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  Chapter Seven

  I heave Jonas’s body out of my vehicle and guide him up my front steps. The guy is trashed. After confronting Jenner and Brian, he decided going on a bender was just the ticket. I decided being his designated driver was my duty and responsibility as a friend since his heart was set on getting wasted. Even though his vehicle would have guided him home safely, it wouldn’t have taken the good care that I’ve been taking with him all night. I’ve listened, raged along with him, commiserated, and soothed. I’ve guided him to the bathroom, waited patiently outside, wiped the vomit from his lips when he emerged, and guided him back to the table. And, finally, I said “Enough’s enough,” and hauled his ass to my vehicle. We’ll get his in the morning.

  “I’m fine,” he protests as I guide him up the steps. “I could have driven.” It comes out sounding like a slurred mess.

  “Yeah, yeah, I just needed the company.” I doubt he’ll remember a thing.

  Nigel greets me when I open the front door. Where’s he sleeping? he asks with a sniff. Not on my bed, I hope.

  I glare at him and steer Jonas toward the couch.

  Nigel leaps up onto the back of the couch and snarls. Oh, no, you did not. You can’t leave him there. He stinks. And that’s where I like to nap.

  “You don’t nap at night,” I say. “You prowl.”

  Have you checked the time lately?

  I tap the time chip in my left index finger. “24 October, 4:24 a.m.” flashes in front of my eyes. “Oh, no,” I groan. “It’s a good thing I make my own hours.”

  Yeah. About that. You know that service you use to field potential clients?

  “HoloMess 500, yeah. What about it?” The name makes me laugh. It’s a warehouse of bots in Southeast Asia. Those warehouses seldom see a human inside of them. Anyway, something got lost in the translation of “messages” and it became merely “Mess.”

  You know how they try to reach you when there’s an urgent message?

  “What are you getting at?” I grab a blanket from the closet and drape it over Jonas’s snoring form.

  I’m talking about the disturbance—they tried to reach you tonight. They kept trying to access the mainframe and it kept messing with my Zen prowl.

  “The mainframe? Why would they do that?”

  Did you request a “do not disturb”?

  “No, I…shit, I’ve been way preoccupied! Jonas decided to go on a bender tonight and it took my total focus. He’s not in good shape right now. That’s why I brought Jonas home. Damn! The pulse-com system sometimes can’t get through if you’re preoccupied. You can intentionally turn it off but tonight it just couldn’t reach me. I was too upset and busy taking care of Jonas.”

  Exactly. Hence, there’s been this hum in the house for hours. It’s been driving me mad. And now you drop a smelly, drunk man on my bed? You’re going to pay for this.

  “What will you do? Wage a protest? Hunger strike?” I wander toward him and scratch his head. My hand moves down his back, right in front of his tail. He loves that spot. He starts to purr.

  Stop it.

  “You know you don’t want me to.” I move up to his chest. He purrs louder.

  Stop it.

  “Stop it some more? You’re a hoot, Nigel. Now, I’d better check that message.”

  All I have to do is draw the digits of the com number I need in front of my face to place a call. I do this and an automatic voice answers.

  “This is HoloMess 500. Please enter your five-digit identity code.”

  I write it in the air.

  “Thank you. Now enter your six-digit business code.”

  I comply.

  “Thank you, Vienna Venetta. You have eight messages. The messages have been labeled urgent. Here is message one. ‘Sultana, you don’t know me—yet. You’re going to want to. Com me. Any time, day or night.’”

  I roll my eyes. They all think they’re all that. I flick my fingers to delete it.

  “Message two. ‘Sultana, I’m your next client. You won’t want any more after me. I guarantee you’re going to like what we do together. Com me. Seriously. Any time.’”

  I cock my head. Someone’s impatient. Once again, I flick my fingers and the com is deleted. Messages three, four, five, six, and seven are similar in nature. The only difference is a growing edge to the voice. It disturbs me to hear it. This com caller is going to need to be vetted, big-time. I have a service that vets potential clients to ensure that no one is a psycho, serial killer, or deranged in any way. Even though this is just a fantasy game, I still don’t need to contact the headspace of a crazy person. Like I said, I feel everything about them—who they are, what they think and feel.

