Trouble Under Venus Page 2

  “Geez. Lonnie, let’s go inside, where the whole hotel can’t hear us.”

  He lurched closer. His big hand cupped the back of my head and he breathed alcohol fumes into my face. “You askin’ me in yer room?”

  “No!” I stepped back, pushing his hand away. “I think you should go.”

  “You wanta know why I’m goin’ back in time?”

  “I already know. To see your mom.”

  His story had tugged at everybody’s heartstrings. He’d been only eight when a car accident put his mother in a coma. She’d never come out of it. But I wasn’t letting him sweet-talk me into anything. No way. Especially not with Mr. Crawlstroke listening.

  Lonnie swayed, caught his balance just in time and thunked ungracefully into a bamboo lawn chair. The pool lights reflected off his face. He knuckled his eyes, then tipped his head back and let out a breath. “There’s more than that.”

  “More?” Resigned that he would not leave until he’d finished talking, I sat in the other chair.

  “My mom. She, uh…” His Adam’s apple jerked. “It was a suicide attempt in the car. Six months before, in the summer of eighty-two, my older brother drowned. Mikey and me were out at the lake. Playin’ on the tire swing. We had an old tin boat we paddled around the lake. When Mikey swung that last time, I saw the boat had drifted out, under the swing. I yelled at him. He looked down right when he let go of the rope. Did this weird twistin’ thing on the way down.” Lonnie covered his face with his hands and choked before going on. “If I hadn’t yelled, he woulda missed the boat. But he hit it, with his head. He never came up. I swam out there but I couldn’t find ’im. Don’t know if I coulda pulled him up, anyhow. He was twelve and I was only seven.”

  I got goosebumps. Poor kid, watching his brother die. How awful. And then losing his mother soon after. As dread set in, the goosebumps left. “Lonnie? You’re not planning to change anything. Are you?” Of course he was. “You know we had to sign agreements that we wouldn’t.”

  Beside me, he shrugged. But did not reply.

  “Lonnie? Oh my God.” Didn’t Sudo do background checks?

  “It was my fault Mikey died.” His voice faltered. “And if he didn’t die, my mom wouldn’t have…well, she’d still be okay.”

  “Oh God.” Could I blame him, though? It hurt my head to think of the changes he might make. How things might be different. “Lonnie. If you go back in time and make Mikey live, you won’t need to enter the contest, to travel back in time.” He’d become one of those paradoxes.

  He sighed.

  “Okay. You’re drunk. I’m sure when you’re sober, this won’t sound like a good idea to you. You’ve got to go now. And I’m gonna pretend you never told me any of this.” Messing with your own history had to be the worst possible mistake you could make in time travel. I couldn’t fault his motivations, but what would happen if he did it? The teacher in me leapt at the opportunity to correct a wrong course, go to a higher authority if necessary. But the liberalist in me wondered if it really wasn’t his own choice to make. Who was I to tell another adult what to do with his life? Mine wasn’t exactly following the course I’d planned.

  A loud snore broke me from my debate.

  “Lonnie? Oh, crap.” He could not sleep on my patio. “Lonnie! Hey, wake up.” The rough shake I administered was probably a bit harsher than necessary, but I needed him gone.

  I breathed a sigh of relief when he stirred, but then he stood and staggered toward my door. “Oh no. No way, cowboy. You’re going back to your own room.”

  “This is my room. Gonna go to bed.”

  “Not in here. What number is your room, Lonnie?” I kept expecting a snort or a laugh from next door, but heard none. I could only hope that meant my neighbor had done the decent thing and forsaken his eavesdropping.

  “Seventeen.”

  “See?” I asked, pointing to the number by my door. “This is room three. Come on, I’ll help you find yours.” His heavy arm settled on my shoulders and we made our awkward way out around the pool and to the other wing of the Inn. At his door, he fumbled in his pockets until producing a key, which he dropped. I picked it up for him, then unlocked the door, rather than wait for him to connect key with slot.

  I swung open his door. “Here you are. Night, then.”

