Three Bricks Shy-Alias, PG-13 (A touch of the occult and some humor)
Peregrine
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
****
Epilogue II
I ran three red lights and broke a land speed record on my way to Dulles. The irony of racing to an airport that is named for a former CIA director is not lost on me. Why else are all our flights routed through here and not Reagan National?
The car purred under my hands and handled like a dream. OK, maybe it's a bad idea to think about dreams right now. I mean, after what I've been through in the past 24 hours, the last thing I wanted to think about were visions or nightmares. And then there was The Sydney Factor….gee, it sounds almost like a Robert Ludlum novel. The Sydney Factor, starring Michael Vaughn. I liked the sound of that, but I'm not sure she'd want to be my co- star. Despite our earlier encounter and what I hadn't dared say to her, I wasn't at all sure that she'd come with me.
Still, as I skidded around an old man in a hat driving a Lincoln and was cursed out soundly by some pedestrians as I sped up the Departures ramp, I felt a small glimmer of hope. When I slowed down enough to read some signs, I started to think this was a fool's errand. After the 9/11 attacks, they had stepped up airport security by a huge measure, and one of those precautions was not allowing on-curb pickups or drop-offs. Then some long lost thread from a Cussler novel came to mind and I felt my heart skip a beat. With a smile that lurked somewhere between hopeful and smug, I jerked the Porsche to a stop and jumped out of the car. With my CIA ID in hand, I waited as two heavily armed reservists approached me.
"Do you have some business here, sir?" The younger of the two asked politely.
I handed him my ID and watched as they studied me carefully and with more than a hint of suspicion. "I'm trailing a suspect. This person is guilty of treason against the United States and I have reason to believe she is about to hop on a plane."
The ID did the trick, because they folded it up and gave it back to me. "How can we help?"
Wow, this was easier than I thought. "If you could guard my car until I return, then I'd really appreciate it."
I was starting to back toward the sliding doors and felt my feet itching to run the hundred yard dash down the concourse. My obstacle course included the metal detectors and running past a few hundred gates, but I was sure I could handle it.
The more experienced guard still looked at me doubtfully. "We need to verify your story, sir. I have to call my superior officer and he'll have to contact someone from your office."
Thinking quickly, I gave them Eric's name and cell phone number and knew he'd be up to the test. Time was running out and I was growing impatient, but I had to make this look real. In very short order, I got my authorization, which included bypassing the lines at the metal detectors. Balls of Steel. That was me. Weiss would be so proud.
When I got past the first obstacle, I scanned the flight board for Sydney's flight number and saw that she was at the far end of Concourse A. With my track shoes firmly laced, I started loping at my natural jogger's gait until her gate number came into view. The waiting area was thronged with business travelers and tourists, their heads obscured by newspapers or bent over laptops as they tapped away at reports. I saw old people with their grandchildren and happy young couples with their hands entwined, but Sydney was nowhere to be found.
I asked at the counter and was told they'd be boarding in twenty minutes. OK, that gave her a little time to roam around, maybe get a snack, or use the bathroom. I started moving in the opposite direction and spotted the airport bookstore. It was large and stuffed with people buying last minute magazines and paperbacks. As I passed a row of T-shirts and stuffed animals, I almost missed her. I moved a few steps down the aisle and then stopped, because something was tickling at my senses. An awareness of something familiar. A smell, or maybe just instinct, caused me to turn around and there she was. Her slim fingers picked through the fiction section and suddenly pulled out a fat book. Syd scanned its contents and I saw her wrinkle her nose. She turned it over a few more times and read the inside flap and seemed to come to some decision. Without even noticing me staring at her from a few yards away, she turned on her heel and brought the book to the counter.
It told me a few things about her state of mind. She was relaxed when she should have been on her guard, especially after that attempt on her life. Maybe she thought that her 7 day reprieve was a vacation with no one watching. Of course, I knew better, because look at what just happened. I was less than 10 feet away from her and had been clearly interested in her actions, and she hadn't taken the slightest notice of me. It only added to the argument I planned on presenting to her. I could protect her in a way that she couldn't protect herself. Sydney might be a lean, mean fighting machine, but she didn't yet have that edge that came from years in the field, nor did she have eyes in the back of her head. Not only that, but her sweet and trusting nature might be her ultimate downfall.
Protocol taught us to avoid contact in public, to look away from one another, and achieve the objective with a minimum of discussion. But this little outing went way beyond the boundaries of protocol. There were no rules but the ones I made up. So I followed a few paces behind her and enjoyed the swing of her hips with the frank appreciation of your typical horny male. Her jeans and sweater fit so perfectly that every inch and curve of her dancer's body was revealed. I know I shouldn't do this, but I couldn't help myself. And the less time I gave her to argue or even think it through, the better. I had to go with my gut and hope she would do the same. With a burst of speed, I came up behind her and put my arm through hers. Her fighter's reflexes kicked into gear and I felt her start to move against me.
"Don't turn around," I murmured in her ear. "Just act natural."
That stopped her cold. "Vaughn," she answered, her voice slightly shaky. "What are you doing here?"
