Walk a Mile Page 11

  A wave of nausea swept over him. Thank God they were almost to the car. It had to be better in the car, right? One more layer between him and the rest of the universe.

  At the driver’s side door, Flynn stopped and patted his pockets for the keys. Jerry was holding them out as Flynn turned to ask for them.

  “Telepathy is not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “No, it’s not,” Flynn agreed grimly. He got in behind the wheel and faced Jerry as he took the passenger seat. “How are you hanging in there?”

  Jerry swallowed, tasting bile. “Well, I haven’t thrown up. Not yet, at any rate. I take that as a plus. If I move too fast, I get vertigo. And I have the worst headache ever.” And your shoulder is truly fucked up. How come you never mentioned that before? The silent comment was automatic. The sense of loss he felt when he remembered Flynn couldn’t hear him was surprising.

  “You’ll get used to it. It gets better.”

  For a split second, Jerry thought Flynn had heard his thoughts, but he realized Flynn was responding to what he’d said aloud.

  Flynn started the car, grinding the key in the ignition as he turned it just a little too hard. He flinched at the sound, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “We’d better get you to a hotel room. You probably need to lie down. I can show you some other shielding techniques. I’m pretty sure you packed something for a headache, too.” Flynn’s smile on Jerry’s face was decidedly crooked, and Jerry wondered if it was even possible for his mouth to shape any other expression. In a flash of memory, the image of the two of them packing for the trip came into Flynn’s mind. Jerry got the full Technicolor imprint of it secondhand. Hell’s bells. No wonder Flynn had always been able to read him so clearly. It probably had something to do with his photographic memory.

  He recalled some of the images he’d fought to quash in those early days when he had been trying not to crush on Flynn. That might explain a lot about their relationship as well. It must have been hard for Flynn to resist falling for him when he’d been constantly painting hot pictures in his head of the two of them together.

  Was there anything about their relationship that was real?

  The thought was so disturbing, it took his breath away. He clutched the overhead passenger handgrip as though it could anchor his world, even though the car wasn’t moving that fast in the city traffic.

  “Right.” Jerry blew out his breath in a short puff of air. “Hotel. Bed. Ibuprofen. Then what?”

  Flynn shrugged one shoulder, the movement giving Jerry a weird sense of déjà vu. It was odd seeing himself looking all steely-eyed and determined. Jerry Parker, Action Hero. It didn’t seem right that Flynn couldn’t share the joke with him at this moment.

  “Then we come back tomorrow and have another go at the artifact. There has to be a way to undo this. Did you get enough information off it to translate?”

  “No. We’re going to need more than just a few lines of markings on these two boxes. I can tell you the designs were different on this one, though.”

  Right. Because the first one granted telepathy, and this one pulled a Freaky Friday on us. Obviously two different sets of designs.

  Jerry started to smile at Flynn’s caustic assessment but the expression stalled out when he realized Flynn hadn’t meant to project to him. They drove in silence as Flynn concentrated on getting them out of the evening rush hour traffic.

  Well, almost in silence.

  This is my fault. If I hadn’t been so goddamned set on getting rid of the telepathy, we’d still be in our own bodies right now. What if we can’t— He suddenly broke off, and Jerry recognized what had to be the soundproof booth. It manifested itself like a smooth, opaque bubble around Flynn. It was strange, seeing the physical manifestation of something he’d assumed he’d just imagined. He hadn’t realized that when he pictured himself in a soundproof booth, this is how he’d appeared to Flynn. In some ways, this form of being shut out was ten times worse than anything he’d ever experienced with Flynn before. It left him feeling cold and hollow, as though the warm being beside him had gotten out of bed and left him alone. No wonder Flynn got pissy when Jerry used it.

  The sunset’s glare cut across the windshield. Jerry fished out Flynn’s aviator sunglasses from the pocket of his jacket and put them on, squinting until the blessed relief of the dark shades dimmed the light.