  The last message does the complete opposite of the first seven. It turns me on so much, I’m stunned. It’s like the guy has reached up into my pussy and found that place—that place. His voice snakes down my throat and into my chest. It insinuates itself up my thighs and parts my tender lips. It’s deep and delicious and makes me feel like an orgasm is on the way. Could it be that this guy will help me unlock the secret code inside? I make a mental note to get the guy vetted pronto, and make my way into my bedroom to crash.

  Chapter Eight

  When I enter the kitchen, Jonas is sitting at the table with a huge mug of coffee, an ice pack on his neck, and his head in his hands. “Hey,” I say softly. “Not doing so well?”

  “Got a Hangover Zapper?” he asks, without looking up.

  “Nope. Never had the need. I’ll call for one if you like.”

  “Would you? That would be fantastic.” His head slips out of his hands, down to the table, and hits with a dull thud. The ice pack slides to the floor. “That’s better. One area of sharp, shooting pain instead of throbbing needles and dull ache everywhere.”

  “Oh, honey, I hate to see you this way.” I pick up the ice pack and place it back on his neck.

  “Jenner’s pulse-commed me fifteen times,” he says. “Or is it twenty? I’ve lost count.”

  “Just turn the com off.” I reach into the cupboard for a bowl. “I don’t suppose you want anything to eat.”

  “Hell, no. Just get that Hangover Zapper here soon and I’ll be fine.” He rolls his forehead side to side on the table. The ice pack drops to the floor once again.

  “It doesn’t do much good on the floor.” I pick it up and set it next to him.

  “It’s not doing anything on my neck.”

  I shake my head and set about getting my breakfast. While I’m moseying around the kitchen, I pulse-com the pharmacy. “Can you deliver a Hangover Zapper? Rush order? Yeah, yeah, I’ll pay. Just get it over, fast.” I did just make a boatload of money. My mind drifts to the new client and his avatar. Strange guy. I make a mental note to vet him today. Find out who the hell he really is. And never talk with him again—ever. Why vet him then? I ignore that pesky thought and pour myself a cup of tea.

  “That counseling job must pay well,” Jonas mumbles from the table.

  “It does.”

  “I’ll pay you back. Those things are pricey.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s going to be worth it if you pitch Jenner.”

  “Because you want me?”

  I chuckle and take a bite of cereal. “Yeah, that’s it. I want you.”

  “A guy can wish.”

  The door-pulse hums and I head to answer it. The Hangover Zapper rests on the front stoop. I pick it up and wander back into the kitchen. I place it against the back of Jonas’s neck and press the on switch. A soothing trill begins, building in intensity. Blue light emanates from the Zapper. It spreads across Jonas’s head and moves through his body. It pulses orange when it finds muscles and veins that are tense, full of toxins, and sluggish. The light lingers until it’s restored to blue. Then, it seeks out the next place in need of restoration.

  Within minutes, Jonas lifts his head, cocks his head left and right, and sighs. “Thanks, V. I can move again.” He regards me with his blue eyes. Once again there’s that o
penness. It’s like he’s inviting me in, without pressure. Letting me see him. Laying his cards out on the table, face up. Letting me see the sweet spot, that space inside that only gets revealed through intimacy.

  It’s a disconcerting, beguiling expression. I’m starting to feel like a trout in a lake of possibilities, closing my mouth over that one juicy morsel attached to a hook—for me to take the bait means having to become intimate and transparent myself. Not going to happen. Good thing there’s still time to open up, let go the hook and slip away. I look away. “Hangover gone?”

  “Not entirely, but it’s manageable. These things…”—he gestures to the device on the table— “aren’t that good. They can’t erase stupidity, only ease it.” He looks up at me, smiling. “Much better.”

  I chew thoughtfully on my protein-and-grain snacks. Food hasn’t changed much over the years. Cereal is still cereal. This one just has added syntha-protein. “Want some?” I point to my bowl.

  “Yeah, thanks. Now that the hangover has subsided, my stomach is growling.”

