by Taylor Kole
“I’m going to let you get this out of your system,” Marci said. “But keep an open mind. We have no one we can turn to for advice. We’re explorers of a previously unknown world. We connect to the most complicated processor in existence—the human mind—and we can’t approach any of this with rigid beliefs.” She waited for him to respond. When he didn’t, she returned to the kitchen.
Her stance didn’t surprise him. Most people held onto opinions of themselves that could easily be dispelled by self-reflection.
One of the most impactful psychological exercises he participated in happened his sophomore year. A professor asked the class to write down their three most commendable attributes: loyalty, intelligence, a kind heart, trustworthiness, hard-worker, etcetera. Once a few read their virtuous traits and the class agreed on their overall benevolence, he assigned that night’s homework. Beneath each of the three attributes, list five examples of past actions that refuted your belief.
Seeing the opposing ideals—what Corey believed versus what he had done—changed the way he concluded opinions of self and others. That one exercise instilled his first bit of wisdom.
He understood Marci’s fear of the knowable but currently unknown. That sentiment had his heart racing as he read article after article about the wicked minions, their evil intentions, and the damage they caused.
His next search: demons in dreams, brought out nine-hundred and seventy thousand links. He clicked the fourth one, titled, “Demonic influence on nightmares.” Reading the opening line sent chills down his spine.
“The root definition of ‘Mare’ in the word ‘nightmare’ does not derive from a female horse racing through a person’s sleep as is the common misconception. It’s etymology originates from the word ‘mara’, an Anglo-Saxon and Old Norse term for a demon that invades a person’s sleep with the purpose of sewing discord.”
Corey leaned back and let his arms fall limp at his sides. Marci’s main interests were her family and dreams. An easy one two. Very close behind were symbolism and the etymology of words. The odds of her not knowing the root parts of “nightmare” were nil.
“Marci,” he called.
Entering the room, she turned to the screen. After a few seconds of reading, she said, “What about it?”
“You knew that.”
“I knew about the folklore of a Mara, sure. A little elf-like creature that hides under your bed and in dark corners. Did Walt’s ego look like an elf to you?”
“I think knowing the word nightmare refers to demons invading a person’s sleep, mixed with what we’re discovering, would at least give you a reason to worry.”
The muffled sounds of laughter increased as Lisa and Janey approached the house. The slider opened. Janey raced through the kitchen and into her bedroom. Lisa crept to the edge of the living room, looked from Corey to Marci, and paused. “Janey is putting on a swimsuit. We have the pool filled if anyone’s up for laying hip deep in ice cold water.”
Marci continued to face Corey while she said, “I’m lasered in to us building our brand. Maybe I could have been more open to discussing fairy tales, and I’m sorry. I’ve just been busy with real things and don’t want to bring us down. I’m still hopeful we’ll celebrate tonight with a movie or,” she lowered her voice, “a trip to Chuck E. Cheese.”
Lisa moved toward Janey’s room.
She was right. Corey exhaled. Before he apologized, a chime echoed through the living room, signaling the arrival of a new email.
Despite the hectic night, the sound continued to excite Corey. After a second, Marci smiled, dashed to the cushion next to him, grabbed the mouse from him, and opened the message. It originated from Dreamriders.com.
“Looks like we have another paying customer,” Marci said. She clicked the link showing the confirmation of a payment. A Michigan man was visiting Las Vegas for a truck accessory convention and wanted a “wild” Vegas experience without the danger.
Janey raced past them and out the door.
Her excitement left a trail of happiness in her wake and made Corey grin.
Marci kissed his cheek and stood. “I’ll make us something to eat.”
The payment, Janey’s joy, and the show of affection lightened the lead weight in his stomach. Now he only felt mild sickness at the idea they were in over their head.
FIFTEEN
“What are we missing?” Walt said. He tugged on both sides of his bow tie, and flattened the lapels of his tuxedo before a full-length mirror. “I offer them riches and fame, a way to escape their miserable lives, and they ignore our calls. I can’t figure it out.”