So it was back to Vaughn. OK, I could deal with that. "Come away with me," I said, feeling the spinning top of emotional instability wend its way through my body and ultimately stabbing my heart.
"What?" Sydney had expected something, but my words weren't at the top of her list of possibilities. "Have you lost your mind?"
"You have 7 days, right?" I asked hopefully.
She nodded as we meandered to one side and out of the line of traffic. "What's this really about?"
I sighed. "You know what it's about."
"But I…." I halted her words and knew heaven was the touch of those lips on my fingers. A long moment passed before I dropped my hand, still feeling the impression of her mouth, branding me for all eternity.
"Think about it, Syd. This might be the only freedom we ever get. Unstructured time. Together. We can talk about anything. Do anything." My words were soft enough, but I could feel my conviction cutting through her defenses. When she looked at me through her lashes, I saw that she wanted the same things. I was not so sure about the love part, but that would come with time. The shadow of her past loomed between us, but I could see Danny fading on the horizon as Sharon had finally evaporated when Sydney walked into my life.
"How?" Good. She was considering it.
"I have a car….a Porsche and…."
"You rented a Porsche?" Her eyebrows lifted in astonishment.
"Actually, it's mine," I replied casually, watching her face carefully for a sign. She tried feigning disinterest, but I saw the sparkle in her eyes before she turned away. So, Sydney Bristow got off on this sexy spy stuff. Hot cars and '007. I wouldn't have figured it, but there was much I didn't know about her.
"Really. Yours. Since when do you have a sports car?" Syd asked in a teasing voice.
"Since about an hour ago when Trish handed me the keys."
"Are you serious?" Her eyes widened and her mouth formed a silent 'wow'.
"So come with me. My car's out on the curb."
"Curb-side service. May I ask how you pulled that off?" In the space of a few minutes, she had migrated from disbelief to a slightly flirtatious mien. I liked the way it deepened those amazing dimples of hers and decided I'd have to work hard to keep that smile on her face.
I wanted to tell the truth, but this was a case where a white lie would better serve both our interests. Sydney needed no reminders about traitors and as for me, I needed her. So with a shrug that I copied from Trish, I said, "I said I was escorting a prisoner and needed their cooperation."
Sydney actually giggled at my audacity. "And they actually believed that a man driving a Porsche was here on important government business and offered to help you out?"
"Well….yeah." I shrugged like it was no big deal.
She was of two minds. Even I, who can be as obtuse as the next guy, could see her indecision. "You know we shouldn't do this. We both know the rules, and we both know the risks involved. If we get caught…."
I took her hand in mine and my eyes implored her to follow down the same crazy path as me. "We'll be wildly, crazy careful."
I saw that she remembered me using those words on that long ago day when she nearly gave the wrong code to SD-6. "OK. Let's do it."
******
We got out of Dulles without a hitch. The car was waiting, expertly guarded by the ardent attentions of one Sgt. Moss. He practically saluted me as a patriot when I handed Sydney into the car and drove off sedately, my face schooled into the official frown of a captor. As soon as I cleared the airport roadway, I kicked the Targa into high gear and headed for the open road.
Sydney was quiet and introspective during the first leg of our trip, and she often looked at me with these curious glances, like she was trying to really figure me out and I guessed her profile of me as the ardent and loyal handler was under revision. We made our first stop in Colorado as the sun peeked over the hills, registered as A. Powers and F. Shagwell in two separate rooms. I paid in cash and arranged to meet her for dinner after some sleep.
Hours passed, but sleep still eluded me and I decided to open the package that Trish had foisted on me. It sat there on the bureau, daring me to open it and spill its guts to the world about my newly found status as a bastard. I mean, maybe I really was a bastard, but I doubt that Alice had had my parentage in mind when she stormed out on me that last time. I untied the twine laces and the wrapping paper fell away from a photo album and what looked like a journal. Tucked under those items was the picture from her wall and a faded hockey jersey. I lifted it up and spread it against myself. French Hockey Team. 1968 Olympics. It was my exact size. I shivered and let the shirt drop to the floor. Goosebumps broke out on my arms. I had a father out there somewhere who was probably unaware that I existed. The journal drew me back to the dresser and its leather binding creaked as I opened it.
It was written in French. Trish's writing. I paged through it slowly and saw a series of expertly rendered sketches. Jean playing soccer. Getting into a fight at the local hockey rink. Posing nude. I swallowed hard and closed the book with a clap of dust. Private thoughts from someone else's life. Did I really want the truth, or was it better to live in the ignorant dark?
Those answers had to wait, because it was time to get dressed and meet Sydney for dinner. Without even thinking about it, I tucked the journal under my arm and slipped it inside my coat on my way out.
*****
Her writing was as expressive and colorful as her personality and the first section of her drama unfolded before my eyes. I felt for the lost, little girl she used to be, overwhelmed by sexual feelings that didn't mesh with what she knew of the world. The charming hockey player that swept her off her feet but didn't return her love, abandoning her once he got what he wanted. Her love for him radiated like a supernova and I found myself blushing at some of her more descriptive prose.