  While I retrieve his bowl, I ask, “So what will you do with Jenner? How will you boot the bitch?”

  “She wants to try to work things out. I owe her that much.”

  Bile spurts in the back of my throat. “You owe her? Who says?”

  He gives me a sidelong glance. “I do. I have a strong sense of fairness, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Oh, I’ve noticed. I see it more as you let her walk all over you.”

  The look Jonas fires at me is one I’ve seldom seen. “I just want to do the right thing,” he snarls.

  For a second I am taken aback. “Easy, there, I meant you no harm. I just care for you.”

  He softens. “I know that. I just want to give her a chance to explain. It’s bad enough that she stepped out on me. She thinks I’ll understand if I give her the chance.”

  I roll my eyes and say nothing. When I get the hum in my heart, indicating that a friend is calling, I stroke my lips and step out of the kitchen. “Hello?”

  “Hey, girl, how’s that sexy hunk of man meat?”

  “Hey, Magicka,” I whisper. When he gave me his number, it just made sense to program it into the friend list. I had an instant warm connection with him. I slip out the front door. “What are you doing up so early?”

  “I never went to bed. I’ll probably crash as soon as the drugs wear off.”

  “What drugs?”

  “The drugs of extreme excitement, that’s what. Oh, my, that was quite an exciting evening. First, your friend and his wife…is she soon to be his ex?”

  “She’s not his wife, and no, they’re going to try to work things out.”

  “Oh, my. I don’t think that’s what he wants. He was looking at you last night, girl, as sure as the moon was bright.”

  I get all hot and weird inside. “We’ve been friends for years. Just good friends.”

  “Huh uh. No sir. You cannot sit there and tell me the boy only wants to be your friend. That boy had desire all over his face.”

  The heat inside intensifies. I aim to redirect. “Thanks for all your help. With getting him out of the restaurant, I mean.”

  “That skank-ass blond was going to drill him a few new ones if I didn’t. Could you believe her? She was the one caught red-handed and she’s blaming him?”

  “I know, right? And now he wants to work things out.”

  “Sounds like the boy has a case of the ‘Do-the-Right-Thing Guilties.’”

  “What do you mean by the ‘guilties’?”

  “Oh, some men are so possessed to do the right thing they fail to notice what the right thing really is. They’re so afraid people will cast them in a poor light that they hang on to misery long after misery has left the building. It’s like they perpetuate a shell of their life instead of reaching for something better.”

  I frown, trying to wrap my mind around what he’s saying. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “He’s clinging, girl. Afraid to step off that edge. He wants to change but is probably so wrapped up in the life he’s built with her that stepping off the edge doesn’t seem appealing. He’d rather stay safe.”

  “Rather stay safe than get happy and try something new?” Himeros flashes in my head. Maybe I should take his next call.

  “We all have our own rhythms, darling girl. We all move with our own sense of timing.”

  “I suppose,” I say, twirling a lock of hair. “So what did you do after you got Jonas in the car?”

  “Oh, my, goodness. I met up with my own sexy hunk of man meat. Mm hmm. We tripped it, stripped it, and flipped it. Hold on a second, honey.”

  Murmured, hushed tones greet my ears until Magicka starts talking again.

  “He’s awake, dear heart. I’m going to scoot. You and your boy take care, now, you hear? I’m signing off.”

  I meander back into the house and find Jonas sitting in the kitchen, talking heatedly to someone. Sounds like a Joner conversation to me. I sure hope he finds a way to step off that edge. For the teensiest, tiniest moment, I think, And I’ll be there to catch him. My eyes widen and I actually flick my hands at that thought, telling it to get far, far, far away from my consciousness. Another thing I never want to be is someone’s rebound queen—ever.

  Chapter Nine

  It’s been an interesting week since I heard from Jonas. I picked up a couple new clients who proved to be both amusing and entertaining. They’re twins and they booked me for the entire week. Each night they’ve appeared as someone different. The first night they sauntered in as the Brewer twins, circa 2015. They were sun-bleached blond and surfer-boy buff. We did it on a surfboard in the sea, bobbing in the waves. Each guy took turns with me. As awkward as it sounds, I even went down on one of them, sitting at one end of the surfboard, while the other pumped me from behind. You can do what you want in my Headspace and defy natural laws—like falling off the surfboard when a wave hits. That stuff doesn’t happen unless we let it.

