“I’ll do you one better,” says Cody. “I’ll take you directly there. A virtual world is a good place to escape once in a while.” He gives me a knowing look. Maybe we understand each other better than we thought.
And now I feel bad about whatever I did to him. I…compelled him, or something. That’s what it’s called in the vampire TV shows, anyway—compulsion. Or holding someone under your sway. That’s a witchy thing, I think. But vampires and witches aren’t real, so it’s got to be hypnotism. My grandmother’s gifts, resurfacing in me. Thanks a lot, Gran.
Cody leads me down some steps and along a hallway to a wide arch where a staff member stands with a tablet.
“Name?” asks the attendant.
“Daisy Finnegan,” I tell her, and then I smile at Cody. “Thank you.”
“No problem, Coffee Beans.” He saunters away down the hall.
“Daisy Finnegan,” repeats the attendant. “Ah, here we go. You’re preapproved by Mr. Gatsby, so no need to leave a deposit or ID. Please go in and help yourself to the equipment. There are instructions posted in each cubicle.”
Preapproved, huh? That’s pretty cool.
The room beyond is immense, divided into a couple dozen cubicles, each about eight feet square—enough room for one person to comfortably play a VR game. Each cubicle has padded walls—probably in case players bump into them—and a narrow, cushioned bench at one end for observers. I walk past a few cubicles occupied by people in chunky headsets, swinging wildly at nothing. When I find an empty one, the screen on the wall activates immediately and says, “Welcome, Player.” A short orientation video plays, and then a selection of games shows up. I choose a zombie one because I feel like fighting something. Come to think of it, there’s probably a punching bag somewhere in this place that would help me release my inner tension, but then I might come away with bruised knuckles and I’d rather not. Zero-impact punching and swinging should do the trick.
The screen on the wall switches to the in-game display mode. If I had a friend along, they could sit on the bench and watch what I’m seeing. But I’m alone, and for now, I want it that way.
The gloves and visor sit in their own dock, on a small table beside the bench. I’ve tried VR stuff before, things like skydiving and kayaking, but never a game like this, and always with controllers rather than gloves. The headgear also feels lighter than the ones I’ve used. With a bit of calibration to adjust for my height, it’s ready to go, and the game begins.
I’m in a ruined city, standing between walls of brick and concrete. There’s rebar and rust, cracked plaster and dry grass poking out of splits in the pavement. The sky overhead is dark blue, streaked and swirled with clouds in a smokier blue, dotted with a couple stars. The attention to detail is killer. When I look down at my hands, they seem slightly larger than usual. The pads of the fingers are stained and smudged, and when I rotate my hands, palms down, there’s dirt crusted under the nails and dried blood across the knuckles.
I move out of the little spawning alcove and into the alley beyond. A cat squalls and skitters across my path, making my heart jolt. The crate it jostled tips over, revealing a crowbar leaning against the wall behind it. Okay. I could use that. I reach forward and grab it, swinging it experimentally a few times. There’s a light buzz through the glove, and that, together with the visual input, makes me almost believe I’m really holding the weapon.
A zombie lunges from the shadows, a glistening eye bulging from one socket, its gnarled hands outstretched.
It’s so real and vivid that I jump back and scream, lashing out with my gloved fist. My iron bar bashes ineffectually against the zombie’s shoulder.
“Aim for the head.” A voice drifts into my new reality, and a chill floods every inch of my skin, raising goose bumps.
Jay’s voice.
He’s standing behind me. I can’t see him because of the headset, but I can feel him, like a sailor senses an oncoming storm. I can smell the pine, leather, and cloves of his cologne.
How did he find me? The staff member at the door of the VR room probably ratted me out.
The zombie lunges at me again, gargling from its broken mouth.
“The head,” Jay repeats.
“I’m trying, okay?” I jab forward and manage to spear the thing’s skull. The haptic feedback provides the illusion of resistance, and a sickening squelch blasts through my headset as the bar sinks home.
“Pull the weapon out. Like this.” A bodiless hand touches my arm. I look down, but all I see is the scarred ground of the post-apocalyptic world.
Jay guides my motions, helping me wrench my crowbar free of the dead zombie’s skull. The corpse topples aside.
The press of Jay’s hand disappears from my arm. There’s nothing in front of me but the empty street—yet I can sense him, very close. “Where are you?”
“Here.” His voice is faint through my headgear.
I reach forward, and where the game shows empty air, there’s a solid something—fabric shifting over a firm chest.
“This so weirdly cool. It’s like you’re invisible. Touch me again.” When Jay inhales sharply, I realize how it sounds.
I also realize, with a salacious thrill, that I don’t care.
“Oh, there’s another zombie,” I gasp. “Move or I’ll hit you.” I hope he moved, because I need to swing the crowbar like now or be bitten. The bar arcs, striking the zombie’s temple, and I jerk back as brain matter splatters my visor.
Two steadying hands brace my waist; Jay is behind me again. I move ahead in the game, climbing a ladder, ducking through a window, jumping to a lower floor. The house is cluttered with moldering furniture and bloodstained family photos. I round the corner and come face-to-face with another cluster of zombies. “Oh, crap!”
“There’s a gun on the table in the kitchen,” says Jay.
“Where’s the kitchen?” I squeal, flailing with the crowbar.
“To the right, if I remember correctly—wait—left, not right, sorry.”
I’m slashing violently, but I’m also hyperaware of his hands on my waist. When I move, my rear bumps lightly against the front of his pants, and each time that happens, a delicious tingle races between my legs because I can feel a rigid hardness against my ass.
When I’ve finally obtained the gun and dispatched the remaining zombies, I shift purposely backward so that telltale bulge presses into my bottom.
I haven’t forgotten that I’m frustrated with him, that I need answers. But my pussy doesn’t care about any of that, traitorous little fucker that it is. It’s been so long since I’ve let anyone touch me… I haven’t had the heart to even think about starting over with a stranger, trusting someone with my body and my heart again. But Jay… With all his newness and his unknowns, Jay is already mine.
I shouldn’t play with him until I’m sure about this, shouldn’t let arousal blur my judgment into a rosy haze. But I want him so badly, and I ache. I’m sore, deep inside, right in the crevice of my broken heart. Letting him ease one kind of soreness might help with the other.
I push my lower lip into a pout. “I’m not good at this.”
“You’re doing great.” His voice sounds a little breathless. “You just need to relax.”