"Hey." Sydney's soft voice slipped under my concentration and brought my head up. She sat across from me and stared at the journal. "What's that?"
"It belonged to Trish."
"Oh." She nodded her head in understanding and smiled at the embarrassment that still lingered on my face. "Your aunt is…"
"She's not," I interrupted.
Sydney looked at me quizzically. "Not what?"
"My aunt." I let the words register and smiled when the waitress came around. We ordered Merlot and I saw the way Sydney looked between me and the journal.
"But she must be. I mean, you look so much….oh." Then she knew. Maybe she had known yesterday when she had seen the resemblance. Sydney is smart about people, adept at peeling back the layers and seeing the real person. I always felt that she knew me far too well and was glad that she didn't use it against me. "I'm sorry."
"Thanks. It's OK…." When the wine arrived, I poured a glass and saw that she doubted my words. "Really it is."
"But with all that's happened…" She stopped and I saw the tears lingering there. We both had baggage, and maybe that's why we complemented each other so well. Maybe we could heal the rift created by our parents.
"I know." The fine dark wine settled on my tongue and I watched her over the rim of my glass, marveling at the way the candle dusted her skin with a fine, flickering light, catching in her eyes and painting her chestnut hair with shimmering skeins that resembled moonbeams. Dark, umber eyes that reminded me of the Madonnas I often saw at the art museum. I could lose my soul in those eyes if I wasn't careful.
Our entrees arrived and it gave us an excuse to talk about something else. Bolstered by fine food and wine, I decided to ask her about something that treaded on dangerous ground. "So the other day," I started as I speared a finely seared piece of filet mignon, "What did Trish say to you when she whispered in your ear?"
Her cheeks were rosy from the wine, so it was hard to tell if a blush was part of the mixture. "Oh. It was nothing."
I knew my aunt's way with words and had seen it for myself in her journal. Even at the tender age of fifteen, her language was salty and coarse and right to the point. Sydney was certainly blunt when she needed to be, but I sensed that the sexual dance made her nervous. Judging from the deer in a headlight look in her eyes, it was far from nothing. "Please tell me," I requested.
In perfectly accented French, Sydney repeated my aunt's words and I ducked my head and wished myself under the table. The litany went on and got increasingly randy and ridiculous. The two of us would have beautiful children, but only if we acted on the passion that everyone can see. There was more in there about fucking like rabbits and her best wishes for successful intercourse.
"She really said that?" I choked, trying not to laugh.
Sydney took a big swallow of wine and nodded. "Yeah."
"Anything else I should know?" I suppressed another bout of hilarity.
She smiled at my question but said nothing. For the rest of the meal, we talked about safe, boring subjects like the stock market and the night passed into peaceful oblivion.
*****
Two more days on the road sent us through New Mexico and Arizona. More funny aliases in anonymous hotel rooms. No more discussions about our parents. I found out that Sydney liked birds and we stopped a few times to watch some raptors flying majestically after their prey. She found some music at one rest stop and we sang along to oldies tapes and shouted along with some death metal anthems.
On one of our last stops before we hit the California border, I saw her sitting on the bench with the book she had bought at the airport. When she saw me, she hid the cover from me and smirked. "Say, Vaughn, do you own a hunting knife?"
"No. Should I?" Where was this going? I handed her a Slusho and sat across from her.
"Do you like diving for treasure?" Now her smile was as wide as the Rio Grande.
I'd never been scuba diving in my life. Not even snorkeling. "Treasure?" I swear my voice squeaked on that last one and she started giggling.
"I have one more question. What would Dirk Pitt do in this situation?" My heart sank. Of all the things I wanted to hide, this was it. How could she…..oh, shit. I knew exactly how she found out. Trish and her damned powers. All those times she touched me in compassion also revealed my deepest secrets. Heat rushed into my face and I knew I was flaming red.
"I don't know," I croaked, totally mortified.
She flashed the book cover at me. Deep Six. With another peal of laughter, she started reading some of the parts about Dirk bedding women and how they threw themselves at him. "Is that how it works?" Syd asked with a straight face. There was something in her voice that was more than amusement. It was almost….sensual. Cold shivers worked their way up my back, totally defying the desert heat that whitened and bleached every surface in this barren country.
"I wouldn't know." I really didn't know. My experience with women was mostly non-existent. Good looks don't count for everything in this world. Oh, they draw the women all right, but the women don't tend to hang around when they discover the ghost of your dead girlfriend hanging over your shoulder. Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt were my escape. Ian Fleming. Robert Ludlum. John LeCarre. I was supposed to be a spy, so you'd think I got a clue by reading about spies from the masters. Hell, my last name even matched the actor from the Man from Uncle.
Sydney took pity on me and dropped the book into her satchel. "Give me the keys."
I obeyed her without question and followed her back to the car. For the first three days, she had let me drive without complaint. But now that we were nearly home, she wanted to take the reins for awhile. Unlike some guys, I had no problem with that. With a whoop, she vaulted over the car door and settled herself behind the wheel. "Want to see how a real woman drives?"
