Authors: Suzanne Brockmann
Maybe kinda the way Elliot knew that Diaz was a fan of vanilla chai, with milk and just a touch of sugar …?
Holy
crap. All these years they’d worked together—how could Elliot not have known that Diaz …?
As Elliot took the mug, Diaz glanced up at him, his eyes somber. And this time, Elliot was the one who quickly looked away, uncertain as to how to start the conversation.
So. Despite insisting
you remain celibate, you apparently and somewhat desperately seem to want to have sex with me … And oh yeah, we should probably also discuss the fact that I am now probably the only person at OI who knows that you’re gay—and we’re about to go into a meeting where it’s extremely likely that I’m going to out you. And as long as we’re discussing WTF topics, do you have any idea why I’ve had extremely vivid dreams set in your apartment, even though I’ve never stepped through your doorway before today?
He took a sip of his coffee, and—“God, that’s good. You make a mean pot of coffee for a tea-drinker.”
Diaz stirred his tea, his spoon clinking softly against his mug as he leaned back against the counter, his long legs casually crossed at the ankle. “I used to be a coffee addict myself.”
“There are worse addictions,” Elliot said, and okay. Were they really going to make mundane chit-chat like this? Any second now, they were going to talk about the weather.
Nice day. It’s finally starting to warm up out there.…
Except, suddenly all he could think about was the vehement certainty with which Mac had informed him that Diaz didn’t so much as masturbate, and oh, sweet Jesus, this man could conceivably read his mind—especially if Elliot were right, and his own mere presence created a boost in Diaz’s integration levels, and great, now he was
mentally
yammering. Don’t think about sex, don’t think about sex, don’t think about sex.…
Except, particularly after the past day’s surprises, it was impossible to look at Diaz and
not
think about sex, or the fact that it had been three long years since Elliot had gotten any.
Although, forget
him
. Three years was a heartbeat, compared to how long it had probably been for Diaz, who was standing there with his ridiculously broad shoulders and those gorgeous eyes, quietly sipping his tea as he watched Elliot.
Elliot abruptly turned toward the window, where a sofa and various other comfortable-looking chairs were positioned. He gestured toward them with his mug. “May we sit? I think we should, you know, probably sit. I’ve done a bit more research on the fluctuations
in your integration levels and, um, thought you’d want to know what I’ve found.”
“Absolutely.” Diaz nodded and pushed himself up out of his lean, but Elliot didn’t wait for him to lead the way.
“First, I reviewed all of the various jot scans from … before. You integrated at a high of sixty-point-seven percent down in the function room,” he said as he went over to the sofa—a buttery-soft light-brown leather—and sat before he realized that there was no flatscreen TV on the any of the walls. Of course not. It was clear from those crowded bookshelves that Diaz was a reader. An old-fashioned-real-book lover. He most likely spent his rare free evenings quietly lost in a book instead of, like Elliot, glued to the thirty-somethingth season of
So You Think You Can Dance
.
“I looked at those scans, too,” Diaz was saying as he moved toward the chair. “Trying to make sense of it and—”
“I’m sorry,” Elliot interrupted him. “I didn’t bring my computer, and I didn’t think that you might not have a TV to hook into the OI mainframe. Do you, um …”
“Oh,” Diaz said. “Sure. I’ve got a laptop. Of course. I’ll just … Get it.” He set his mug down on a coaster on the coffee table and crossed over toward the part of the room that held his neatly made bed.
He moved gracefully, with a smooth efficiency that didn’t read as hurried.
During all the years Elliot had worked here, he’d always really enjoyed watching this man walk—which sounded pathetic or maybe even a touch creepy, but really wasn’t. What was it that Anna Taylor had said earlier? It was definitely an
art-appreciation thing
.
But there was art, and there was
art
, and he had to look away as Diaz put one knee up on his bed, leaning over to reach his computer from where it had been stored on a shelf that was inset into the wall, above the curve of the bed’s sleigh-styled wooden headboard.
Exactly where Elliot knew it would be—which kind of blew his mind.
“Maybe we should go over to my office to do this,” he blurted.
Diaz had already brought his laptop all the way back to the sofa, but now he hesitated, holding on to it instead of setting it down on the coffee table in front of Elliot. “If that would make you more comfortable—” he started.
