VirtualDesire (2 page)

She picked up the envelope Neil had found, examined it a
moment, then flipped it into the trash unopened.

“Why’d you do that?”

Gwen started as Neil spoke. “It’s just a letter from my
mother.”

Neil salvaged the note. “Why don’t you open it?”

Gwen rounded the counter, took it from his hand, and threw
it back into the waste can. She sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. “Did you
sleep in those clothes?”

Neil retrieved the note and again slapped it on the counter.
“I showered,” he said. “It’s not me. I thought it was you, no offense.”

When Neil turned his back to crank up the CD player’s
volume, Gwen surreptitiously sniffed her underarms. “Not me.” She tapped the
letter with a finger for a moment, then slit the envelope flap open with her
thumb.

She scanned the short note as she picked up Neil’s jacket.
It smelled innocently of old leather.

“What’s it say?” Neil plucked his jacket from her hand and
folded it onto a shelf behind the counter. He also picked up her raincoat,
shook it out, and hung it on a hook.

Gwen shoved the letter into the back pocket of her jeans.
“It’s just the usual invitation to Thanksgiving dinner. You know. Everyone will
be there, why not good old Gwen?” She lifted the wastebasket and sniffed. “This
place smells like wet wool.” She glanced overhead. “Could there be a leak
somewhere?”

A sharp rap on the window glass made Gwen whip around. “Oh,
dear.” She waved Neil off and went to the door. She opened it a scant inch.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hill. We’re not open yet. Not until ten o’clock.” She pointed
to her watch, which said nine. “The game needs to warm up. I haven’t even
turned it on; I’m sorry.” She needed all her strength to pull her shop door
firmly shut on the woman swathed in a raincoat, who flapped a twenty in her
face. With a sigh and a decisive turn of her key, Gwen locked the door.

She turned to Neil. “These women have no life. Don’t you
think it’s worse now that we have
Tolemac Wars II
! The women are even
more gaga over this warrior than the first one.”

Neil nodded, then touched her arm. “How come you’re not
going to your folks’ for Thanksgiving?”

“You’ve never tasted my mother’s cooking. If you had, you
wouldn’t ask.” Gwen shook her head. She was not about to tell Neil her family
troubles. Neil had enough trouble of his own. He’d just dropped out of graduate
school to look after his alcoholic mother.

“I’ll take out the trash. Maybe that will take care of the
smell.” Neil propped the back door open and gathered up several plastic bags.

Gwen grabbed the vacuum cleaner and dragged it across the
shop to the virtual reality booth that daily stuffed her cash register with
tens and twenties—or her and Neil’s cash register. The boom in virtual reality
game popularity had necessitated a partnership—she just didn’t have the ability
to run the shop alone anymore.

She gave the Tolemac warrior an affectionate pat on his
chest as she passed his poster. Women flocked to the shop to play his game.
They made no effort to hide their addiction to the eerie experience of donning
a headset and entering the handsome warrior’s world.

“Hope you’re ready for business, buddy,” she informed the
warrior. “Mrs. Hill’s getting anxious.”

Neil ran back into the shop, accompanied by a blast of salty
wind. “Are you talking to me?”

Gwen shook her head. “No, I’m talking to this guy up here.”
She jerked her thumb at the poster.

“If he ever starts talking back, I’ll know you’re working
too hard.” Neil hefted an armload of recyclables.

Gwen frowned as she plugged in the vacuum. Her fingers
traced a jagged tear across the bottom of the
Tolemac Wars
poster. “Oh,
no, Neil, look at this.”

Neil came to her side. “I guess someone tried to steal the
poster again. What is this? The fourth one this month? Must be those nutty
women from the game convention.”

“More like Mrs. Hill. These posters are so hard to come by,”
Gwen complained, but Neil didn’t answer. The door banged shut behind him.

Gwen swore aloud. She looked up at the warrior, who glowered
at her as if blaming her for the desecration of his poster. His silver-blond
hair blew back from his magnificent face. His black leather breeches and
elaborately embroidered white tunic molded his body. Gwen always imagined he
stood foursquare to the wind so that his fans could admire the honed contours
of his body and the straight, noble lines of his profile. “Vanity, thy name is
not woman. Or at least not in Tolemac,” she muttered.

