Excerpt of What, No Roses? by Marianne Mancusi

“I can’t be the only one in the goddamned city who’s too stressed for sex!”

I sucked down the remainder of my chocolate brownie frappuccino, struggling with a stubborn chunk caught in the straw. Finally I gave up on the last smidgen of chocolate (a total crime against humanity, I know!) and set the cup down, letting out my most frustrated sigh.

“I’m sure you’re not,” my photographer Jenny replied with a laugh. The pretty 22-year-old brunette reached over and patted my hand. “But who wants to admit it on local TV news?”

“Right.” I stared out into the crowd of people milling about the Fashion Valley mall. We’d scoured the area for hours that morning, asking the inane “Man on the Street” question for my six p.m. news story on the subject. A fascinating feature on a new scientific study that found eighty percent of Americans feel uninterested in getting it on with their partners because of work pressures. Eighty percent claimed they were literally “too stressed for sex.”

Problem was, zero percent wanted to go on camera and tell me about it.

“Besides, it’s not that you’re too stressed for sex,” Jenny added with a twinkle in her sparkling blue eyes. “It’s just that you only want to have it with a guy you refuse to talk to.”

I groaned. Not this again. It constantly amazed me how even after nearly a year, Jenny still rooted for “Nick the Prick” and I to get back together. I should have never told her my “We’ll always have Baghdad” romance on that oh- so-boring eight hour stakeout we’d been on when I first came back to California. (No, not that kind of stakeout. No lurking criminals or bad guys. Angelina Jolie had been rumored to be staying at the Four Seasons, if you must know.) Ever since that day, Jenny had been like a pit bull with a bone and no matter how much I protested that I would never, ever speak to that asshole as long as we both shall live, my words fell on naively deaf ears. In her yet- to-be-scarred mind, our relationship was beautiful, broken, and just dying to be mended. With her help, evidently.

Sigh. She was as bad as Nick’s geeky brother Tom. The dot.com billionaire who Forbes claimed was busy revolutionizing cyberspace seemed to have a lot of free time on his hands, trying everything under the sun to get Nick and I back together. He claimed his brother deserved a second chance and nothing I said or did could dissuade him.

But hey, the two of them could hold out hope ‘til Judgment Day for all I cared. After what Nick did to me last Valentine’s Day halfway around the world, I’d sooner run away and join the circus rather than speak to him again. And that was coming from someone with major clown phobia.

Jenny grabbed her video camera as she stood up and handed me the microphone. Time to get back to work. “You know, maybe you should call him sometime,” she said, oh so casually. “See how he’s doing up there in the City of Angels, all by his lonesome.” She grinned. “Or maybe I should. I mean, he is really hot and all.”

I rolled my eyes and play swatted her with the mic. “Your pathetic attempts to stir me to a jealous rage are completely in vain,” I informed her. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Nick and I are through. Forever. Finito. End of story.”

“Bah,” Jenny scoffed, shaking her head. “Have it your way. It’s none of my business anyway, right? I’ll just shut up and take the pictures.”

Grr. Great. Now she was going to go all sensitive on me. I drew in a breath and reached over to pat her on the shoulder.

“Look Jen. I know you’re trying to help. But you don’t know the whole story. What Nick did to me Valentine’s Day last year--it was unforgivable. And not a day goes by when it doesn’t hurt.” I glanced down at the ugly scar on my forearm and thought about the one I couldn’t see, running down the side of my face. It was amazing the station hired me to be on air--me channeling the Phantom of the Opera and all.

Yup, it still hurt all right. Maybe not physically. But the mental pain. The fear. Stuff I knew would never completely go away.

Not that I wasn’t trying to move on. After all, I’d left Iraq--quitting my high profile career as a foreign correspondent to take on the most innocuous, non-dangerous reporting job on the planet (albeit the cheesiest). I spent the last year healing. Living one day at a time. Creating a life for myself. One without fear and danger and heartbreak at every turn. And I had to admit, I was pretty proud I’d gotten as far as I had. Not that I didn’t have a long way to go.

Seeing Nick again would just hurl me backwards. And I couldn’t afford that. I just wasn’t that strong yet. I might never be.

“Okay, okay, I get yah,” Jenny agreed, punching me lightly on the arm. Luckily she knew when to quit. “Let’s go find some under-sexed San Diegans.”

I smiled and together we walked down the open air corridor of the Southern California mall where a good number of people were wandering about, carrying big bags of stuff they’d accumulated in their afternoon of shopping hedonism. Unfortunately, no one looked particularly interested in wasting five minutes of their life to get their fifteen seconds of local news fame by exploiting the secrets of their sex lives. (Or in this case lack of sex lives, which technically was worse.)