  He attempted to step closer, but lost his balance and smashed into me, pinning me against the stucco beside the door. Lonnie clearly did not think this was the end of our association for the evening. We played silent tag for a couple of passes as he strove to connect his mouth with mine, until he stopped my head with his hands. The alcohol on his breath only served to make his slobbery kiss even less appealing. In a last-ditch effort to escape, I reached up and pinched a bit of skin on the underside of his arm. Whether it truly hurt or just startled him, I don’t know. But I seized the moment when he jumped, squeezing past him to freedom.

  Still scrubbing my mouth with the back of my hand, I started across the courtyard—and saw movement in the shadows at the edge of the pool decking! Whoever it was, he or she hid, a leafy rattle in the bushes the only evidence of their whereabouts. What reason the person had for hiding from me, I didn’t want to know. So I hurried back to the safety of my room, making sure to lock the door and windows behind me.

  Chapter 2

  On the way to meet the others for our morning session, I rubbed the scrape on my shoulder. “Damn Lonnie.” The rough stucco had done a number on my back. I sincerely hoped he had a devil of a hangover this morning. Maybe doing inverted yoga poses with a headache would take all his effort and he’d leave me alone.

  In the middle of the tea garden-themed waiting area, Althea and Rhona sat on a small sofa on either side of a man I didn’t recognize. Next to the pale older women, his skin was quite dark, as was his hair. Funny how his hair seemed too dark. And his skin…why did I get the impression the tan was artificial? Well, guys were entitled to a fake tan, too.

  Althea was already tittering small bits of Elvis trivia to the stranger, who listened, nodding, looking somewhat cornered as he pushed Rhona’s hands from around his bicep. Substantial bicep too, but right next to it, a pocket in his tee shirt had actual pens sticking out the top! Further down…oh my. He wore athletic shorts, hiking boots, and tube socks pulled clear up to his knees.

  As I took a seat in a nearby wicker armchair, he looked over at me from behind small wire-framed glasses. The glasses were cute, if not much else about this nerd’s ensemble was. For some inexplicable reason, his eyes narrowed.

  “Lonnie!” Rhona called out.

  All eyes looked at a point above my head. Lonnie must have been right behind me. God, I hoped it didn’t look like we’d arrived together.

  “Oh dear. You look like you feel terrible,” Rhona went on. “Poor thing. I hope you weren’t up too late.”

  Three sets of eyes moved from Lonnie, back to me. I found myself meeting the gaze behind those silver glasses. The chestnut-brown eyebrows rose in mocking, silent question. That eavesdropping, midnight-swimming, overly cocky neighbor of mine! Just what the hell was he doing at our morning meeting?

  “Miranda and Lonnie,” Althea said, “this is Mitchell Goodman. He’s joining us today.”

  “Joining us?” I echoed. Joining us. And he’d heard me leave with Lonnie last night, seen me arrive with Lonnie in tow. Geez, he probably thought I’d spent the night with the big creep.

  “Four not lucky number,” Mrs. Sudo piped up, behind the check-in desk. “Four bad. Bad feng shui.” She nodded a tad too emphatically. “Five much better number for group.” All five fingers on her right hand wagged at us, as if fanning good spirits our way.

  How odd. After months of planning and choosing this group, Mr. Sudo suddenly changed his mind and decided he needed five participants instead of four? Either he hadn’t done as much advance planning as I’d imagined, or…something was up.

  “Everybody ready?” Tim—our driver and Professor Sudo’s personal assistant—asked from the fro
nt entrance.

  In his hung-over state, Lonnie still managed to make it out the door first and claim the front seat of the minivan for himself. I shot him what I hoped was my most disdainful look and climbed in the back. Maybe I’d get some peace and quiet if Mitchell and the ladies rode in the middle. I sat, and in the front, Mitchell also glared at Lonnie. With another nervous look at Rhona, he bypassed the middle seat and joined me.

  Compassion flashed through me for him in his attempt to avoid Rhona’s advances. Then I remembered him taunting me about checking him out in his Speedo. Instead of popping off a witty comment to help us bond, I turned toward the window and tried not to listen as the other women traded Elvis trivia for Charles and Diana factoids. Smarty-pants geekboy was on his own.

  I caught a whiff of his woodsy cologne and then his whisper tickled along the neckline of my tank top. “You should have some Neosporin on that.” Whether from his whisper or his fingers tracing just below the scrapes on my shoulder, the hair on my arms stood up.