Abandoning her vacuum, Gwen leaned over the service counter
and dug up a roll of tape. As she plastered the poster back on the wall, she
spoke to the warrior. “Don’t blame me if every Tanya, Dawn, and Helen tries to
steal you off the wall. If you weren’t so damned perfect and beautiful, they’d
leave you alone. Maybe a few scars and scuffs would wipe that haughty sneer off
your face.” She laughed and patted the warrior on a well-muscled thigh, tossed
the tape onto the counter, and returned to her vacuum. “Of course, Mr. Tolemac
Warrior Snob, if you weren’t so beautiful, you’d be just another game—and I’d
be poor.” She sniffed. “Whew. Whatever it is, it reminds me of a wet
sheepdog—or maybe just the wet sheep.”

She stepped into the entrance of the freestanding chamber
that housed the
Tolemac Wars
game. It was formed of four matte black
walls with an inner chamber, also with walls of unrelieved black.

The classical music rose to a crescendo behind her, masking
something else, something close and furtive. A rustle. A soft, mousy sound that
tickled her spine with apprehension and froze her fingers on the light switch.

Gwen stood poised, her ears straining. The sound was not
repeated. She ran to the counter and hit the eject button on the CD player.

Silence pounded in her head as she listened. Had she imagined
the sound? Had a trick of wind playing over the roof carried in the sound of a
distant foghorn? Trembling, Gwen tiptoed farther into the virtual reality
chamber and flicked the switch. Light filled the game chamber.

A polar bear was her first thought. A huge, dirty polar bear
lay sprawled in her game chamber, filling the space with its body and
wet-animal scent.

With a scream in her throat, Gwen turned, tripped over the
vacuum, and ran. She skidded on the smooth carpet and lunged out the back door.

Rain pounded the wooden boards of the back steps. Wind
lashed cold drops against her face. Salt air and low-tide smells choked her as
she gasped for breath and fought the panic that welled within her.

Lightning pierced the sky. Neil stood next to the trash
dumpsters, black against black, and frowned at her.

Gwen felt suddenly foolish. Shame that she’d panicked and
run made her press her hand to her pounding chest and take a deep, steadying
breath.

The back parking lot held only her car, the trash containers,
and Neil. “What is it?” he called. Water lapped over the sidewalks and gushed
in gutters.

“I-I-I heard something.” She rubbed her cold hands on her
arms. Her fleece top and jeans were getting soaked.

Neil bounded up the steps two at a time. “What?”

“In the game booth.” She omitted what she’d seen. Something
made her hold her tongue.
Let Neil see for himself
. Together they went
back into the shop. As they entered, she caught a whiff of sweat. It underlaid
the wet-animal scent as well as the salt and sand smells that were such a part
of a shore community that they went unremarked.

Gwen held up a hand to Neil for silence. Not far from her
front door, the Atlantic Ocean snarled. Wind rose and fell with a whine.
Nothing else stirred. She tiptoed to her counter and pulled out a long metal
bar that was supposed to be locked onto her car’s steering wheel. She just
couldn’t remember to use it. As she brandished it like a sword, she slipped
cautiously into the game booth, Neil right at her elbow.

The game booth was really a small room inside another. The
inner room held a raised platform and a wide screen for spectators to view the
game while it was being played. The players had no use for the screen. They
wore a headset that covered their eyes and ears; they experienced the game as
if living it.

Gwen took a deep breath, poked the bar around the curved
wall, and followed slowly after.

Neil shoved past her and stood with his hands on his hips.
“These gamers!” he said in disgust. With his work boot, Neil prodded the mountain
of fur that lay half on and half off the control platform.

Gwen relaxed at Neil’s apparent unconcern.

After all, she thought, polar bears did not wear leather
boots.

Neil gave the lump a harder kick. “Yo, bud. Up and outta
here.” The small mountain didn’t move. “Should I call the cops?”

Gwen frowned.
And say what? “A polar bear in boots is
snoozing in our shop
.” Now that Neil had demonstrated the thing’s
harmlessness, she grew brave and made a few fencing moves at the mountain. She
prodded and poked and circled.

“Or maybe we should call the exterminator.” Neil bent over,
hands on knees. “Come on, bud. This isn’t the Seaview Motel.”

The offending gamer shifted. Gwen squeaked and danced away.
The disgusted look Neil aimed at her made her straighten up and justify
herself. “Well, it moved.” She feigned nonchalance, but she did not lower her
“sword”.