“What do your instincts tell you?” Kendra said.
Turning, he stared at his long-time assistant, whose varied style of graying brown hair—today made into a braid that trailed down her spine—kept her ever changing. If she had thirty percent less body mass, knocked fifteen years off her age, and had entered his life before his wife, instead of years after, she would have been his ideal mate.
“My gut says they’re holding back, but what and why remain a mystery.”
“I concur.”
“You’ve been with me at the start of numerous projects. I’ve been excited at each, but I’ve never made any outrageous pronunciation.”
“That’s true.”
“Dream Riding, however, will strike the world like a nuclear bomb.” He opened his palms and spread them out. BOOM. Everyone gets blown away.”
“Are you adding minerals to a yellow mustard, again, dear?” His wife said from the doorway.
Walt turned to find Florence sneering. Her glittering, three-quarter length dragon-green dress dazzled with the slightest movement. “Perhaps another tiny water bottle attached to roller blades.”
“The roller blade water bottle was an investment,” Walt said. “We still receive hundreds of dollars a week in royalties from that.” He faced Kendra for support.
His assistant’s shoulders sagged. After a dart of eye contact, she powered to a desk near the stairs that descended to the main level, and turned on the shared laptop.
Florence wrinkled her nose as if to sneer at Kendra’s vanishing act, or the small royalty the roller-skate water bottle brought them. Walt wasn’t sure.
Florence was tall for a woman, with golden hair and green eyes to match her dress. As with many in their upper-echelon circles, staying attractive and living long consumed her days. Luckily for those who cared, both goals revolved around starvation.
Walt didn’t mind her small appetite, so long as she spent enough hours in the gym to hide her bones. Nearing forty, she still turned every head in a room.
Bart, his treacherous seventeen-year-old son, moved a few feet in front of his mother. His wide grin showed his support of her jab.
Paprika, their nine-year-old daughter stopped in the doorway and stared blankly. Both wore clothing appropriate for a ball.
“I hate to interrupt this meeting of future world powers,” Florence continued, “But we need to get going.”
“What are you investing in now, father?” Bart said. “Bulletproof diapers?”
Florence laughed. “Oh, that’s rich.” She winked at the teenager.
Seeing his tall, handsome son standing near her, Walt accepted the boy had grown since the last time he paid attention. He looked to have added a light mustache as well.
With his family present, Walt considered explaining Dream Riding to them. He had intended to unveil the experience to Florence weeks ago, by gifting her with a Ride. The Padesky’s reluctance interrupted his timing. They were such idiots. Florence only needed one night dreaming about spending a year without defecating, or whatever she considered pleasing, to forever appreciate his worth.
“Earth to Walton,” Florence said with a snap of her fingers. He found her eyes. “Your father’s being honored tonight and I’d like to arrive early.”
He knew she meant arriving before Constantine, so that every limousine pulling to the curb would draw cameras hoping to snap the bil
lionaire debarking, and blind her with flashes of mistaken interest.
Returning his attention to Kendra, he said, “I’m done playing nice. Assemble a team, use every tool we can, and find us leverage. The second we can force their hand, we will.”
“I won’t let you down,” Kendra said.
Without looking, Walt suspected Florence would be rolling her eyes toward Bart.
“Leverage, or, and this might require a separate team: espionage. We gather video or audio of their methods, pass that to our experts, mimic their process, and give them what they really deserve: the middle finger.”
“Say good-bye to Kendra, dear,” Florence paced over, intertwined Walt’s arm in hers, and pulled him along.
Descending in the Denmark’s elevator, he thought about the upcoming night. A hundred wealthy people extolling their importance to one another. Walt found the elite so mundane.
“Will the mayor be speaking tonight?” Bart asked.
“The governor will address the crowd,” Florence amended. “The mayor will be lucky to sit in the front.”
