Her affable, yet obsequious go-getter, acting as host, had poured her another drink. "Bottoms up," he cajoled. Boldly, he winked. Kellog waited for Kiera to tilt her glass, allowing the strong liquor to slide down her throat. "Go on. Live a little. You haven't stopped fighting since we got here. Weak drinks won't kill you."
"You call this weak?" The lip of her glass teetered on Kiera's lower lip. Both the glass and her lip wobbled.
"Come on. What is it? You have nothing to feel guilty about. As I said before…you and I will never be able to relate to these people, in this backwards time, the way we're able to relate to each other."
"How many times must I tell you? I have a family. I won't betray my husband, nor my son."
The glass trembled less imperceptively in her hand. Greg and Sam, the irreplaceable persons bound to her, and she to them, in 2077, the two who meant everything to her…this problematic time warp divorced her from them. The separation, the deprivation, the tremendous loss worked on her every day, wreaking havoc with her peace of mind, pushing her closer and closer to going over the brink. Increasingly, the grip she had on her sanity weakened.
Slowly, subdued, Kiera lowered the glass from her lips. Not another drop passed from the glass to her mouth. Clearly, she saw what Matthew wanted; she wasn't giving it, had no inkling of an intention. She had not paid him this visit to satisfy his lust. Frankly, she was at a loss why she had wound up here.
What had she been thinking?
She set the full glass down. The look in her eyes spoke volumes. "Thanks for the drink. Just the one." It really was good stuff. The initial belt that she'd imbibed helped her see things explicitly. For instance, that night, she suddenly remembered. Her partner had stopped by her place to share a drink with her. What he had brought had been good too, without a thought of there being strings attached to his friendly gesture, a far cry from this setting.
Sharper images replaced fuzzier ones. Kiera gasped as the enhanced clarity of her son's and husband's faces sobered her.
Quite naturally, their faces coalesced with her partner's, Carlos Fonnegra, who lay in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines keeping vigil over his vital signs. Surreal that he'd nearly died. It would have been heartbreaking if he had. The bullet had ripped through his skin like butter, the belly wound, a true bleeder. He'd lost buckets of blood—and still lived, although the pallor of death had weighed heavily on his countenance, having transformed it into an ashen mask.
Thankfully, Carlos hadn't perished, Kiera rejoiced, while giving Kellog a wan smile. What further tricks did he have up his sleeve?
Carlos' admission about his coming from strong stock must have been true. Those indomitable Fonnegra men and women too, Kiera contemplated. His close call with death and the fight he'd put up, brought her around, forced her to reassess.
She frowned. Indeed, what was she doing here? This wasn't what she needed, let alone wanted. A popular turn of phrase, embraced by the 'locals' popped into her head. This was classic. She was a 2077 woman, making a "booty call" on a devil-may-care man from the same spatio-temporal scheme. She could see that Kellog was trying not to leer. He was, however, a suggestive sigh away from reeling her in, or so he thought.
It was time she left, made her move, time for screwing her head back on straight, where it belonged.
"See ya…"
"Ah, c'mon. Where're you going?" Kellog's arm extended, his fingers stretched in elongation. Such a waste, he lamented, seeing her drift over to the opening she'd come through. "I won't bite."
She made an effort to fuel her faint smile. "I'll take that under advisement."
"For next time?" He winked with a wry smile curving his lips. "I was hoping you'd see that being alone needn't be an option."
She sighed, sounding as if her breath were cumulative, the result of many days of holding it in. "Oh, there are always options. Just as there are always decisions to be made. I'm doing just that. Choosing my options, making the right decisions." Over her shoulder as she departed, she bade, "Thanks for the drink…and your forgiveness. Good night."
Matthew raised his glass, canted it and smiled. Returning the sentiment, reassuring her that his clemency was unconditional, Matthew regarded her withdrawing form. Under his breath, his chuckling emanated from deep within his throat. Fidelity became her, adorned her, he thought. Something he'd seen in her eyes fanned his flame. "Another time then, Beautiful One. There's sure to be. You've felt it too. The attraction, drawing us together. I can be a patient man, when it's to my advantage." He lifted his glass to his lips and sipped. "In time, memories fade, along with priorities. Everything is, after all, a matter of time…"
Kiera conferred a critical eye on the aseptic environment. People recovered in such an archaic setting? It boggled her mind every time she set foot in one of these early 21st century hospitals. Efficiency tempered by a sense of failure, helplessness, and resignation roamed these disinfected halls.