  Damn, but he smelled good. “Um.” Why was my heart racing?

  As close as he was, he could probably feel it, maybe even hear it.

  He leaned in even closer. “That’s what you get, carrying on with the wrong kind of men.” His words were scarcely more than hot breath against my skin, and then his knuckles skimmed my shoulder, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

  “I wasn’t carrying on!” I whispered. “I was—”

  “Mitchell?” Althea warbled.

  “Hmm?” he said, slipping his hand from my shoulder.

  “I asked you which Elvis song is your favorite.”

  I turned in my seat, enough so I could see his face when he answered.

  He pushed up his glasses with two fingers before breaking out an attractive, if insolent, grin. With a wink and a pointed look from me to Lonnie and back, he replied, “Suspicious Minds.”

  My hand itched to slap him. That would do nothing but cause a scene, though. I lifted the hand high enough to catch his eye and flipped him the bird.

  “Oh, such a powerful choice,” Althea gushed. “You must be a man of unplumbed emotional depths. You can tell so much about a person by their favorite Elvis song.”

  “Yeah,” Lonnie piped up from the front seat, “his woman must’ve cheated on him.”

  The day before, we’d learned Lonnie’s favorite was Too Much. So fitting.

  “I’ll catch you up, Mitchell,” Althea said. “We’ll start in the back seat and work our way forward.” Great, I could only imagine the look on Mitchell’s face when she told him what I’d said the day before. Are You Lonesome Tonight? was all that had come to mind at the time. “Miranda’s favorite is.”

  “A Little Less Conversation,” I interrupted.

  “Miranda!” Poor Althea’s jaw dropped. “Aren’t we testy today? Did you have a late night too?”

  Beside me, Mitchell snickered.

  “Noisy neighbors,” I muttered to no one in particular.

  “Oh, poor dear,” Rhona said. “I understand. I need my sleep too.”

  Her one-sided conversation about how much sleep humans needed at different ages lasted the rest of the way to our yoga class.

  * * * *

  Feeling like quite the tourist, I exited the yellow Feng Shuimobile in the middle of Sedona’s “main street” shopping district. We had no classes scheduled today, so I’d seized the opportunity to be alone and talked Tim into driving me downtown before anyone else could offer to tag along.

  “I’ll be back here at three, or you can phone if you need a ride before then,” he assured me as I shut the passenger door. With a friendly wave, he drove away.

  Now, which way to go first? The streets were lined with shops selling everything from mainstream clothing to holistic medicine, palm readings to burritos. The single item on my shopping list was a new pair of yoga pants in a light color. I was literally cooking each morning in my black ones, but refused to wear shorts to our sessions, what with Lascivious Lonnie constantly peeking where he shouldn’t.

  Wanting to do some footloose window-shopping first, I set out down the street. The crowds were an eclectic mix of people straight out of the spa in their velour workout suits and wealthy visitors decked out in Versace, alongside Joe Shmuck tourists in denim shorts and flip-flops.

  Hmm. Quite the clientele Mdme. Futuriste had in her Crystal Ball Readings shop. Put Your Records On lilted from a sidewalk café with a menu boasting Organic Lemonade. I was free and single and I could damn well spend seven-fifty on ten ounces of lemonade if I wanted. Nobody to harp, since my money was all mine. Resting in the shade of an umbrella table, I sipped my treat and watched the crowds passing. Would heat thin the mid-day traffic?

  A cyclist across the street caught my eye. He had great legs, at least what I could see of them above those tall socks.

  It couldn’t be. But when he pulled over to chain his bike to a pole, I could tell it was. Instead of the nerdy wire frames, he wore stylish wraparound sunglasses. No way were those prescription. He pulled off his helmet and hung it on the handlebars, then looked up and down the street.

  Dude might have cool sunglasses, but the short-sleeve button up shirt with the belted khaki shorts weren’t the height of sporty. Of course, any guy methodical enough to have written notes on the neatly folded paper he pulled from his back pocket probably would not be worried about fashion.