  “You okay?” Flynn cast him a sideways glance. Jerry could see him again, but only dimly, as though he was shrouded in a cloud of cheesecloth.

  He tried to give Flynn a reassuring smile, but it was completely bizarre sitting across from a veiled version of himself like this. “No, I’m not okay. I’ve switched bodies with my best friend, who just happens to be telepathic. As shitty days go, this one is getting right up there. How about you?”

  Jesus. What do I say to that? How much can he really pick up on—quit kidding yourself. You know exactly how much he hears because you’ve always heard him loud and clear, especially when it— “I’ve had worse days, myself.”

  Instead of his usual clipped tones, Jerry heard the suggestion of Flynn’s drawl in his voice and that was just too bizarre for words.

  “You realize there’s a good chance handling the object again won’t fix anything. It didn’t before.”

  Don’t you think I fucking know that? Jesus Christ— Flynn suddenly became muted again. This time the “bubble” enveloped him so he looked like a fucking mummy, but even as Jerry stared, it shifted and became more like fog than cloth. It still worked to block out Flynn’s thoughts. So, he was getting better at using it. On some level, too, it comforted Jerry to know he was trying. That he was attempting to shield his thoughts without entirely blocking Jerry out. Or maybe he was giving Flynn too much credit?

  Jerry didn’t want to think about the possibility that this wasn’t reversible. He was already hoping whatever he took for his head would help with the dull ache in his left shoulder. He thought about all the times he’d seen that puckered scar—hell, of all the times he’d kissed it. He’d always assumed the scar was all that was left of the bullet wound Flynn never discussed. The scar tissue must encapsulate some of his nerves to cause this chronic burn in Flynn’s shoulder. It coursed its way down to his elbow and out to the fingers of his left hand, ending with a faint numbness there. Ulnar nerve involvement, surely. Probably infraspinatus, too. How did Flynn live with this constant pain all the time? Or did one just stop noticing after a while? Jerry rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles as rigid and unforgiving as rebar. When he turned his head to the right, he felt the pull of scar tissue all the way down to his shoulder. Great. No wonder Flynn never slept on his left side.

  So, if he now had Flynn’s body, his pain and his expressions, and his telepathy….

  “Flynn,” he said quietly, noting the single-minded determination with which Flynn was driving, so unlike his usual style. “What did you wear to your high school graduation?”

  Flynn tipped his head sideways, raising his eyebrow in such a familiar gesture that Jerry almost felt relieved to see it. “Last day of school? A white button-down shirt and a pair of ratty cut-offs. It was blazing hot and we had to wear those black robes, so I….” His voice trailed off.

  “What’s the opening sentence of Don Quixote?”

  Flynn’s eyebrows made a bid for his hairline, admittedly higher on Jerry’s forehead than if Flynn had been in his own body. “‘Somewhere in la Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing.’ Holy shit,” he added as an afterthought.

  Indeed, thought Jerry, and there was no one to hear him.

  Flynn drove with both hands clenched on the wheel. Jerry got the impression he was almost grateful for the heavy traffic to keep him occupied, though it was hard to tell. For the most part, Flynn was isolated behind the soundproof booth, but occasionally his thoughts leaked through.

  So fuc
ked up. Who the hell makes decorative objects that screw with your life like this?

  Frequently, Jerry heard Flynn repeating “soundproof booth” over and over again, and he wondered what was so important Flynn had to hide it. The cloak of soundproof protection Flynn wore varied with his concentration. When he focused all his attention on Flynn, Jerry could see Flynn clearly, yet not hear his thoughts. Jerry knew from experience, however, that it was nearly impossible to maintain that level of concentration—on both their parts.

  Flynn was going to get tired of the effort soon. When that happened, how was the intensely private Flynn going to deal with having all his little secrets laid bare?

  About time he got to see what it was like on the other side of that.

  The fact that he could think these thoughts freely, without fear of Flynn hearing them, brought him no pleasure at all.