While Neil cajoled, Gwen took in the small details. Dirty
fur, like a matted bath rug, swathed the figure from head to foot. Boldly, Gwen
poked the pile again.

Nothing happened. She prodded the flat, scuffed sole of one
boot. The furry mountain abruptly shuddered. Gwen jerked away, her back coming
up against the wall. The pile shifted and rolled off the platform onto its back
on the floor.

It flopped back like a beached whale and snored—a decidedly
loud snore.

“Sound asleep,” she whispered in disgust.

“Maybe drunk,” Neil whispered back.

“At this time of morning?” Gwen held the metal bar in both
hands, ready to whack the man if he stood up.

“He probably sneaked over from Atlantic City.” Neil reached
down and dragged the furs open in the center of the long form. “How the hell’d
he get in here, anyway?”

Gwen dropped her bar. She hated it when Neil was right.
Under the furs, the man was garbed exactly like the warrior in
Tolemac Wars
II.
Costumes were
de rigueur
at the game convention as well as at
the ball scheduled for that night. A dirty, blond beard covered the lower half
of the man’s face, yet his features were hauntingly familiar. “Boy, lose the
beard and he’d win the prize in any Tolemac warrior look-alike contest,
wouldn’t he?” she asked.

Neil grunted. “Not unless he takes a bath before the final
judging.” Then he frowned. “Did you forget to check the back door last night?”
His implied “again” didn’t need to be said.

She winced and busied herself examining the man. He opened
his eyes and licked his tongue over dry lips. “Come…warm…me.”

Gwen found herself staring. His eyes were as blue as a
northern fjord, his voice low and seductive. His eyes fluttered closed. A smile
curved his mouth.

“Oh, great. A rude Tolemac impersonator,” Gwen muttered.
“What should we do with him?”

Neil scratched his chin. “I don’t know. If you call the cops
he might get thrown in jail.”

“Gamers are not criminals,” she said.

“You’re right. They also spend tons of money in shops like
ours.”

The man rolled his head and snorted like a large boar. It
was then that Gwen noticed a long gash that extended from his right eye nearly
to his chin. Dried blood matted the front of his furs. “Oh, Neil, he’s hurt.”
She dropped to her knees at the man’s side. He was a long, tall mountain of
fur. “And he’s really dirty. It’s his fur coat we’re smelling. He must’ve
swiped it from a bear. A wet, muddy bear.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

Yet despite the coat’s condition, where Neil had separated
the furs, she could see an elaborately embroidered shirt. She’d seen that
pattern of black and gold on white so many times, she could not fail to
recognize it now. “His coat might be dirty, but his costume is beautiful.” She
reached out cautiously and touched the man’s shirt.

Heat zinged up her arm. She snatched her hand back.

As if his body had become aware of his surroundings, the man
began to shiver. He tucked his hands into his armpits and curled onto his side.
The small chamber once again filled with his harsh, growling snores.

“We could at least clean his cut,” she said. Neil frowned.
“He’s shaking; he must be cold. Shouldn’t we at least get him upstairs? I could
clean his cut.”

“Yeah, I guess we don’t need him lying here when we open
up.”

“Kered?” the man whispered. His eyes remained closed, but
his hand groped toward her.

Involuntarily, she took it. He shivered. His hand was
hot—feverishly hot. While she held it, the heat seemed to flow up her arm. The
hair on her nape stirred. With difficulty, she extracted her hand from his hard
grip.

She stripped the furs open all the way down the man’s body.
The garment revealed itself to be a long fur parka with a deep hood. The man’s
dirty, matted hair lay plastered against his skull��it could be any color from
dark blond to white. His beautifully embroidered tunic, once soaked in sweat,
now lay stiff against his skin. Yet he was the image of the man from the
poster. “This might be the guy the agency hired for my ball, Neil.”

The man’s breath whistled through his nose.

“Looking like this?” Neil shook his head. “Let’s call the
police instead.”

In her mind’s eye, Gwen saw herself locking the back door
and checking it. “I know I didn’t leave the door open. I just know it.”

“Then he sneaked in while we were busy with customers
yesterday and hid in the bathroom. No, that’s ludicrous. How could a guy this
big sneak past us?”