Fearless: No. 2 - Sam (Fearless) (11 page)

AGAINST HIS BETTER JUDGMENT, TOM
Moore saw Gaia rounding the corner of West Fourth Street and followed at a safe distance. As a father he needed to see her safely to her destination, wherever that was. Then he would get on a plane back to Lebanon and resume his mission, leaving romantic notions and painful memories behind.

Based on her strange outfit, Tom guessed Gaia knew she was in danger. With her remarkable hair stashed away under her hat and a scarf and glasses obscuring her face, she was almost
unrecognizable.
Gaia was well adapted to taking care of herself, he told himself as he followed her east toward Fifth Avenue. He'd taught her the skills she'd need, and her miraculous gifts more than outstripped his teaching and his own abilities, in truth.

Tom, too, had been a prodigy. He had an extraordinary IQ, almost perfect powers of reasoning, and an intuitive genius for understanding the motivations of the human mind -- particularly the criminal mind. He had been virtually fearless until he lost Katia. After that he wore fear like a coat of chain mail every day of his life. Tom sometimes imagined that he represented nature's first -- though failed -- experiment at an invincible creature. Gaia represented its subsequent and much more
perfect attempt.

Gaia paused for a traffic light, and Tom took the opportunity to pull out his cell phone. He pushed two buttons, connecting instantly with his assistant. "We'll fly from the base at nine-thirty," he told him.

It was with some sense of relief that he watched Gaia approach the door of a large building flanked by stone benches on either side. He could see from the awning that it was an NYU building, a dorm. It seemed a safe and relatively ordinary place for a girl to begin her Saturday night. He chuckled to himself at the pleasure it gave him to think that Gaia had
friends and an active social life.

Maybe she would be okay. Maybe she could actually be . . . happy. The thought suffused him with unexpected joy.

Suddenly he was glad he had come. He was reassured. He could imagine his Gaia thriving here in New York. That knowledge would strengthen him for almost any trial.

He was just backing off when a glint of metal caught his eye from across the street. His thoughts and perceptions went into warp speed. It was a young man standing in the shadow of a tree, holding a .44-caliber pistol. The young man brought it up to eye level and
trained it directly on Gaia.

Tom was across the street in a fraction of a second, never diverting his gaze from the gun. He was nearing his target, ready to throw his weight into the man, when suddenly the young man withdrew the gun. The young man's gaze was still trained on Gaia, but the hand with the gun hung at his side. Tom pulled up short, backing up against the side of a building to escape the young man's notice. When Tom looked back across the street, he realized that Gaia had already disappeared into the building.

Tom closed his eyes for a moment and caught his breath. Had that gun actually been trained on Gaia? Could he have been imagining the danger to her? With a sense of foreboding, Tom watched the young man conceal the gun under his shirt and stroll across the street, stopping under the well-lit awning. The young man glanced into the building and then took a seat on one of the stone benches. Tom knew he was settling in to wait.

Distress mixed with frustration as Tom took out his phone once again and pushed the same two buttons.

"Make it eleven," he told his assistant in an unhappy voice.

My
views on Luck:

Before my accident, I used to think I was the luckiest guy in the world. Then I had my accident, and I sort of believed I deserved it because nobody stays that lucky. I used to think that luck got around to each of us equally. When things went badly, you were sort of saving up for a stretch of good luck. When things went too well . . . You get the idea.

According to this theory, I would be in for some good luck, right? I mean, a guy who's in a wheelchair shouldn't have parents who bicker constantly, for example, or an older sister who's ashamed of him. He shouldn't be abandoned by the girl he believed to be his one true love.

But the theory is wrong. Luck doesn't shine her light on each of us equally. She is arbitrary, irrational, unfair, and sometimes downright cruel. There are people who spend their entire lives basking in her glow, and others never seem to get one goddamned break.

Luck is powerful. Don't mess with her. Accept her for what she is and make the best of it. I can't stand that people are constantly blaming other people when bad stuff happens to them. Somebody trips on a sidewalk, and they sue some innocent bastard for millions of dollars. It's
not
always somebody else's fault. Sometimes it's just luck. Bad luck.

Luck is unpredictable. She's not your friend. She won't stand by you.

Maybe in heaven it's different. I do hope so.

But here on earth, my friend, those are the breaks.

He couldn't hold back much longer without a really good reason.

SAM HAD A NEW RESPECT FOR
biology. Although his mind floated somewhere near the acoustical tiles on the ceiling, his body did all the things a body needs to do in order to successfully propagate the species.

He gently, efficiently removed Heather's sweater and expertly navigated her tricky front-fastening bra. He gazed at her lovely breasts hungrily,
feeling the blood flow to his nether regions quadruple in under two seconds.
He pulled her skirt over her perfectly shaped hips, revealed dark purple satin panties equal to his daydreams, and forced himself not to go further yet.

Biology was exerting so much force, Sam had to battle himself not to remove that last bit of Heather's clothing or to pick her right up off the floor, put her on his bed, and hurtle forward into the main event. But he was a gentleman. He'd toughed it out before, and he could do it again. His older brother once told him that if you found you were undressing the girl
and
yourself, take a break and ask yourself whether you're pushing too hard.

Sam stuck to the advice, although it seemed like hours before Heather got around to removing his shirt.
She seemed a bit tentative to him.
Not scared, but not entirely sure of herself, either.

"We can stop anytime," he murmured against her ear, although biology was begging her not to take him up on the offer.

"No, I'm good," she whispered back.

She punctuated her point by sliding her hands under the waistband of his khakis. From his perch on the ceiling he heard a moan come from
deep in his chest.