  They arrived the next night as the Twin Foxes, Albert and Ebenezer Fox, famous poachers from the late eighteen hundreds. That night the avatar Juliana was to be the “game” they were hunting. A huge reward was set for their capture. An even larger reward was set for my avatar’s capture. Once they caught me, I was bound, gagged, and treated to innumerable delights by the twins.

  Tonight, they promised a “special treat.” At half past ten, I’m beckoned by a silky sensation along my throat. I stroke my lips and I wander into my Headspace for some fun. “Hey, big dogs, who wants to come out and play?”

  The scene immediately shifts to baked summer hills and sparse grass plains. Puffy white clouds linger in the summer sky.

  Two huge roan stallions prance into the space, bearing two Greek gods, Castor and Polydeuces. Thank heavens I excelled in my Greek mythology courses. Here we are in ancient Greece again. The horses’ necks are covered with foamy sweat as if they’ve been racing to get here. They toss their heads as they stand, impatient, excited, eager to move.

  I immediately split into two avatars, Phoebe and Hilaera, known as the “daughters of the white horse,” who married the twins, defying their intended husbands. I and I look at each other and shrug. It’s the first time I’ve experienced myself as two entities and I’m eager to see what happens. My avatars are dressed in simple gowns that drape down to sandaled feet. One of us wears an earthy orange chiton. The other sports a green tunic. All that hooey about Greeks wearing nothing but white is just that—hooey.

  Castor and Polydeuces are built of solid muscle. Their skin is burnished gold with touches of green, like oxidized copper. They dismount their stallions at the exact same time, like it’s a choreographed dance. They strut before me—I mean us—they strut before us, giving us time to take in their strength…to admire their long foreskin-covered phalluses hanging proudly between their legs. My two avatars coo and compliment. It’s odd to have two perspectives going on at the same time but I manage to roll with it. In one mind, I�
�m demur and shy. The other avatar is bold and outspoken.

  “What say you, maidens?” the one called Castor asks. “Think you you could find us pleasing to run off with?”

  “You are fine to behold, sir, but we are betrothed.”

  “We think otherwise,” Polydeuces claims. “We are here to prove you wrong. Wouldn’t you rather have us?”

  “Why, yes, fine sirs, you are without a doubt handsome. Your strength is legendary. But our betrotheds will not stand for this. You must leave us and get away while you can.” I’m enjoying this fanciful play. I always was a sucker for make-believe. One of me, the shy one, bats my eyelashes and looks at my feet, dusty in the heat of the midday sun.

  The horses whinny and scrape the ground with their hooves.

  “Our steeds grow impatient. Let us leave. Together…”

  Two horses with riders appear in the distance. They are galloping with a fury in our direction.

  “Oh, it’s our betrotheds! Get away, fine sirs!”

  In synchrony, the twins leap onto the backs of the stallions. One of the horses rears in the air. The men kick the flanks of their steeds, move toward us, and scoop us up onto the backs of the equines. “Hold on!” they shout in unison.

  I’m so caught up in this fantasy I’ve forgotten that it’s all a virtual world. Both avatars cling to the backs of the gods. Our long hair whips in the wind. The men’s hard muscles radiate heat to our breasts and bellies. We’re tickled by hair, flesh, and sweat while the muscled animals beneath us propel us forward, stimulating our kitty-cats to arousal.

  We out-race our captors and find ourselves in a green and blue oasis. We stand at the opening to a breathtaking cave. We’re surrounded by green trees and golden grasses. Below us lies beckoning turquoise water.

  “Care for some refreshment, brother?”

  “The horses are thirsty,” Polydeuces responds. “And I’ve got a thirst that needs quenching as well.”

  The two men shrug, spur their horses forward, leap, and we fall down, down, down into the cavern, landing with a mighty splash. I’m surprised we all remain on the backs of the horses, but in a fantasy world, you can do as you please.