Chapter 13
They were nearly at the apartment when Ophelia’s phone finally had enough of a charge to boot back up.
The screen glowed through Sam’s pocket, alerting her with a cheerful jingle that it was awake and ready to be used.
He pulled it free for her, and she took it gratefully, hoping for a message from Logan.
Things were still awkward and strained between them, though he’d assuaged some of her dread that everything was about to fall apart—all because she couldn’t be what he needed sexually.
Her eyes slid sidelong as she surreptitiously studied Sam. He was focused on everything happening around them, always steering her away from the uneven breaks in the sidewalk and clearing his throat when people glued to their phones threatened to walk into her.
Could she do it now? Have sex with him?
God knew she was attracted to him in a way that terrified her, but the thought of sleeping with him, especially with Logan watching…
She shuddered, looking away.
“What’s wrong?” he rumbled, looking down at her.
“Nothing.”
He hummed, and the hand at her back slid up around her shoulders, tugging her into his side.
“You’re really handsy,” she muttered, trying to shrug him off.
“If you keep struggling like that, I might get distracted and trip,” he said mildly. “I could burst my lip on the concrete or break my nose on a fire hydrant. Who can say?”
She stopped struggling and gaped up at him. “Are you… are you manipulating me?”
Could he do that? Wasn’t that expressly forbidden by all android programming?
His face became the picture of innocence, his eyes wide and dark as a puppy’s. “Am I?”
She made an appalled sound, but she stopped trying to slip out of his grip. As petty as he was programmed to be—and why would anyone have programmed him that way?—she wouldn’t put it past him to throw himself at the ground to make a point.
Her phone buzzed. Once, twice, a third time, until she lost count.
Her heart skipped a beat, and she stopped dead on the sidewalk as dread slithered over her. Something had happened. She hadn’t charged her phone, and she hadn’t kept track of Logan’s location, and now something had happened to him and she…
Hello?
Excuse me?
The least you could do is tell me you’re not dead.
This is so selfish, Effie. If you don’t want to help your mother out, then fine, but at least tell me you’re okay.
Logan isn’t picking up. What’s going on?
Effie!
Hello?
Hello?
HELLOOOO
I could call the police, you know.
They would understand my concern.
EFFIE
I’m coming over
She groaned, locking her phone and hitting herself in the head with the glass screen repeatedly as she squeezed her eyes shut.
A hand slipped over her forehead, interfering with her ritualistic self-harm. “Why are you hitting yourself?”
“Trying to kill enough brain cells that I might not notice how miserable I am when my mom is around,” she muttered.
He took the phone from her hand and read the message notifications that scrolled on endlessly. “She is neurotic.”
“Um. A bit.”
“And she raised you?”
“Yeah. Alone, basically, after I turned eight.”
That was when her father had finally reached his limit with her mother. Ophelia had barely seen him before that, busy as he was climbing the corporate ladder. The divorce hadn’t changed much except where he slept at night.
He nodded as though something had clicked into place for him.
“What does that mean?” she asked, snatching her phone back with a frown. “Why are you nodding like that?”
“Your mother appears to be suffering from the same compulsive need for control that drives you. Untreated, I would guess.”
“I-I do not have a compulsive need for control.”
He took her phone back from her hands and held her gaze as he dropped it face down on the pavement.
Her heart stopped.
“What are you doing!” She squatted down to pick it up between two fingers, trying carefully not to touch the sidewalk. Her other hand fished in her pocket for the packet of wipes he’d helped her buy the day before.
Sam crouched in front of her and smacked them out of her hand, galling her.
“Stop it,” she cried, tears of frustration pricking in her eyes.
“Just pick it up,” he said in a level tone, his expression inscrutable.
“I am! I just—I need to wipe it off. It’s dirty now.”
“Yes. It’s dirty.” He caught her wrist as she tried to reach for the wipes. “Hold the phone normally, Ophelia.”
“I can’t,” she whispered, a tear spilling down her cheek. “It’s dirty. I can’t.”
“Hmm.”
He released her wrist, and she lunged for the wipes, tugging one free and wiping down her phone, then the packet of wipes, then her hands. She sniffled as more angry tears fell, angered by the android’s looming shadow as he stood over her and observed.