No one, that was, until an elderly woman with the stereotypical helmet of wispy blue hair hobbled over to me. “Can you interview me?” she asked, leaning on her knobby cane. “I want to be on television.”

Hm. I gave her the once-over. It was funny how some people were dying to be on television, while others avoided it like a Ben Affleck/J-Lo movie. (If I wasn’t a reporter, I’d so be in the second category!) Of course, granny here wasn’t our target demographic--at News 9 we only cared about the sex lives of 25-49 year old women with a lot of disposable income--but it was nearly three p.m. and I was getting desperate.

“Okay,” I said, giving her Big Reporter Smile. I pointed the microphone at her. “Do you ever feel you’re too stressed for sex?”

She stared at me a moment, her wizened blue eyes wide, as if in shock at my brazen question. I felt my face heat. Of course. What was I thinking? Granny probably hadn’t gotten it on in the last twenty years or so. Ever since her precious Wilber died back when Reagan was President.

Sigh. Too bad my story wasn’t “Too Senile for Sex.”

“Too stressed for sex?” the old woman repeated, following the phrase with a tinkly laugh that sounded a little like Christmas bells. “My goodness, no. In fact, ever since I started using this female Viagra I got off the Internet, I’ve been having multiple orgasms at the drop of a hat. Henry loves it!” She beamed at me and then turned to look directly into the camera. “My sex life is great!” she informed the lens.

Hmph. Evidently these days even Granny was getting more action than me. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Okay,” I said, lowering the microphone. She obviously wasn’t going to help with my story. “I appreciate you taking the time to answer.” Not that you gave us anything we could use, my little senior sex kitten.

The woman gave me a disapproving look over her bifocals. “You young people,” she scolded. “You need to stop working so hard. Start enjoying life. When you’re on your deathbed, you won’t look back on your life and think, ‘Why didn’t I work more?’ Trust me. But you might wonder why you didn’t have more orgasms.”

Ah. Even better. Not only was Granny boinking like a bunny, she was now offering up life lessons. Next thing you knew, Jenny was going to tell her the Nick story and the two of them would be tag-teaming for a sex-filled reconciliation.

Can we say, no thank you?

“Thanks,” I muttered, stepping backwards to put as much distance as possible between me and the hot flash ho. “Now if you’ll excuse us...”

“Good luck, Sweetie,” she said, then smiled a patronizing smile. “You’ll find your Prince Charming eventually.”

I swallowed hard and resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to tell her I’d already found him. And that when I kissed him, he’d turned into a total frog. I wanted to insist that relationships--while perhaps good for short term, crazy, hot sex--always ended in pain. Leaving you vulnerable and wounded and crying in your tomato alphabet soup. Alone.

Instead I channeled Self Protective Mode and turned to throw Jenny a smirk as Granny hobbled away.

“Some people!”

Jenny shrugged. “She does have a point, Dora.”

“Oh, don’t start.” I groaned. The last thing I needed was a lecture on relationships from an inexperienced twenty- two year old. The girl had been dating her boyfriend since the high school prom. She had no idea what was in store for her future love life.

Jenny opened her mouth to speak, then looked behind me, and closed it again. I whirled around to see what caught her attention and actually achieved the nearly impossible task of shutting her up, crossing my fingers it was a 25- 49 year old woman who looked way too stressed to do the wild thing with her hubby.

Instead, my eyes fell upon a very tall man, dressed entirely in black, standing before me, arms crossed against his broad chest. He had mirrored shades, slicked black hair, and a shiny Rolex that peeked out from under his suit coat’s sleeve. The whole look screamed “Men in Black.”

“Yes?” I asked, donning Indulgent Reporter Smile. He was probably from mall security and was about to ask us to leave the premises before he called the cops. Could this day get any worse?

“Dora Duncan?” he asked in a clipped accent I didn’t recognize. “Are you Dora Duncan?”

I felt my face heat into a blush. Not a security guard. Maybe even a fan! A real life fan!

I always got a kick out of people recognizing me on the street. Of course, back in the old days when Nick and I rocked Iraq, this was a more regular occurrence. We were network superstars then. A tag team everyone rooted for. And now, only a year after escaping the network to take this silly features reporter job in San Diego where I was sure not to run face to face into a semi-automatic machine gun, nobody even knew my name.

Nick, on the other hand, was still uber famous. In fact, I didn’t understand how any normal human being could manage to garner such a fan base without selling his soul to the devil. (Which, of course, I wouldn’t put past him.) After leaving Baghdad and taking a job as a network news anchor in Los Angeles, he’d become more famous than ever. While I labored in local news obscurity, he walked the red carpet, schmoozing with starlets. While I covered craft fairs and dog shows, he interviewed senators and got laws changed. While I lived my life scarred and ugly because of his mistake, he made People Magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful People.