Once situated in the limousine, Florence scooted to the edge of the seat, and had Bart do the same across from her. Leaning over, she picked specks from her son’s tuxedo. Walt couldn’t help himself from imagining her washing Bart—even at his age—with the same attention to detail. While sharing a bathtub, she’d soap his feet, his calves; his thighs, as they casually chatted about his private school social hierarchy. Mothers and sons were not supposed to whisper to each other.
Finished, she inspected Walt’s tuxedo, found nothing to pick at and said, “I’m curious about your latest venture. I haven’t seen you this worked up since your days courting me.”
Walt grinned. Florence joined him, and leaned her shoulder against his.
They had met at a Pete Sampras match in London. Walt’s courting extended to asking her to join a group of friends for dinner that evening. Florence steamrolled the next six months of his life until he stood in Dubai, on their honeymoon.
“I’ve been waiting to show you a new service,” Walt said, “that could be bigger than the internet.”
Florence leaned away and inspected him.
“One year after I acquire control, Melinda Gates will be inviting you to lunch.”
SIXTEEN
Marci backhanded Corey’s shoulder. “Did you see that?”
From where they stood awaiting the elevator, he followed her gaze past Pharaoh and Sphinx statues, to the entrance of Luxor’s main casino floor.
“Follow me.” She marched toward the casino with balled fists.
The heavy duffel bag added a lurch to Corey’s gait as he hurried to keep up with her. “What’re we doing? We're going to be late.”
They entered the Luxor’s gaming area and paused. Even on a Monday night, customers were everywhere.
Marci powered on as if following a scent.
She stopped so suddenly behind a craps table, Corey nearly rear-ended her.
“What are we looking at?”
“Over there,” she said, peering into an area along the far wall. “I think I saw that red head that works for Walt.”
“Cooper?” Corey rested the duffel bag at his feet. Surveying the floor, he saw no brute in dark clothing topped with red hair. Inspecting each face—many furrowed in intensity over a situation they couldn’t affect—he grew perplexed at these people’s use of freewill.
“I think he lost us.” Marci huffed through her nostrils, and relaxed. Facing Corey, she surveyed behind him. “He was standing in the entrance, watching us. I locked eyes with him, and that son-of-a-bitch smirked, then disappeared.”
“Are you sure it was him?”
“Ninety percent. Come on.” She snatched a Pepsi from a passing cocktail waitress and led them back to the elevator.
Knocking on room 1142, Corey breathed deeply to help control his heartrate. They had satisfied nearly two dozen customers since the Walt nightmare, and like any horrible event, time blunted the impact. Yet those Rides took place in the standard rooms of various hotels. Suite 1142 on the eleventh floor of the Luxor serviced well-to-do clientele. Treading on terrains similar to Walt’s brought back images of a Jinni convincing a man to strangle a beautiful horse; of it offering to trade information for purposes detrimental to humanity.
A striking woman with golden hair and emerald eyes opened the door. She had a trim figure and wore pumps, snug jeans, and a black top with a matching shawl. The few lines around her eyes put her around thirty-five, possibly forty years old.
“Come in,” she said with polished diction.
The room lacked the opulence of Walt’s suite. It also was a third of the size. Even with the immaculate design, Corey had the impression staying six floors from the top was this woman’s version of slumming it.
“I’m Florence Currier, it’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m Marci, this is Corey. Are you planning on slipping into something more comfortable before we begin?”
“Oh, heavens no. My nighttime routine would expose my vanity and consume a portion of our time.” She kicked off her heels, hung her shawl over the back of a chair, and sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m ready.”
The diamond one her wedding ring was not only large, it was yellow. As a man, it was nice to purchase your wife a the largest ring you can. Marci’s was average. Maybe a little smaller than most, but there was a point where the value of the ring had to put the wearer at risk. Corey pictured a gun in the woman’s purse. Shit..
