hauling, ending with “I am, of course, the best ride available to my wife.”