She stuffed her phone and the wipes into her coat as she rose, wiping her face briskly on her sleeve. Without looking at him, she stormed away, striding for home where another form of torment awaited.
“Ophelia,” Sam called, jogging to catch up to her.
She ignored him, blinking hard as another bitter tear spilled over.
Stop crying, damn you.
God, she hated that she was like this. She cried for everything. Sadness, joy, anger, frustration. Like a leaky tap that could never be fixed.
“Ophelia.”
Shut up.
He huffed in frustration. Such a stupid thing. Who would program a robot to huff?
“Ophelia.” He grabbed her arm, drawing her up short.
She whirled, glaring at him, her mouth open to spit curses.
He jerked her into his arms before she could get a word out. They banded around her, crushing her against his chest. With her ear pressed to him, she could hear the odd, whooshing rhythm of his mechanical heart. A heart that would never tire, would never break.
What would that feel like?
“I am sorry for distressing you,” he whispered, his breath stirring her hair. “I meant only to illustrate a point.”
“You’re a dick.” She turned her face into his chest to hide from an older woman who was looking at her in obvious judgment for hugging a sex doll in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Perhaps. But to resolve an issue, you must first admit you have one.”
“I’m fucked up mentally,” she said in a flat tone, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. “Is that what you want to hear, you stupid oversexed toaster?”
“No, it isn’t.” His hand stroked over her hair gently. “I only want us to be transparent with each other. You are struggling with your compulsions, your need for control, and I want to help you.”
“By throwing my shit on the ground and making it worse?”
His hand rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades.
“It was not my intention to make things worse. I told you I intended to investigate your condition, and I did. Research suggests I would worsen your symptoms if I fed into them, so I will not help you perform the rituals that assuage your anxiety. If you can learn to face what you fear, your mental health will improve.” He pulled back to look at her tear-streaked face.
“I will take a gentler approach in the future.”
She snorted, rolling her eyes even as his words twisted at something within her.
Logan had always fed into her fears. He’d put her comfort above all else; it was part of what she loved about him.
If she wanted him to wash his hands three times and put his coat straight into the washing machine, he did it without complaint.
If she wiped down the kitchen for the fourth time in one day because a bit of raw chicken juice had splattered when she opened a package, he pretended not to notice.
He’d never belittled her the way others had, had never called her weird or told her she was being crazy.
She’d thought that was the gold standard in dealing with her…
issues. But she didn’t think Logan had ever done any research on it.
They’d never even really spoken about it.
It was something they danced around, something Logan went along with to keep the peace.
What did it say that this android had come to the conclusion that she needed help, not comfort, after only a weekend of knowing her?
Unsettled by the uncharitable direction of her thoughts, she drew away from him.
He fell into step beside her, though he kept his hands to himself this time. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed by the lack of touch.
“Hey!” someone shouted. “Look, that’s her.”
She didn’t look at first, oblivious that she was the ‘her’ in question. It wasn’t until one of the cyborgs stepped into her path that she realized which alley they’d passed. This was the same block where she’d been dragged off the other day.
Idiot, she thought numbly as her blood began to pound.
The teen in front of her sucked his teeth, glaring down his nose at her. There was a gang tattoo over his throat—TNG.
“You’re the bitch who narced on us the other day.” He tapped beneath one chrome eye. “The scanner has your biometrics. You really think you were getting away with that?”
Her mouth opened, closed. She was at a loss.
Sam stepped in front of her. It was a kind and utterly awful gesture. She tugged at him, trying to get him safely stowed behind her before they damaged him, but he wouldn’t budge.
“Sam!” she whispered, yanking harder.
He ignored her.
“Walk away,” he told the teen.
Another cyborg off to the right laughed. “Dude, he’s a bot. She’s trying to hide behind her sex doll.” He looked at her. “You’re a freaky little slut, aren’t you? I knew it the second I saw you. You should have come with us. We would have shown you a good time.”
Sam gave him a steady look. “Watch your mouth.”
They both laughed.
Sam canted his head like a dog. “Tell me what’s amusing. I want to enjoy the joke, too.”
The guy in front of him scrubbed a hand over his jaw, grinning. “The gag is that you’re a big, dumbfuck vibrator posturing like you’re about that life when we both know I could crack her over my knee like a glowstick and you couldn’t do shit but watch.”
The visual made Ophelia’s blood run cold. “Sam.”