Her words were lost in the trail of rubber she laid down as she made tracks toward the interstate, but her smile burned brighter than the desert sun and I found myself smiling back at her double entendre. Riding shotgun gave me time to study her when I thought she wasn't looking, watching the wind in her hair and loving the grin that grew with each passing mile. Was this something Dirk Pitt would do? Hell, no, he'd commandeer the car and ravish the woman with one hand. This is where I parted ways with Clive Cussler's ridiculous hero. As the road sang under our tires, I read passages to her from the journal and fielded her carefully wrought questions. More patient and far more understanding than any shrink, she drew me out of myself and helped me get in touch with my emotions. By the time we got to the Pacific coastline, she and I were in perfect synchrony, communicating without speaking and transmitting volumes with a smile and a touch of our hands. It was late afternoon, and if I played my cards right, my vision would come true.
****
Lovely swatches of color tinted the Malibu sky as we walked on the beach with our sneakers tied around our necks. Magenta and fuchsia quarreled with peach and indigo for dominance on the canvas of the most magnificent sunset I had ever seen. The sea breeze was fresh and clean and all was right in the world.
We walked for miles and talked about everything but work. The music we liked. Our favorite foods. She liked gardening and old movies. I liked playing guitar and painting pictures. That last fact seemed to surprise her. I would have offered to show her my etchings but didn't want to ruin the moment with a cheap comment. When we got to the car, I opened the trunk and she saw my surprise. A cooler filled with ice and my favorite California zinfandel. A picnic basket with a gourmet meal that I'd snuck into the car while she showered this morning. A blanket that I'd bought on our travels. "Have dinner with me."
"Michael," she started. "We….shouldn't."
I wanted to say that we had spent the last four days together, sharing meals and trading stories like the best of friends. But she was right. This was our home turf and my house was no more than ten minutes away. I jogged on this beach nearly every morning. People I knew lived in houses that overlooked the water. How easy would it be for one of them to come upon us and start asking questions. I knew all that and I still didn't care. "Please. We might never get this chance again for a long time."
And I might never get the chance to show her how I felt. She considered my request and finally relented. "All right."
So we spread the blanket and opened the wine and watched the sun fall to the sea with its fiery arms and shared some crusty croissants. It was a perfect moment and I would never forget the way that sunset reflected in her eyes as she looked at me. Her hands slid along the blanket and captured mine. I wasn't sure where this was going and didn't want to scare her off when we had come so far. I looked down at her tanned fingers intertwined with mine and felt the dream start to come alive, dancing along my senses and bursting into song. I raised my head and was mesmerized by the perfect symmetry of her features. I loosened one hand and traced her cheekbones and let my hand fall to her chin. She closed her eyes at my touch and the smallest of sighs left her lips. Encouraged, I leaned closer and moaned when she twined my hair around her hand. Freeing her other hand, she ran her fingers through my wind-tousled hair. "I've wanted to do that for so long," she admitted gently.
"And I've wanted to do this." I started to kiss her cheek, but she turned her head at the last second and our lips met. For a moment, we stared at each other in stunned surprise and I felt the insane urge to laugh. Then her lips softened under mine and I forgot about laughing. It started gentle and soft, the merest touch of my mouth on hers, her eyelids fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird against my face. Her breathing quickened and her mouth opened under mine. With slow deliberation, I traced her lips with my tongue, endlessly exploring their perfect shape and sucking on her lower lip with my teeth before I extended my reach and our tongues danced and quarreled as we bit and sucked at each other like two starving people. Tasting her, savoring her like a fine delicacy, feasting on cinnamon and mocha while she dined on the flavor left by my Altoids. Each swoop of our tongues sent us further along the road of no return, and I knew we had to stop before things got out of hand. I broke off the kiss first and saw her disappointment, but I also saw understanding dawn in her lovely, luminous eyes.
I rested my forehead against hers and we stayed like that for awhile with joined hands, watching the moon rise and shine brightly along the endless rise and fall of the breakers hitting the sand. "It's time to go back," she said finally.
Backward and forward at the same time. When we returned to our respective lives and resumed our roles, I'd have to forego the pleasure of her company for the lonely spaces of my house and the cold comfort of a TV dinner. We rose to our feet and I hugged her against me as we walked back to the car, returning to fight the good fight and waiting for the day when we could be together openly.
We drove to her house in silence and parked across the street, the Porsche shrouded by the darkness of an overhanging branch. Her friend Francie appeared in the kitchen window, oblivious to our presence as we watched quietly, filled with quiet contemplation. Syd touched the journal and looked at me solemnly as she took my hand in hers. "Remember, when you're at your absolute lowest, your most depressed, just remember that you can always.. you know... you've got my number."
A deliberate echo of an earlier conversation on the pier that was the turning point in our relationship. "Thank you, Sydney."
I kissed her on the forehead and she got out of the car. "Goodbye, Michael. I guess I'll see you around."
"Bye, Syd." My voice was soft and filled with a love that overwhelmed me at times with its intensity, but a love I'd have to save for another day when the time was right. Perhaps next week, or perhaps in seven years. However long it took, I would always be here for her, my head spinning with inherited craziness, just three bricks shy of a full load.