  Mitchell was such an anomaly. Was he a true geek, accidentally athletic and occasionally hip, or was he a cool guy trying to be a geek? He looked again at his paper, then the building before him, and went in the front door.

  “Cuts and Crystals,” the sign above the door read. A hair salon. Hmm. He didn’t look like he needed a trim, but maybe he was anal about his hair length. I’d all but moved across the street to where he’d disappeared, when he emerged, looking at his notes. He went to his right, up the street, moving with purpose.

  Well, my lemonade was still holding out. I’d follow along on my side of the street and be inconspicuous. It was hard keeping up with his long-legged stride while still maintaining the window-shopping demeanor, but I worked at it, all the while cursing how short I was. He ducked into Chakras and Curls next, coming back out in seconds. How many hair salons would he case before choosing one? He seemed terribly uncomfortable in that stuffy shirt, and kept rubbing his neck inside the collar.

  Next stop for Mitchell, The Dancing Vortex Day Spa. What could he be up to?

  Further up the street, nearer the new shops, I finally made the connection between all the places he’d been in. Bronze Bunz. They all offered tanning!

  He seemed to stay inside for a long time. I’d all but decided he was inside tanning, but then he came out and crossed the pedestrian walk to my side. I turned my back and concentrated on some Navajo rugs as he passed and entered Sedona Stylin’, to my left.

  This surveillance game was fun, and I was in no mood for it to end. Which way would he go when he came out of this store? Hoping to not blow my cover, I ducked into an alley on the other side of the rug display. The problem with my new locale was, if he went the other way down the street, I’d lose him. With another slurp on my drink, I stepped forward far enough to poke my head out and peek.

  “Why are you tailing me?” Mitchell stood on the other side of the corner, like in a movie, his hands shoved oh-so-casually in his pockets.

  The emphatic denial at the tip of my tongue would be pointless. He’d only laugh at me like he had when he caught me checking him out last night. “Why are you wanting to tan more? You’re going to look like an Oompah Loompah if you keep it up!” Maybe if I put him on the defensive, I’d win this round.

  He pursed his lips, then stepped closer, forcing me back into the shaded alley. “Tell me about it,” he said, his voice lower. Again, he rubbed his neck inside the collar, giving me the distinct impression he wasn’t used to wearing a shirt like that. With a look left and right, he bit his lower lip. “Which looks more natural, tanning beds, or spray tan?”
>
  “What have you been using? Lotion?” I knew the answer before he nodded. “Damn. I’ve never seen it go that dark before.” I couldn’t help myself; I touched his arm, so unnaturally brown, so smooth…and then looked down at his legs, where only fresh stubble marked his skin. “Um. What are you into, cross-dressing or something?”

  He yanked his sunglasses off and glared, so I pulled my hand back. “No!”

  What a relief! No cross-dresser would sound that offended at the suggestion.

  “I shaved for a swim meet. Triathlon. Race.”

  “Which?”

  “None of your damn business, okay? Will you just answer my question and quit following me around?”

  “Oh. I’m following you, is it? How do I know you didn’t follow me down here? Where’d you get that bike, anyway? Is that the one you ride in the triathlon?”

  He groaned and pulled at his shirt again. “Do you have to know everything?”

  “Funny how you can spend the morning making allusions to my sex life, but when I ask why you do something obvious out-there like remove your body hair, I’m intrusive!” Didn’t serial killers get nervous when people asked too many questions? And didn’t they totally check out their victims and learn everything about them first? I was tempted to barrel out of that alley and scream loud and long if he tried to stop me.

  “Okay.” He stepped closer, impatient but restraining himself, judging by the big cord of muscle twitching in his neck. How could he smell so good after riding miles on a bike in the Arizona sun? “Ms. Reed, I most humbly apologize for teasing you about your nonexistent sexual affair with the rich Texan. Now, will you answer my question?”

  “Nonexistent? Nonexistent!” Now I was pissed for sure. Who was he to go around assuming there was no affair? I suddenly wished I’d slept with Lonnie, in case it would bother this jerk. “I’ll have you know, Lonnie and I shared a very satisfying interlude last night.” I looked away for the lie, but managed an eyelash flutter to disguise it, along with a happy sigh. “He’s got the stamina of a twenty-year-old.”