  They pulled up at a Lazy Seven Inn just outside Richmond. “Wait here,” Flynn said. His movement across the parking lot to the lobby was recognizable. Pure Flynn. There was a loose-limbed grace about his gait again, as though he’d learned how to ride a new horse and made it go the way he wanted.

  Jerry closed his eyes and waited. The thoughts crowded in almost immediately. He was reminded of that old Star Trek episode in which overpopulation had created a planet where people shuffled along bumping into one another, without any space in which to raise even an arm. Everyone’s thoughts pressed in on him in just the same fashion.

  Goddamn stupid cow. I never should have married her. How do I even know the kid is mine? This paycheck isn’t going to cover the rent and buy groceries, too. God, I hate peanut butter. Dad is going to flip his lid when he finds out I have another tattoo. Oh man, I hope those people with the crying baby stay on the other end of the hotel from me. Sweet! Heather has the most awesome boobs. We’re going to have some fun tonight.

  How can I ever make this up to him?

  The last thought, louder than the rest, jolted him out of his near-doze, and it startled him to see Flynn looking down at him unhappily through the window of the car. His lips thinned as he pressed them together when he saw Jerry watching him, and he came around to the driver’s side door and got in quickly, shutting it with a little more force than was necessary.

  “I got us a room at the far end. Away from the high school football team here for the championship.”

  “Hopefully for the team, the quarterback won’t allow himself to be too distracted by Heather’s boobs.”

  Flynn’s smile was more of a grimace, and Jerry made a mental note never to make that face again should he get his body back at any point.

  It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. Maybe if Jerry kept telling himself that, he’d start to believe it. This couldn’t be permanent. They’d figure it out. Never mind that they were still working on the telepathy problem, this body-switching thing had to be temporary. Right? Jerry took several deep breaths, nostrils flaring as he sucked in air.

  “Let’s get you into the room. You look like shit.” Flynn started the car and drove it around to the back of the hotel.

  “I doubt it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What it sounds like. You always look great. And now I have proof that everyone agrees with me as well.” In the short time since the exchange, virtually every person that had laid eyes on them had something to say mentally about how good-looking Flynn was.

  Flynn looked as though he’d tasted a lemon when he was expecting strawberries. “Yeah, well, you’ll get tired of that soon enough.”

  Jerry said nothing. He suddenly had more sympathy with Flynn’s long silences of the past. The world was a much noisier place now that he could hear everyone’s thoughts. Jerry wished everyone would shut up, but the voices were ceaseless.

  They got out of the car and carried their bags in through the back door and down the corridor until they reached their room. The Lazy Seven was a step down from the Crown Regent Inn, and Jerry suspected that come morning they’d both regret having stayed there. He followed Flynn silently into the room, dropping his bags by the door and continuing on to the bed closest to him. He let himself fall face-first onto the mattress.

  “Are you okay?” Flynn’s voice behind him was neutral. His thoughts were anything but.

  Jerry rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling. “I’m fine.” He understood now why this was always Flynn’s answer to the same question. What else could he say?

  Flynn brought his bag over to the opposite bed and set it down. Working quickly, he unpacked his belongings and put them in the dresser. Jerry propped himself up on his elbows to watch. Flynn seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time to arrange his things in the dresser. He stood frowning at the interior of the drawer and reached in to tweak the position of one of the items.

  Okay, that was just weird.

  The implications were fascinating, however. Because it would suggest that some of Jerry’s obsessive behavior was rooted in his own biochemistry, given the way Flynn was fussing over his belongings.

  Or maybe that was Flynn’s way of silently freaking out. It was hard to tell. The soundproof shielding shimmered faintly all around him, like a ghostly outline.