The End
Peregrine
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
****
Epilogue II
I ran three red lights and broke a land speed record on my way to Dulles. The irony of racing to an airport that is named for a former CIA director is not lost on me. Why else are all our flights routed through here and not Reagan National?
The car purred under my hands and handled like a dream. OK, maybe it's a bad idea to think about dreams right now. I mean, after what I've been through in the past 24 hours, the last thing I wanted to think about were visions or nightmares. And then there was The Sydney Factor….gee, it sounds almost like a Robert Ludlum novel. The Sydney Factor, starring Michael Vaughn. I liked the sound of that, but I'm not sure she'd want to be my co- star. Despite our earlier encounter and what I hadn't dared say to her, I wasn't at all sure that she'd come with me.
Still, as I skidded around an old man in a hat driving a Lincoln and was cursed out soundly by some pedestrians as I sped up the Departures ramp, I felt a small glimmer of hope. When I slowed down enough to read some signs, I started to think this was a fool's errand. After the 9/11 attacks, they had stepped up airport security by a huge measure, and one of those precautions was not allowing on-curb pickups or drop-offs. Then some long lost thread from a Cussler novel came to mind and I felt my heart skip a beat. With a smile that lurked somewhere between hopeful and smug, I jerked the Porsche to a stop and jumped out of the car. With my CIA ID in hand, I waited as two heavily armed reservists approached me.
"Do you have some business here, sir?" The younger of the two asked politely.
I handed him my ID and watched as they studied me carefully and with more than a hint of suspicion. "I'm trailing a suspect. This person is guilty of treason against the United States and I have reason to believe she is about to hop on a plane."
The ID did the trick, because they folded it up and gave it back to me. "How can we help?"
Wow, this was easier than I thought. "If you could guard my car until I return, then I'd really appreciate it."
I was starting to back toward the sliding doors and felt my feet itching to run the hundred yard dash down the concourse. My obstacle course included the metal detectors and running past a few hundred gates, but I was sure I could handle it.
The more experienced guard still looked at me doubtfully. "We need to verify your story, sir. I have to call my superior officer and he'll have to contact someone from your office."
Thinking quickly, I gave them Eric's name and cell phone number and knew he'd be up to the test. Time was running out and I was growing impatient, but I had to make this look real. In very short order, I got my authorization, which included bypassing the lines at the metal detectors. Balls of Steel. That was me. Weiss would be so proud.
When I got past the first obstacle, I scanned the flight board for Sydney's flight number and saw that she was at the far end of Concourse A. With my track shoes firmly laced, I started loping at my natural jogger's gait until her gate number came into view. The waiting area was thronged with business travelers and tourists, their heads obscured by newspapers or bent over laptops as they tapped away at reports. I saw old people with their grandchildren and happy young couples with their hands entwined, but Sydney was nowhere to be found.
I asked at the counter and was told they'd be boarding in twenty minutes. OK, that gave her a little time to roam around, maybe get a snack, or use the bathroom. I started moving in the opposite direction and spotted the airport bookstore. It was large and stuffed with people buying last minute magazines and paperbacks. As I passed a row of T-shirts and stuffed animals, I almost missed her. I moved a few steps down the aisle and then stopped, because something was tickling at my senses. An awareness of something familiar. A smell, or maybe just instinct, caused me to turn around and there she was. Her slim fingers picked through the fiction section and suddenly pulled out a fat book. Syd scanned its contents and I saw her wrinkle her nose. She turned it over a few more times and read the inside flap and seemed to come to some decision. Without even noticing me staring at her from a few yards away, she turned on her heel and brought the book to the counter.
It told me a few things about her state of mind. She was relaxed when she should have been on her guard, especially after that attempt on her life. Maybe she thought that her 7 day reprieve was a vacation with no one watching. Of course, I knew better, because look at what just happened. I was less than 10 feet away from her and had been clearly interested in her actions, and she hadn't taken the slightest notice of me. It only added to the argument I planned on presenting to her. I could protect her in a way that she couldn't protect herself. Sydney might be a lean, mean fighting machine, but she didn't yet have that edge that came from years in the field, nor did she have eyes in the back of her head. Not only that, but her sweet and trusting nature might be her ultimate downfall.
Protocol taught us to avoid contact in public, to look away from one another, and achieve the objective with a minimum of discussion. But this little outing went way beyond the boundaries of protocol. There were no rules but the ones I made up. So I followed a few paces behind her and enjoyed the swing of her hips with the frank appreciation of your typical horny male. Her jeans and sweater fit so perfectly that every inch and curve of her dancer's body was revealed. I know I shouldn't do this, but I couldn't help myself. And the less time I gave her to argue or even think it through, the better. I had to go with my gut and hope she would do the same. With a burst of speed, I came up behind her and put my arm through hers. Her fighter's reflexes kicked into gear and I felt her start to move against me.
"Don't turn around," I murmured in her ear. "Just act natural."
That stopped her cold. "Vaughn," she answered, her voice slightly shaky. "What are you doing here?"