Elliot cut him off. “I’m fine. Okay, that’s a lie. I’m completely freaked out. But I’m not going to be any more or less freaked out here or in my office or on the fucking moon. I just … Stephen, I’m trying to make
you
more comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” Diaz laughed at that as he put his laptop down, his amusement briefly touching his eyes. But only briefly. It was replaced far too quickly by something that seemed shockingly like self-contempt or even disgust. “I’m a Fifty, Doctor. I’m not supposed to be
comfortable
. I’m supposed to train,” he continued. “I’m supposed to focus all of my energy and effort into becoming a Sixty, and then, maybe even—someday—a Seventy or higher. My comfort doesn’t play into that. It never has. But it’s not fair for
you
to have to—”
“I’m fine,” Elliot repeated. “I just didn’t want—”
“You just said you’re freaked out.” Diaz actually started to pace, his movement sharp and tight. “That I freaked you out.”
“
—you
to feel uncomfortable,” Elliot continued over him, “because we’re alone here in your apartment”—he tried to make things lighter—“where we’ve apparently both set quite a few of our fantasies—”
Diaz turned to face him and he definitely wasn’t amused. “Those were
my
fantasies. I saw your memories of them while I was inside your head the second time—in the function room. They were mine, and I forced them on you. And you know it.”
Elliot had to laugh. Forced? “Do you seriously think I haven’t had plenty of nearly identical fantasies of my own? You know, I’ve got this one dream—it’s recurring. And I’m talking about like clockwork, sometimes twice a week. We’re in this beautiful house in, I don’t know where—maybe Italy? We’re in the middle of a vineyard and … What?”
Diaz had actually turned pale and now he slowly sank down into the chair across from Elliot. “Wednesdays and Sundays,” he whispered.
Elliot shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m not following.”
“Is that when you dream it?” Diaz asked. “Because Wednesdays and Sundays are when I sleep. I’m down to only two nights a week.”
“Wait a minute—what?” Holy crap. Was it actually possible …? “But, no, you’re not,” Elliot said, pulling the computer closer so he could access its keyboard. “You’re still on a three-night-a-week schedule.” He called up Diaz’s file. “It’s Wednesday, Friday, Sunday.” He looked up, suddenly uncertain. “Isn’t it?”
“Fridays I’m down to a combat nap,” Diaz told him. “Well, it’s longer than that. About an hour and a half. Usually sometime in the early afternoon, when … you’re probably awake.”
And there it was—the change in Diaz’s sleep schedule notated in the margin of his file. That meant, indeed, he was now on a Wednesday/Sunday cycle. Elliot tried to remember exactly when he had those dreams, but came up cold.
“I can start sleeping during the day,” Diaz said. He was really upset. “God, I’m so sorry—”
Elliot shook his head. “Are you saying …?” He looked over at that bed that he’d dreamed about so many times and started over. “I’m sorry, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that …” Diaz forced himself—miserably—to hold Elliot’s gaze, as he exhaled hard. “Those dreams you’ve been having? They’re mine, too.”
Elliot leaned forward. He hadn’t actually believed … He’d really thought he must’ve seen a picture of Diaz’s apartment, maybe from Mac or … “Can you actually
do
that? Broadcast your dreams? From an unconscious state?”
“I don’t know,” Diaz said. “I didn’t know I was doing it, but—”
“Maybe I’m just dreaming about you on my own initiative,” Elliot suggested. “I really don’t know how often or which nights—”
“So you think it’s a coincidence?” Diaz asked, his skepticism heavy in his voice. “Okay. Last dream—do you remember the last dream? It was …” He nodded. “Where you said. At the vineyard.”
Elliot did remember. He’d woken up with his heart pounding and a hard-on of epic proportions. He’d realized some time ago that whenever he had a sex dream about Stephen Diaz, he always—
always
—awoke before either of them climaxed. And he always regretted waking. This time, he’d lain there in his bed, cursing and replaying the dream in as much detail as he could recall. So, yes, he remembered.
“We’re in a beautiful house, on a hillside covered in rows of vines.” Diaz exhaled hard. “It’s not Italy, it’s California. We’re at my grandmother’s house, near Sonoma. Do you remember the photograph that hung over the bed? Last time I had the dream, I came in to the room, and you were looking at it.”
“Holy crap,” Elliot breathed. He did remember that. “It was an old snapshot of the house, from the … 1920s?” He’d been looking at it quite closely—at the collection of people posing out near the front porch, when Diaz had come into the room, just out of the shower. At which point Elliot’s attention had shifted. Dramatically.