Now he saw his pants on the floor and only his blue-and-green-plaid boxers standing in the way of nudity. Soft, delicate lips poured kisses over his chest and stomach.

It was weird. His body was fully aroused and responsive, and his mind was remote. Was there a psychological term for this? Was there a treatment for it? Was this at all what death felt like?

He bitterly wished he could get his mind into the action. He'd picked a fine day for a complete out-of-body experience, he mused ironically.

"Ready?" he whispered, taking her hand and leading her to the bed.

Before taking a step, he studied her expression, waiting for her cue. Her face was flushed and intense, but not exactly the picture of lustful ecstasy.
Was she holding back?
Was she regretting this?

Or was he projecting
his
feelings onto her?

He took his eyes from her body so that biology would ease its choke hold for a moment. "Are you sure, Heather? We don't have to do anything you don't want. We've got plenty of time."

In response she sat down on the bed, placed a hand on either side of his waist, and pulled him down on top of her.
She commandeered his mouth with kisses
so he couldn't ask any more questions.

"I'm sure. I'm sure I want to do it now," she said against his ear. Why did her tone suggest more grim determination than arousal? Suddenly he felt her hands on the elastic waist of his boxer shorts, pulling them down. Another moan escaped him. He couldn't hold back much longer without a really good reason.

"I love you," she whispered to his chest. He couldn't see her eyes to
gauge the depth of her words.

"Mmmm," he said, knowing that wasn't the right answer.

Apparently she didn't need to hear more. She wriggled out of her own panties and pressed the full length of her naked body against his. His body was pounding with pleasure and anticipation. His mind was surprised by her assertiveness and her . . . hurry. It almost seemed like she was in a hurry.

The big moment was upon them, and biology was demanding they surge ahead. Sam felt for the condom on the table by his bed. With her help he put it on. With her guiding, demanding arms he entered her. Again he heard the deep groan thundering from his chest. He heard her breathy sigh. At last his mind was pulled down into the whirlpool.
At last the sensations became so fierce and so pervasive, his body and mind joined together.
At last he was consumed.

So much so that he didn't notice that a slight breeze from a crack in the door had snuffed the fragile flame of the floor-wax-scented candle.

THE HALLWAY OF SAM'S DORM
looked surprisingly like the one in her dream, but Gaia's feelings were different. She didn't feel sexy and bold. She felt insecure and deeply self-conscious.

First she knocked on the outer door that read B4-7. Sam's room was B5, so it had to be through there. While she waited for an answer, she pulled off her wool cap and shook out her hair. She unwound the scarf and stowed the ugly glasses in her bag. Her eyes caught the package of condoms floating at the surface of her bag, and the eager box threw her confidence even more.

Gaia knocked again. She waited for what felt like two weeks, but nobody came. Had Sam managed to slip out between the time she'd called and now?
She thought she heard a noise inside.
Was it okay to go in? Was it kind of a public room?

The thought of trudging back home to Ella and George's house in defeat, potentially only to be hunted down by CJ, was so unappealing, she turned the doorknob and walked inside.

It was a good-sized room, housing four desks, a minifridge, a hot plate, bookshelves, piles of sports equipment, notebooks, jackets, a couch that looked like it had been retrieved from a dump, and a very large television set. Gaia took a deep breath. No people, though.

Could Sam possibly be in his room? Maybe he was sleeping and he hadn't heard her knock.
What if she were to creep in and climb into bed with him?
Would he start screaming and call the police? Or would they have a beautiful, semiconscious, dreamlike sexual encounter? Gaia's head began to pound at the thought.

She walked very quietly toward room B5. Her spirits lifted. It was just her luck. The door was open a crack, and she heard a sound from inside. It sounded almost like a sleep sound.

Gaia took another deep, steadying breath.
Do it,
she commanded herself.
You have to try
. She put out her hand and placed it lightly on the knob. The brass sphere was a little wobbly in her palm. She gave it the lightest push and let it swing open.

Physicists were always crowing about the speed of light, but in this case the light from the common room seemed to filter into the small chamber slowly, as though well aware it was
not a welcome guest.
In this case, light traveled at the speed of dawning horror, of rude awakening, of hopes being dashed -- but no faster. Before Gaia's round, naked eyes, the form on the bed was illuminated.

Two forms.

SAM HAD BELIEVED HIS BODY
and mind joined together as he made love to Heather. But in truth, they weren't actually joined until several seconds later, when his senses alerted him, in fast succession, to the subtle creaking of the door, the surprising influx of light, and most importantly, the stunned face of Gaia Moore. That was
actually
the moment when his body and mind snapped back into one piece.

GAIA HAD NEVER SEEN ANYBODY
having sex before, so the image was raw, crude,strange, terrible, and electrifying at the same time.

She should have dashed out of there instantly, but her astonishment seemed to lock her muscles, giving her eyes ample time to torture her with the sight of Sam's naked body, poetic even under these circumstances. His long, lean form was cupped against Heather's, their hips joined, dewy sweat shared between chests and arms, their legs a mutual tangle.

But by far the worst moment came when Sam turned and saw her. Her pain was too big to hide, she knew, and scrawled flagrantly on her face. Sam was baring his body, but she was caught exposing her soul.
Her secret pain, her crushed hope, her sickly envy, and her queasy fascination were there for all to see.
Worst of all, Sam saw her see him seeing all of this.

At last her muscles freed her, and she ran.

It wasn't until afterward that she realized she hadn't bothered to look at Heather. Heather didn't really matter much.

WHEN SAM LOOKED AT GAIA'S
face, he thought his heart broke for her, but he realized later that it broke for himself.