So it was back to Vaughn. OK, I could deal with that. "Come away with me," I said, feeling the spinning top of emotional instability wend its way through my body and ultimately stabbing my heart.
"What?" Sydney had expected something, but my words weren't at the top of her list of possibilities. "Have you lost your mind?"
"You have 7 days, right?" I asked hopefully.
She nodded as we meandered to one side and out of the line of traffic. "What's this really about?"
I sighed. "You know what it's about."
"But I…." I halted her words and knew heaven was the touch of those lips on my fingers. A long moment passed before I dropped my hand, still feeling the impression of her mouth, branding me for all eternity.
"Think about it, Syd. This might be the only freedom we ever get. Unstructured time. Together. We can talk about anything. Do anything." My words were soft enough, but I could feel my conviction cutting through her defenses. When she looked at me through her lashes, I saw that she wanted the same things. I was not so sure about the love part, but that would come with time. The shadow of her past loomed between us, but I could see Danny fading on the horizon as Sharon had finally evaporated when Sydney walked into my life.
"How?" Good. She was considering it.
"I have a car….a Porsche and…."
"You rented a Porsche?" Her eyebrows lifted in astonishment.
"Actually, it's mine," I replied casually, watching her face carefully for a sign. She tried feigning disinterest, but I saw the sparkle in her eyes before she turned away. So, Sydney Bristow got off on this sexy spy stuff. Hot cars and '007. I wouldn't have figured it, but there was much I didn't know about her.
"Really. Yours. Since when do you have a sports car?" Syd asked in a teasing voice.
"Since about an hour ago when Trish handed me the keys."
"Are you serious?" Her eyes widened and her mouth formed a silent 'wow'.
"So come with me. My car's out on the curb."
"Curb-side service. May I ask how you pulled that off?" In the space of a few minutes, she had migrated from disbelief to a slightly flirtatious mien. I liked the way it deepened those amazing dimples of hers and decided I'd have to work hard to keep that smile on her face.
I wanted to tell the truth, but this was a case where a white lie would better serve both our interests. Sydney needed no reminders about traitors and as for me, I needed her. So with a shrug that I copied from Trish, I said, "I said I was escorting a prisoner and needed their cooperation."
Sydney actually giggled at my audacity. "And they actually believed that a man driving a Porsche was here on important government business and offered to help you out?"
"Well….yeah." I shrugged like it was no big deal.
She was of two minds. Even I, who can be as obtuse as the next guy, could see her indecision. "You know we shouldn't do this. We both know the rules, and we both know the risks involved. If we get caught…."
I took her hand in mine and my eyes implored her to follow down the same crazy path as me. "We'll be wildly, crazy careful."
I saw that she remembered me using those words on that long ago day when she nearly gave the wrong code to SD-6. "OK. Let's do it."
******
We got out of Dulles without a hitch. The car was waiting, expertly guarded by the ardent attentions of one Sgt. Moss. He practically saluted me as a patriot when I handed Sydney into the car and drove off sedately, my face schooled into the official frown of a captor. As soon as I cleared the airport roadway, I kicked the Targa into high gear and headed for the open road.
Sydney was quiet and introspective during the first leg of our trip, and she often looked at me with these curious glances, like she was trying to really figure me out and I guessed her profile of me as the ardent and loyal handler was under revision. We made our first stop in Colorado as the sun peeked over the hills, registered as A. Powers and F. Shagwell in two separate rooms. I paid in cash and arranged to meet her for dinner after some sleep.
Hours passed, but sleep still eluded me and I decided to open the package that Trish had foisted on me. It sat there on the bureau, daring me to open it and spill its guts to the world about my newly found status as a bastard. I mean, maybe I really was a bastard, but I doubt that Alice had had my parentage in mind when she stormed out on me that last time. I untied the twine laces and the wrapping paper fell away from a photo album and what looked like a journal. Tucked under those items was the picture from her wall and a faded hockey jersey. I lifted it up and spread it against myself. French Hockey Team. 1968 Olympics. It was my exact size. I shivered and let the shirt drop to the floor. Goosebumps broke out on my arms. I had a father out there somewhere who was probably unaware that I existed. The journal drew me back to the dresser and its leather binding creaked as I opened it.
It was written in French. Trish's writing. I paged through it slowly and saw a series of expertly rendered sketches. Jean playing soccer. Getting into a fight at the local hockey rink. Posing nude. I swallowed hard and closed the book with a clap of dust. Private thoughts from someone else's life. Did I really want the truth, or was it better to live in the ignorant dark?
Those answers had to wait, because it was time to get dressed and meet Sydney for dinner. Without even thinking about it, I tucked the journal under my arm and slipped it inside my coat on my way out.
*****
Her writing was as expressive and colorful as her personality and the first section of her drama unfolded before my eyes. I felt for the lost, little girl she used to be, overwhelmed by sexual feelings that didn't mesh with what she knew of the world. The charming hockey player that swept her off her feet but didn't return her love, abandoning her once he got what he wanted. Her love for him radiated like a supernova and I found myself blushing at some of her more descriptive prose.