“It was from 1914,” Diaz corrected him now, his voice tight. “My grandmother loved that photo—her brother was in it, he died in the war, and after
she
died my father gave it to a local museum.” He reached for the computer, pulling it in front of him, and quickly hopped over to the Internet, where he typed in a URL and clicked through a few links and …
“Holy
crap
,” Elliot said again, as Diaz pushed the computer back toward him. On the screen was the photo that he had, absolutely, seen in that dream.
He also remembered—even more clearly—the way Diaz had smiled into his eyes before kissing him and then pushing him down onto that big bed.
“You were wearing a blue T-shirt and jeans,” Diaz said, his voice low. “I had … only a towel around my waist.”
A towel that hadn’t stayed on for long. Elliot remembered that, too.
“
Holy
crap,” Elliot whispered. It was clearly becoming his refrain. “Okay, so we definitely had the same dream. You honestly have no idea how you did it? How you broadcast it to me?”
Diaz had closed his eyes. He shook his head, and it was clear that he was mortified.
“Or maybe
broadcast
isn’t the right word,” Elliot said. “Thought projection isn’t
that
unusual. Bach can do it. Although I’m not sure he can do it through several walls, down a hall—while in his sleep. This is an impressive new skill.”
“Oh, yeah,” Diaz said, laughing his disbelief and disgust. “This is great. I’m thrilled.” He rubbed his forehead as if he had a terrible headache.
“Although I’m definitely making some assumptions, here,” Elliot corrected himself. “When you were inside my head earlier today, it seemed as if we were having a kind of a conversation. A give-and-take. It’s completely possible that the dream wasn’t entirely yours. I mean, maybe your id picked the locale, and mine, you know, chose the activity.”
“No.” Diaz turned to look at him. “That was
my
dream.”
“You can’t know that absolutely,” Elliot argued. “We’re in uncharted territory.”
“Yes,” Diaz said. “I can. The sex was …
My
fantasy. I’ve been capable of something I call controlled dreaming for a while now. It’s an augmented form of wake-initiated lucid dreaming, and I started doing it to let my subconscious work on certain problems and … I discovered there was a … recreational appeal. I haven’t made the research team aware of it for obvious reasons.” And now the look on his face was both apologetic and embarrassed, and for a half a second he looked as if he were about to cry. But then he was up and on his feet and pacing again, running his hands down his face. “God, I’m sorry, Dr. Z. This is so inappropriate.”
“You really have to start calling me Elliot. I’m pretty sure we’re on a first-name basis by now, at least in your dreams. And okay, being a smartass obviously isn’t helping. Why don’t you slow
down and just breathe.” Elliot stood up, too. “Come on, Stephen—I’m not offended. I’m flattered. I’m more than flattered. I’m—”
“Freaked out,” Diaz finished for him.
“Yeah,” Elliot said, “but—for the record—I’m not freaked out because you apparently want to do me, every chance you get. As far as
that
goes, I’m mentally running laps around the room and giving myself high fives and fist bumps. When I said I was freaked out it was because I know how seriously you take your training, and I respect both you and that, even though I haven’t found even the slightest hint of scientific evidence backing your belief about your celibacy’s impact on your mental skills.” Diaz started to speak—no doubt to disagree—but Elliot held up his hand and stopped him. “And please, I don’t want to argue about that right now. Can we focus on your elevated integration levels? Let’s start with the scientific facts—with what we already know, what we can prove.”
Diaz didn’t say anything, didn’t move, but he seemed to be breathing again, so Elliot sat back down in front of the computer, calling up the research he’d done over the past few hours. He focused on keeping breathing, too. There’d be plenty of time, later, for him to hyperventilate over the fact that Stephen Diaz
chose
to dream about having sex with him. With
him
. Holy crap.
“I’ve gone back and looked closely at the history of fluctuation in your integration levels,” Elliot said, somehow managing to sound calm and in control. “And there’s definitely a correlation between a slight rise in those levels and my presence in the room. I appear to give you a mental hard-on.” He looked up at Diaz, who’d closed his eyes again. “Okay, not funny. But remember that.
You’re
not the inappropriate one.
I
am, got it? But back to the facts—we’re talking about the relatively insignificant difference between your being a Forty-Eight when I’m
not
in the room, or a Forty-Nine or true Fifty when I am. But then suddenly, today, you soar up to fifty-eight and then sixty. Both of those numbers were after …” He cleared his throat. “There was physical contact. Between us.” He resisted the instinct to clear his throat again. “That’s easy enough to test, to see if it happens again. Although, I don’t
think I remember ever coming into contact with you. Before this. Even casually, like … shaking hands when we first met.”