And Jenny wondered why I wouldn’t take him back?

I realized the man in front of me had his hand outstretched and I should be shaking it. Had to be gracious to the few fans I had left.

“Yes. Hi. How nice to meet you,” I said with a smile. I wondered if my hair was covering my scar. I hated that I always wondered that when meeting someone new, but I couldn’t help it.

“I’m Special Agent Fredricks,” he said in response, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a badge, encased in smooth black leather. He flashed it at me, and I raised an eyebrow. Not a fan. FBI. Figured. “We need your assistance, and I’ve been asked to have you come with me.”

I furrowed my brows. The FBI needed my assistance? My assistance?

“What could you possibly need my assistance for?” I blurted out and then regretted a moment later. After all, I didn’t want to come off as rude and uncooperative to the FBI. But still...

“It’s classified,” Fredricks replied, tossing a glance at Jenny. “Now if you could just come with me...”

I looked over at my photographer, then back to the man, trying to decide what I should do. I had a story to get on the air in a few hours. A story I wasn’t exactly making much progress on. If I took time out to go with this man, I’d never make my slot. But he was FBI. I couldn’t say no to the FBI, could I? Plus, what if it was an important story he needed my assistance with? What if it were an inside scoop on a huge scandal? Even though I’d taken this job to get away from the danger I’d faced in Iraq, truth be told lately I was getting a bit sick of covering sex and cellulite and celebrity c-sections for the evening news.

“Uh, let me call the desk. See if it’s okay.” The assignment desk was the den mother of the newsroom. If I took off without checking in with them, I could be in big trouble.

I reached into my purse to dig out my phone. The agent placed a hand over mine. “No need, Ms. Duncan,” he said. “We’ve already called your station. That’s how we knew where you were.”

“Oh.” I looked over at Jenny. Should I believe this guy?

“We talked to a man named Mario. Your news director. He said he could move your story to the eleven p.m. news so you’d have time to finish it after we met with you.”

I raised an eyebrow. Wow. Guess even my boss Mario was impressed that I’d been called upon by the FBI. Usually the guy wouldn’t pull a story even as a personal favor to the Pope. Go figure.

“It will only take a few minutes, Ms. Duncan,” assured the agent. “Then we can return you here for your story.”

“Go ahead, Dora,” Jenny suggested. “I can hang here. Go pick out a few thongs at Vicky Secrets. After all, Robbie’s coming over tonight.”

“Uh, great. A bit TMI, but great.” I suppressed a shudder, then turned back to Special Agent Fredricks. “Fine, fine. Lead the way.”

I followed him out of the mall and into the parking lot, where a shiny black car with heavily tinted windows sat idling by the curb. A chauffeur type stepped up to open the back seat door and I ducked down to crawl inside. FBI Man entered after me and soon we were speeding away from the mall.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Headquarters,” Fredricks replied not-so-informatively.

“And what is it you need my help with again?”

“It will all be explained to you in due time, Ms. Duncan.”

Of course it would be. I leaned back, settling into the plush leather seat. Might as well relax for a few moments. God knew I’d be scrambling the rest of the day to make my news slot after this inopportune field trip. Still, my pulse thrummed with anticipation. Relaxation was never my forte.

About ten minutes later, the car slowed to a stop and the chauffeur opened the door. I crawled out, looking around at my surroundings. We were in an underground parking garage. Agent Fredricks stepped out beside me and gestured for me to follow him.

Soon we were walking down a featureless corridor, flanked with even more featureless silver doors. It didn’t look like anything I’d imagined the FBI offices would look like. Not that my job had ever taken me anywhere higher up than the local police barracks.

Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say.

Of course, my brain decided to take that instant to remind me that I hadn’t really checked this man’s ID all that closely. What if he was lying about being part of the FBI? About speaking to Mario? What if he was really part of some secret underground Iraqi syndicate that had been looking for me this last year? What if I’d walked right into their trap?

I felt the all-too-familiar wave of panic rise like bile in my throat and attempted the breathing exercises the shrink had taught me to prevent yet another full-on panic attack.

Oh Dora, how do you get yourself into these messes?

I squeezed my hands into fists and struggled to regain control of my rebellious wildly beating heart. Being scared wouldn’t help me escape if I needed to. Besides, I was being completely irrational. Why would the Iraqi group be looking for me. Ridiculous.

“Here we are,” Fredricks announced, interrupting my racing thoughts. He slid a card key into a slot by one of the nondescript doors. It looked exactly like the other thirty some-odd doors we’d passed and I wondered how he kept track.

The LCD light above the slot turned green and the door slid open, revealing a circular windowless conference room with a large mahogany table at its center. Sitting at the table were three more men, also dressed in the uniform of black suit and mirrored shades. Which was odd, considering we were deep underground and the lighting didn’t exactly lend itself to sunglasses.