  Flynn’s phone buzzed on top of the dresser, and Jerry watched as he picked it up. He slid his finger across the surface to unlock it, and then tapped on the screen several times. Twenty-one messages. That’s an uneven number. Jerry heard the thought and smiled to himself. Flynn scrolled through his messages, reading and deleting them until he got down to thirteen. Jerry knew the message Flynn was staring at intently didn’t have to be dealt with at the moment—it was that it was the thirteenth message that was the problem. He knew Flynn was trying to decide how many e-mails he needed to answer or delete to give himself a safe margin from thirteen again, knew it because this was the same obsessive tendency he had in himself. It wasn’t that he was superstitious. The uneven number of messages just nagged at him until he cleared his box, or at the very least, made them even in number again.

  He should be taking notes. Nah, who would believe him? Here, Jerry had perhaps the greatest ongoing experiment for nature verses nurture, and he couldn’t tell anyone. Pity.

  He suddenly felt the need for a drink. With a sigh, he got to his feet. The room only spun a little this time, just at the edges of his vision. He could live with that, right?

  “Where are you going?” Flynn looked up from his phone, and Jerry felt a spurt of irritation. Had he hounded Flynn’s every move like that? Made him feel as though he couldn’t take a piss without assistance?

  He picked up one of the key cards from the dresser. “Down to the bar. I need a drink.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Why don’t we grab some dinner instead?” Flynn took a step toward him as if to stop him. The movement brought him in front of the mirror along with Jerry, and they both turned as one to look at their reflection.

  Flynn caught his glance in the mirror and smiled weakly. Well, this is freaky.

  Jerry snorted and watched “Flynn” do the same in the mirror.

  “Seriously, Jer. Drinking makes it worse. Your control over the shield isn’t as good when you drink.”

  “I am not you.”

  A muscle twitched in Flynn’s jaw. “No, but I know that body better than you do. And as the child of an alcoholic, I’m telling you, having a drink is a bad idea.”

  “I can handle myself. Stop grinding my teeth, by the way. I am not going to wear a mouth guard at night when I get my body back, thank you very much.”

  Flynn’s anger left an almost acrid taste in Jerry’s mouth. “What the hell do you think you have to prove here? That you can handle this better than I did when it happened to me?”

  Jerry opened his mouth to snap back and then shut it again abruptly. Flynn was right. They’d switched bodies and he’d become telepathic less than an hour ago. Now he wanted to run off on his own? Concentrating on the feeling of restlessness, he wasn’
t able to put a finger on what it was that made him feel like he’d overdosed on caffeine today. Maybe Flynn was always this edgy. He shrugged apologetically. “I’m not trying to prove anything. At least, I don’t think I am. I just needed to, I dunno, move or something.”

  The outrage on Flynn’s face gave way to something like rueful amusement. “Yeah, well, I’m hungry.” His laugh was short-lived. “Well, don’t we make a fine pair?”

  Out of habit, he directed his thoughts to Flynn, only to stop himself. Flynn couldn’t hear him anymore. Maybe, in time, he’d get used to that idea. He cleared his throat. “We’ll be okay. No matter what happens, we’ll be okay.”

  He held out his hand to Flynn, who looked at it like it was a snake about to strike.

  “Flynn?” The world felt like it might tip sideways again. The only way he was going to get through what was happening to him was if Flynn went through it beside him.

  There’s no freaking way I’m going to take hold of my own hand. Ugh. That’s just too—

  Jerry never got to know what it was, as Flynn slammed his thoughts into the soundproof booth and folded his arms across his chest, looking as prim as a schoolgirl.

  Jerry had a bad feeling about this. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 7

  “WHERE HAVE you been?” Flynn’s words rang out like bullets when Jerry entered the hotel room the next morning.

  Uh-oh. Jerry could tell Flynn was mad even without the benefit of telepathy—hell, you could practically see the steam boiling out of his ears. He tossed the key card down on the table and held up the bag with the coffee logo on it. “Brought you some breakfast.”

  “You’ve been gone for hours.” You didn’t take your phone either. So here I am in the hotel room with no idea where you’ve gone and no way to contact you. What if you were curled up in a ball somewhere because the telepathy had gotten to you?