"Where can I find Carlos Fonnegra?" She splayed her fingers on the desk before her.
Giving Kiera a patient, though chary eye, the fatigued nurse on duty, tolerantly manning her station, curtly replied, "The Detective is in ICU, west." He had just been given additional meds. Determinedly, Kiera set off, already knowing where that particular section was. This wasn't the first time Carlos had suffered grave bodily harm. His being tough was mandatory. Would he have lasted this long if he weren't? Not sounding like an afterthought, Nurse Wells' qualification halted Kiera's determined gait. "No visitors. For the time being."
"I'm Detective Fonnegra's partner on the Vancouver Police force." The bark of a CPS Protector permeated her voice. She glared rigidly at the employee. "I'm aware of his condition."
"He's critical."
"Yes—I know." Then her voice mellowed and she made her smile come out to play. "I plan on staying with him the rest of the night."
"Who authorized this?"
Not batting an eye, Kiera spared her a grimace. Levelly, she replied, "If you need authorization, contact Inspector Dillion, our superior. He'll authorize it." She forged on, her eyes locked and loaded with intensity, disregarding Nurse Wells' dwindling protestations.
Wells promptly went for her phone and began dialing.
Kiera got off on the floor where the west wing's ICU was. She kept going until she spied Carlos just as she had imagined him, stretched out on a bed, with head and torso slightly elevated. Monitoring machines, their intermittent blips and chirps lending background noise, tirelessly updated his condition. Careful to be as unobtrusive as possible, she positioned one of the two visitors' chairs provided close to the bed. The same hand, which hours before she'd held when it, as well as hers, had been bloody, she fitted into her same hand. Her grasp was tenacious as she held it tight.
His other arm had an IV attached to it.
He certainly had a pulse, although his heartbeats fell a bit below a normal heart's at rest, 60 to 100 beats a minute for an adult. Kiera listened to him breathe, listened to him cleave to life. We're here one day, could be gone the next, she inevitably thought; that held true whether it was 2012 or 2077. His inhalations and exhalations were somewhat shallow. She squeezed his hand harder. His breath hitched momentarily, but it soon settled down into its uninterrupted pattern. She bit her lower lip, bringing his hand up to her cheek. The ashen aspect of his face no longer prevailed. His more healthy coloring bathed it. Impulsivity influenced both of her hands having her cup the one she held at her face.
Yes, she wanted to speak his name, but she refrained. She had confessed her truth to him because he deserved to know it before he died, if this had been his last day on earth. Again, Kiera celebrated his survival. Remaining silent, she thought back to all that they had been through thus far since that fateful day when they'd first met in the rubble the blast had left behind.
Barely audible, she murmured for the second time this day, "You are a good man, Carlos." She cradled his hand, caressing the sturdy knuckles with her soft lips. "Get well, grow stronger." Like a mantra, she beseeched, "I need you in this fight. I can't do it alone…" Emotionally, with minimal thought, she rose from the chair, still clinging to his hand. "I won't do it without you." Leaning down, poised above his forehead, she pressed her lips firmly into it. The unmistakable scent of germicide and alpha male mingled in her nostrils.
Carlos stirred, groaning. The heart monitor spiked, in conjunction with his heart pounding. He struggled to open his eyes. His heart rate had gone up, way up. His eyes fluttered open and locked with Kiera's. "Ki-Kiera," he managed, giving it his all.
"Yes."
"It's really you."
"Yes; it's really me."
Pain medication had stoked his subconscious. He'd dreamt of her so many times under medicinal influence. Separating reality from figments conjured up in slumberland was a monumental task.
Licking his lips, as his eyes quivered to close, Carlos sighed. "Don't go…"
"Wasn't planning to." She pulled the chair closer still to his bed. With the fingers of the hand, which she had never surrendered, she threaded her fingers with his. Pausing to reflect, Kiera reveled in the contact she shared with this man. He was the closest thing she had to her having a champion here. As long as she could remember, she liked strong men. She revered leaders, in the truest sense of the word, led by their noble consciences, and despised manipulative posers, driven by their ignoble wants.
This resilient man, whose hand she garnered, was demonstrably the former. His heart beat stronger still as her thoughts wafted, coasting into the future.
TBC…