This was beginning to get super freaky. If they started introducing me to any aliens like they did with Will Smith, I was so out of there.

“Sit, Ms. Duncan,” said Man in Black #1.

I pulled out a chair and did as he requested. After all, what choice did I have? Sure, I knew Tae Kwon Do, but it didn’t seem quite plausible that I’d be able to kick four men’s asses all at once. Especially ones who appeared to be Platinum members in good standing at their local gyms.

“What’s going on here?” I asked. “Did I do something wrong?” Even as I asked the question, I knew that couldn’t be the case. After all, my current life consisted of reporting on new and improved microdermabrasion by day and watching Sex and the City reruns by night. Not exactly the stuff that trouble was made of.

Unless they wanted to know more about my prison days in Iraq. I doubted it, though. I mean, I’d already been through the endless questioning a thousand times with a thousand military men. The case had been closed--dismissed- -long ago.

Man in Black #2 shook his head. “No,” he said. “On the contrary, we need your help.” I shot a skeptical look from one to the next to the next. What on earth could they need my help with? And FYI, I’d retired from the helping business. I was a lowly features reporter now. I had no remaining FBI Helper Girl skills on reserve. Man in Black #3 picked up a shiny silver remote control from the table and pressed a button. A slide projection illuminated on the far wall of the room.

My eyes widened and I gasped as I recognized the image on the screen.

Nick. Nick the Prick to be exact.

“Do you know this man?” asked Agent Fredricks in a tone that told me he already knew the answer and wasn’t going to allow me the luxury of lying. Grr.

I gritted my teeth. Why was it that everything in my life seemed to revolve around Nick? Why couldn’t the world let me forget him and move on with my life? Allow me to meet a nice, normal investment banker who wanted nothing more than to transplant me to the suburbs and impregnate me with towheaded, blue eyed suburban babies?

I stared at picture. At Nick’s bright green eyes. His endearingly cocky, Dennis Quaid’esque smirk. My heart squeezed and I reached up to brush the renegade tear from corner of my eyes. Damn it, why did it still have to hurt so much? Why did just looking at a picture of him serve to flood my heart with nearly unbearable pain? He’d moved on. He had a new life. Why couldn’t I do the same?

Why was I still, deep down, so pathetically in love with this man? It didn’t seem quite fair.

“Yeah, he’s an anchor in LA,” I muttered, turning my gaze back at the men. It was a bit unnerving to stare into four blank mirrored sunglassed faces, but I’d sooner look at the Cryptkeeper incarnate than that projected photo of Nick.

One of them flipped through a legal pad filled with scrawled notes. “And your ex-boyfriend, right?” he asked.

I sighed. I was holding out the inane hope that they didn’t know that little fact. But of course they did. They were the FBI. Also, there was that article in Star...

“Yes. We...dated.”

“And you broke up because of...?” I shifted in my seat. “These are awfully personal questions.” The last thing I wanted to do was hash over what happened in Iraq. It was too horrible. And too humiliating.

Man in Black #2 nodded. “Our apologies if we’re making you feel uncomfortable, Ms. Duncan. Maybe we should explain.”

I nodded. “Good idea.”

My eyes involuntarily wandered back to the projection, wishing the lump that had formed in my throat would go away. I stared at the photo and it seemed to stare back at me.

What on earth kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, Nick?

“We have reason to believe that Nick Fitzgerald has joined an underground fringe group known as ‘The Time Warriors’,” said Man in Black #1.

I raised an eyebrow. Uh, what? The Time Warriors? What kind of group was that? And what’s with the tacky name? I couldn’t imagine even Nick being that cheesy. “The faction formed a few years ago,” Man in Black #2 explained. “A group of rich white men, sick of the golf circuit, with nothing better to do. They bought a...machine...of sorts off of the KGB back at the end of the Cold War.”

“A machine?” I asked. He’d better not be talking about some nuclear bomb type thing. I mean, I knew Nick was a little wild, but I couldn’t see him going all terrorist on me.

“An XR-2300 to be exact.”

Oh, right. An XR-2300. Of course. That cleared everything up.

I cocked my head in question. “An XR--”

Man in Black #3 cleared his throat. “In layman’s terms, Ms. Duncan, a time machine.”

A what????

A time machine?

A freaking time machine?

I stared at him. I think my mouth even dropped open for a moment. Was he for real? This had to be some joke, right? I glanced around the room, looking for peep holes. One way glass. Where was the Candid Camera? Ashton Kuchner, telling me I’d been Punk’d? Then again, Ashton only punk’d celebrities and I wasn’t a celebrity anymore. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

But still. A time machine? Give me a break!