The Multitude, стр. 28
He paused to enjoy her in profile—brooding expression, dark, shaggy hair, a funky silver earring hanging like tinsel from a milky lobe—until she noticed him and turned.
“Cheers.” He filled two glasses and handed one over.
“How did you know I like white wine?” she asked.
He didn’t for sure, but, “Who doesn’t?”
“That’s too glib an answer.” She glanced over her shoulder again. “Maybe our lives are scripted.”
“Then I should thank whoever wrote yours for bringing you to my door.”
Carla’s smile brought a twinkle to her eyes.
“Here’s to predestined midnight visitors,” he said.
They clicked their glasses, and he joined her on the couch. Their shoulders touched and lingered, easing his concern he might have cast a shadow on their fledgling relationship by breaking off the kiss in the doorway. She provided further evidence of forgiveness by lifting a foot and running it a few inches up his leg, under the cuff of his jeans.
“I don’t quite know what to make of you,” she said.
Her touch renewed his desire, but he kept his hands to himself. Carla presented a perplexing combination of forwardness and skittishness. She’d seemed ready to bolt after mugging him on the porch, and she had taken off by disappearing the night before in her best rendition of a Twilight Zone episode. “I’m having a little trouble figuring you out, too.”
That was all the talk for a time, but they shared a language of touches, gazes, and smiles to communicate an easy sensuality and comfortable bond transcending the questions hanging between them. Eventually they drained their glasses, and he poured more wine.
“I need to explain myself,” she said.
“Do you know the secrets of the universe while you’re at it?”
She gazed behind them, into the moonlit neighborhood. “I’m afraid my world defies comprehension.”
“Join the club.”
Carla set her glass on the table. “Imagine yourself dreaming but fully aware. You’re the man behind the curtain, the puppet, and the audience all at once.”
“Got it,” he said.
“Some totally hot woman comes along and—”
Hmmm. This hypothetical was hitting close to home. “Anyone I know?”
She poked his arm. “Shut up. I’m trying to tell you something.”
Brewster would have liked to close the lids over her mirthful eyes and press his lips to each one, but he needed answers to the questions buzzing in his head. “I’m all ears.”
“You and this woman are alone at her place. You know from her words or her body language or simply the context of the situation she’s available to you. You take her, right?”
The question had double meaning written all over it, but what response was she looking for?
Carla offered no help. She folded her arms and waited.
“Well, see, there’s this whole I’m Catholic thing to deal with.” A punt at best. He almost motioned to the crucifix on the wall but didn’t want to overdo it. Catholic or not, he hadn’t been a saint all his life when it came to women. Lately, though, he’d sworn off his previous ways.
“Don’t waffle. I’m describing something happening to you in a dream, Brewster. Religion doesn’t count, because none of this will be happening in the here and now. You’re in a dream, you know you’re dreaming, and the most desirable woman in the world comes along. What do you do?”
“Bust into tears?”
“Don’t make me kill you.” She leapt off the couch and paced in front of him, sloshing her wine with each step. Then she stopped and polished it off, returned the glass to the coffee table, and fixed him with a stare from eyes suddenly vulnerable. “Now you know why I came on to you.”
He tried to follow her logic, but the heat of the earlier moment must have fogged his brain. “Because I’m dreaming?”
“No, you impossible man. I thought I was.” She headed toward the kitchen but paused in the doorway and turned. She didn’t seem annoyed, just unaccountably determined. “I’m not a slut. I swear to God, if you’re sitting there thinking I’m—”
Had he been thinking that? If not, why were his cheeks burning? He held up his hands. “Easy, girl.”
She came back and poked his arm again. Hard. “Don’t call me girl. Carla works just fine if you can’t think of anything more endearing to say. Now come on.” She grabbed his wrist and tugged him off the couch.
“Where are we going?”
“I noticed a laptop on the kitchen counter last time I visited this imaginary place. There’s something I need to show you.”
A minute later, they stood side by side at the counter. Carla fiddled with the mouse and danced her fingers across the keyboard until she came up with a website and opened a cam shot of somebody’s bedroom. A sleeping woman appeared on the screen, sheets pulled up to her chin, dark hair splayed across her pillow. Sections of newspaper lay scattered about, as if she’d been reading when she dozed off.
The scene wasn’t zoomed in enough for Brewster to get a good look at her face. “Whoever that is, she sleeps well in god-awful brightness.”
“I had to leave the lights on so we’d be able to see her.”
“Wait. You were in the room with her?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
She zoomed in.
Carla was the woman in the bed. He blinked. “Why did you film yourself like that?”
“Wrong tense,” she said. “I’m filming myself. You’re watching a live webcam.”
“Right.” God. How strong was that wine?
“I mean it. There I am in my bed and here I am standing with you.”
“I could use the idea in a novel.”
Carla grabbed his arm. Got in his face. “Act shocked…surprised…scared.” Her wide-eyed expression combined all of the above.
As for his, what could he convey but confusion? Did she really expect him to buy into some supernatural explanation instead of the obvious? They had to be viewing a recording, not a live feed. “Shouldn’t