Resting the bag near the table, Corey dug out and positioned the major props while Marci spoke. “We’re ready to deliver your dream request and anticipate exceeding your expectations. Do you have any final questions?”
“I know you’ve stated this before, but I’m not going to do anything embarrassing while I dream?” She glanced at a purse on the dresser. “Like yell out or writhe around.”
“One-hundred percent, no,” Marci said. “You’ll remain in REM the whole time.”
When Florence glanced at Corey, he nodded reassuringly.
“Then let us proceed.”
“You’re going to be a happy woman,” Marci said. “And whatever happens will be kept in strict confidence. You ready, dear?” Marci asked Corey.
He connected their final speaker wire to their new tablet, checked the color spectrum of a flashlight, and said, “Good to go.”
Having abandoned the tin filled with cotton wipes for a less intimidating system of sedation, Marci offered Florence a sports water bottle similar to what boxers used, with a wide straw built into the cap.
Florence lifted the bottle in salute, sniffed the agent through a nostril attachment as instructed, and slumped backwards before her hand loosened its grip.
Once they situated their client, and Marci verified she slept, Marci moved to the dresser and opened the woman’s designer handbag. “She looked right at this one.” She displayed a recording device similar in size and shape to a tube of chap-stick. “I wish we could confiscate this stuff.” She returned it to the purse deactivated and then stalked the room. “A woman this sharp won’t rely on one.” A minute of squinting in dark corners revealed camera number two, a smaller version, magnetized to a lamp post. Twenty minutes later, they found number three glued to the ceiling.
“She didn’t install these herself,” Marci said as she stepped from a chair stacked on the table into Corey’s straining arms.
“Something about this woman gives me the willies.”
“Don’t you start. You’re not going to chase off every refined client we have simply because you’re biased against people with money.”
“That’s not fair. I’m pretty sure Mr. Goulooze is rich, and I look forward to seeing him twenty times a year like he promised.”
“Corey, focus on our task. I prefer the pleasant dreams, too, but this is our livelihood. We must be impartial and professional. At least until we can afford to pick and choose,” Marci said. “Then we’ll stick with preferred cl
ients.”
During Corey’s volunteer work at Hope’s Corner, another client had booked an additional appointment. By Saturday’s church retreat at a nearby waterpark, they would have given rides seven nights in a row. Great for the business, but he worried missing traditional sleep for extended periods hampered the psyche. Unlike Corey, Marci sneaked in naps during the day, negating her odds of sharing his concern.
Should the pattern of their business’ growth continue, they would soon be charging the five-hundred per night he once thought improbable. If they worked a normal five-day schedule, they’d be set financially, and he could have two nights of normal sleep.
Until then they would accept every possible appointment. He simply hoped his hunch of negative side-effects was just paranoia.
Marci’s sigh drew Corey from his reverie. She paced around the bed and wrapped him in her arms.
“I’m not looking forward to giving some lady her jollies, either. But think about how small our house and yard are, how we’ve never taken Janey on a real vacation. With that, I can push away the ugliest desires people seek and just get it done.”
“But Janey’s happy.”
“She’s happy for what she knows happiness to be. Almost everyone thinks they’re happy, but compared to whom? Someday she’ll hold her youth up to others; today’s experiences are her future memories, and I want her to look back and have dozens of big events to warm her teen and adult heart. Evidence must prove she had a special childhood.”
He kissed her. “You’re the best mother a child could hope for.”
A familiar look reshaped her face and she pressed her hips closer. She separated, paced a few steps back, and collected herself. “Thank you, honey. You’re not so bad yourself.” She pinched the taut flesh on him where love handles usually rested, and said, “Let’s give this woman her orgasms.”
Corey laughed and corrected her. “Let’s grant queen Cleopatra’s wish.”
A series of nods and then Marci connected to the wrist, and the ankle.
Corey did the same, pulling them into that other realm.