"Hey." Sydney's soft voice slipped under my concentration and brought my head up. She sat across from me and stared at the journal. "What's that?"
"It belonged to Trish."
"Oh." She nodded her head in understanding and smiled at the embarrassment that still lingered on my face. "Your aunt is…"
"She's not," I interrupted.
Sydney looked at me quizzically. "Not what?"
"My aunt." I let the words register and smiled when the waitress came around. We ordered Merlot and I saw the way Sydney looked between me and the journal.
"But she must be. I mean, you look so much….oh." Then she knew. Maybe she had known yesterday when she had seen the resemblance. Sydney is smart about people, adept at peeling back the layers and seeing the real person. I always felt that she knew me far too well and was glad that she didn't use it against me. "I'm sorry."
"Thanks. It's OK…." When the wine arrived, I poured a glass and saw that she doubted my words. "Really it is."
"But with all that's happened…" She stopped and I saw the tears lingering there. We both had baggage, and maybe that's why we complemented each other so well. Maybe we could heal the rift created by our parents.
"I know." The fine dark wine settled on my tongue and I watched her over the rim of my glass, marveling at the way the candle dusted her skin with a fine, flickering light, catching in her eyes and painting her chestnut hair with shimmering skeins that resembled moonbeams. Dark, umber eyes that reminded me of the Madonnas I often saw at the art museum. I could lose my soul in those eyes if I wasn't careful.
Our entrees arrived and it gave us an excuse to talk about something else. Bolstered by fine food and wine, I decided to ask her about something that treaded on dangerous ground. "So the other day," I started as I speared a finely seared piece of filet mignon, "What did Trish say to you when she whispered in your ear?"
Her cheeks were rosy from the wine, so it was hard to tell if a blush was part of the mixture. "Oh. It was nothing."
I knew my aunt's way with words and had seen it for myself in her journal. Even at the tender age of fifteen, her language was salty and coarse and right to the point. Sydney was certainly blunt when she needed to be, but I sensed that the sexual dance made her nervous. Judging from the deer in a headlight look in her eyes, it was far from nothing. "Please tell me," I requested.
In perfectly accented French, Sydney repeated my aunt's words and I ducked my head and wished myself under the table. The litany went on and got increasingly randy and ridiculous. The two of us would have beautiful children, but only if we acted on the passion that everyone can see. There was more in there about fucking like rabbits and her best wishes for successful intercourse.
"She really said that?" I choked, trying not to laugh.
Sydney took a big swallow of wine and nodded. "Yeah."
"Anything else I should know?" I suppressed another bout of hilarity.
She smiled at my question but said nothing. For the rest of the meal, we talked about safe, boring subjects like the stock market and the night passed into peaceful oblivion.
*****
Two more days on the road sent us through New Mexico and Arizona. More funny aliases in anonymous hotel rooms. No more discussions about our parents. I found out that Sydney liked birds and we stopped a few times to watch some raptors flying majestically after their prey. She found some music at one rest stop and we sang along to oldies tapes and shouted along with some death metal anthems.
On one of our last stops before we hit the California border, I saw her sitting on the bench with the book she had bought at the airport. When she saw me, she hid the cover from me and smirked. "Say, Vaughn, do you own a hunting knife?"
"No. Should I?" Where was this going? I handed her a Slusho and sat across from her.
"Do you like diving for treasure?" Now her smile was as wide as the Rio Grande.
I'd never been scuba diving in my life. Not even snorkeling. "Treasure?" I swear my voice squeaked on that last one and she started giggling.
"I have one more question. What would Dirk Pitt do in this situation?" My heart sank. Of all the things I wanted to hide, this was it. How could she…..oh, shit. I knew exactly how she found out. Trish and her damned powers. All those times she touched me in compassion also revealed my deepest secrets. Heat rushed into my face and I knew I was flaming red.
"I don't know," I croaked, totally mortified.
She flashed the book cover at me. Deep Six. With another peal of laughter, she started reading some of the parts about Dirk bedding women and how they threw themselves at him. "Is that how it works?" Syd asked with a straight face. There was something in her voice that was more than amusement. It was almost….sensual. Cold shivers worked their way up my back, totally defying the desert heat that whitened and bleached every surface in this barren country.
"I wouldn't know." I really didn't know. My experience with women was mostly non-existent. Good looks don't count for everything in this world. Oh, they draw the women all right, but the women don't tend to hang around when they discover the ghost of your dead girlfriend hanging over your shoulder. Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt were my escape. Ian Fleming. Robert Ludlum. John LeCarre. I was supposed to be a spy, so you'd think I got a clue by reading about spies from the masters. Hell, my last name even matched the actor from the Man from Uncle.
Sydney took pity on me and dropped the book into her satchel. "Give me the keys."
I obeyed her without question and followed her back to the car. For the first three days, she had let me drive without complaint. But now that we were nearly home, she wanted to take the reins for awhile. Unlike some guys, I had no problem with that. With a whoop, she vaulted over the car door and settled herself behind the wheel. "Want to see how a real woman drives?"
Her words were lost in the trail of rubber she laid down as she made tracks toward the interstate, but her smile burned brighter than the desert sun and I found myself smiling back at her double entendre. Riding shotgun gave me time to study her when I thought she wasn't looking, watching the wind in her hair and loving the grin that grew with each passing mile. Was this something Dirk Pitt would do? Hell, no, he'd commandeer the car and ravish the woman with one hand. This is where I parted ways with Clive Cussler's ridiculous hero. As the road sang under our tires, I read passages to her from the journal and fielded her carefully wrought questions. More patient and far more understanding than any shrink, she drew me out of myself and helped me get in touch with my emotions. By the time we got to the Pacific coastline, she and I were in perfect synchrony, communicating without speaking and transmitting volumes with a smile and a touch of our hands. It was late afternoon, and if I played my cards right, my vision would come true.
****
Lovely swatches of color tinted the Malibu sky as we walked on the beach with our sneakers tied around our necks. Magenta and fuchsia quarreled with peach and indigo for dominance on the canvas of the most magnificent sunset I had ever seen. The sea breeze was fresh and clean and all was right in the world.
We walked for miles and talked about everything but work. The music we liked. Our favorite foods. She liked gardening and old movies. I liked playing guitar and painting pictures. That last fact seemed to surprise her. I would have offered to show her my etchings but didn't want to ruin the moment with a cheap comment. When we got to the car, I opened the trunk and she saw my surprise. A cooler filled with ice and my favorite California zinfandel. A picnic basket with a gourmet meal that I'd snuck into the car while she showered this morning. A blanket that I'd bought on our travels. "Have dinner with me."
"Michael," she started. "We….shouldn't."
I wanted to say that we had spent the last four days together, sharing meals and trading stories like the best of friends. But she was right. This was our home turf and my house was no more than ten minutes away. I jogged on this beach nearly every morning. People I knew lived in houses that overlooked the water. How easy would it be for one of them to come upon us and start asking questions. I knew all that and I still didn't care. "Please. We might never get this chance again for a long time."
And I might never get the chance to show her how I felt. She considered my request and finally relented. "All right."
So we spread the blanket and opened the wine and watched the sun fall to the sea with its fiery arms and shared some crusty croissants. It was a perfect moment and I would never forget the way that sunset reflected in her eyes as she looked at me. Her hands slid along the blanket and captured mine. I wasn't sure where this was going and didn't want to scare her off when we had come so far. I looked down at her tanned fingers intertwined with mine and felt the dream start to come alive, dancing along my senses and bursting into song. I raised my head and was mesmerized by the perfect symmetry of her features. I loosened one hand and traced her cheekbones and let my hand fall to her chin. She closed her eyes at my touch and the smallest of sighs left her lips. Encouraged, I leaned closer and moaned when she twined my hair around her hand. Freeing her other hand, she ran her fingers through my wind-tousled hair. "I've wanted to do that for so long," she admitted gently.
"And I've wanted to do this." I started to kiss her cheek, but she turned her head at the last second and our lips met. For a moment, we stared at each other in stunned surprise and I felt the insane urge to laugh. Then her lips softened under mine and I forgot about laughing. It started gentle and soft, the merest touch of my mouth on hers, her eyelids fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird against my face. Her breathing quickened and her mouth opened under mine. With slow deliberation, I traced her lips with my tongue, endlessly exploring their perfect shape and sucking on her lower lip with my teeth before I extended my reach and our tongues danced and quarreled as we bit and sucked at each other like two starving people. Tasting her, savoring her like a fine delicacy, feasting on cinnamon and mocha while she dined on the flavor left by my Altoids. Each swoop of our tongues sent us further along the road of no return, and I knew we had to stop before things got out of hand. I broke off the kiss first and saw her disappointment, but I also saw understanding dawn in her lovely, luminous eyes.
I rested my forehead against hers and we stayed like that for awhile with joined hands, watching the moon rise and shine brightly along the endless rise and fall of the breakers hitting the sand. "It's time to go back," she said finally.
Backward and forward at the same time. When we returned to our respective lives and resumed our roles, I'd have to forego the pleasure of her company for the lonely spaces of my house and the cold comfort of a TV dinner. We rose to our feet and I hugged her against me as we walked back to the car, returning to fight the good fight and waiting for the day when we could be together openly.
We drove to her house in silence and parked across the street, the Porsche shrouded by the darkness of an overhanging branch. Her friend Francie appeared in the kitchen window, oblivious to our presence as we watched quietly, filled with quiet contemplation. Syd touched the journal and looked at me solemnly as she took my hand in hers. "Remember, when you're at your absolute lowest, your most depressed, just remember that you can always.. you know... you've got my number."
A deliberate echo of an earlier conversation on the pier that was the turning point in our relationship. "Thank you, Sydney."
I kissed her on the forehead and she got out of the car. "Goodbye, Michael. I guess I'll see you around."
"Bye, Syd." My voice was soft and filled with a love that overwhelmed me at times with its intensity, but a love I'd have to save for another day when the time was right. Perhaps next week, or perhaps in seven years. However long it took, I would always be here for her, my head spinning with inherited craziness, just three bricks shy of a full load.
The End