Dream Riders

by Taylor Kole

  Returning, he found Justin in the same spot, so he checked the refrigerator, retrieved two colas, opened them, and placed Justin’s on the coffee table.

  Corey had recapped Justin’s dream in detail—minus the blue Being. Even with the undeniable proof of Corey retelling the dream, it had to be hard to believe. In a day or a week or a month—once this part of the story settled, he would tell him about the Jinni, it’s counterpart, the darkness in the shadows, and hope for council.

  He eased next to his friend. “Penny for your thoughts.”.

  “How am I supposed to process this?” Justin asked. “You’ve laid out a solid case, but I can’t just slap my thighs and say, ‘that’s a real nifty talent you have there,’ and move on.”

  “Sometimes, I would read something that would impress me into a stupor. You have to let it digest.” He hardly believed it was that simple, but it was best to keep them talking.

  “I’ll get there. I just have to keep reminding myself that what you’re saying is real.”

  “I go through the same thing every day.”

  “But going back a step. This is why you mentioned fate? That life led you to some one-in-ten-billion outcome scripted for you?”

  Corey blanched. That was the first half of his fate belief. He had followed an impulse and been rewarded for trusting that instinct. The second half of fate was much larger and he was clueless about how to use their gift.

  “There’s more than this, isn’t there?” Justin asked.

  Corey rocked his head side to side as he leaned forward and sipped his cola.

  Justin licked his lips, spoke softly, “More. And that more is even less believable than you and Marci sharing my dream?”

  “There’s more, but this is enough for today.”

  “I’m still in the boat with you, man. Talk to me?”

  “Let’s give you a night to digest this. I’ll come over tomorrow and unveil more.”

  “We’re going to parlay tomorrow, no doubt, but this isn’t going to settle overnight like a slab of concrete. What happened in my dream won’t be settled for years, maybe not ever. I think whatever you’re dealing with requires a friend. That’s why you’re here. Let’s jump in the unchartered waters together, figure it out as we go.”

  “So, lay it on you?”

  “Lay it on me.”

  One deep breath and Corey did. He revealed nearly everything, starting with the legal intoxicants, slipping into Janey’s dream, the business concept, Walt, and finally the mucous-green Jinni that lived in the wealthy man’s mind.

  That conversation carried them into discussions of fate, into the ethics of working with a man who dreams with an evil life form. Corey never reached the incident at the pool, or his belief that consecutive Dream Rides might grant him a glimpse into another dimension.

  And they never discussed the blue Being residing in Justin. Not due to Corey withholding. He simply couldn't think of a way to tell someone that an angel lived inside of them.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Tuesday night’s client Hittin’ Licks was a mid-level rapper known mostly in and around the Washington D.C. area. Learning he earned a living as a performer, Marci and Corey watched his YouTube videos. Poor lighting and sound, garbled curse words, guns, dancing women in skimpy clothing. Corey couldn’t understand how there could be an audience for this. Let alone at least three million views on every video.

  Corey kept thinking about a quote from Frank Zappa: “If a certain rhythm can make you tap your feet, why not another that makes you ball your fist and strike?” Corey had previously connected those words to heavy metal, which was unhealthy. Hittin Licks music was also savage and demented.

  Philosophically speaking, Corey had often wondered if the shift from the peace and love seventies and party ‘til dawn eighties, to the murderous gang-lands of the nineties and drug-obsessed two thousands were linked to music?

  As they neared the double-suite at the Palms, the strum of music and loud voices countered the expectation of a studious scholar waiting inside.

  A skinny man wearing a Wizard’s jersey, shades, and a bandanna over the bottom half of his face opened the door. Loud talk and gangster rap rushed out. Dark tattoos etched his arms.

  The man pulled his bandanna from his mouth and said, “How can I help you?”

  “We’re here to see...” Marci peered at her phone as if checking a name. Since they both knew their client’s name, he assumed she was taking the pause to gain composure, “Mr. Licks.”

  The man chuckled and pulled open the door, “Yeah, al’right.”

  A dividing wall split the room. Closed French doors hid the side Corey suspected held dual queen-size beds. The half they entered had a television, sound system, and a sitting area.

  The man who answered the door led them to the table by the wall-size window with a view of the strip, where a man scribbled notes over an array of paper. The man who opened the door introduced them to that night’s client.

  “Cut off that music, yo!” Hittin Licks yelled.

  With the noise removed, Corey surveyed his surroundings. He found four men and two women—all holding colorful drinks, watching him.

  Their client rested a gold ink pen on the table, and leaned back. “I guess it’s ‘bout time for me to sleep.”

  The profile pictures the artist shared with the world of social media had to be a decade old. Now, gray speckled his short hair and three-day stubble; crow’s feet marked his eyes, and his belly pushed out. He wore a yellow T-shirt with an Arabic letter written in red down the front.

  “We’re ready if you are,” Marci said enthusiastically. “We hate to interrupt your work.” She motioned to the two dozen pages on the table, which were covered front and back with hand-writing.

  He gathered them up and said, “The music biz is a non-stop hustle. I gotta keep them hits comin’. There’s a million little homies out there eyin’ my spot.”

  “Hard work truly is the key to success.” Corey nodded lightly and glanced at Marci, as if to say, a man with work ethic can’t be that bad.

  Marci raised her eyebrows as if she guessed. “What’s that?” Marci pointed to a pistol at the end of the table.

  Hittin’ Licks stared at the semi-automatic weapon a beat before replying, “It’s a dog eat dog world, lady. But the guns’re legal. We all got permits.”

  Corey glanced around the room as men proudly and grimly displayed their sidearms, tucked in waistlines or strapped in holsters.

  “Everybody but Two-Tones.” Licks nodded toward the youngest man in the room—the one who answered the door. “He’s the felon in the room, but his driver’s license is clean.” Leaning forward and inspecting the bag clutched in Corey’s grip, he asked, “How ‘bout your hustle, this gonna match the hype?”

  Marci replied, “We’ve never had a dissatisfied customer.” She surveyed the room. “But we need privacy, and to be alone with our client, like we specified in the email.”

  “Rashida does my emails.”

  They looked at a woman in her late twenties. A tattoo of a star decorated her cheek. Corey had seen similar ones on Two-Tones’ arm and Hittin’ Licks’ neck.

  “I told him ‘bout what you said,” Rashida said to Marci, and then shrugged.

  “So I guess,” Marci said. “When you’re ready, we’ll have everyone leave for the night and get started.”

  “Where they all gonna go for the night?” Hittin Licks said. “I can’t be without my security. I need someone watchin’ out, making sure you ain’t doing no voodoo.”

  “We will respect any decision you make,” Marci said. “If you don’t agree to our primary rule, we will thank you for your interest in our service and be on our way.”

  “Bye,” one of the entourage said.

  Hittin Licks was a man unlike any Corey had previously met. He was curious at what lurked inside his mind.

  “Man, I just can’t be knocked-out with no strangers.” Hittin Licks said. “I don’t know you.”

>   “We understand,” Marci said. “Sorry to have disturbed your night.”

  Another beat, and Marci motioned for them to exit.

  When they reached the hall and the door closed, Corey exhaled. Whether from disappointment or relief, he couldn’t say

  Their phone rang as the elevator opened on the main level. From her pursed lips and the finger she held to Corey, he knew it was Hittin’ Licks on the line. Following a brief negotiation, she said, “That sounds fair. Thank you. We’ll wait for your text and meet you there.”

  Disconnecting, she smiled at Corey. “He apologizes for the confusion. Apparently, everyone was excited to watch the process, but he’s going to reserve another room for us and add one-hundred dollars for our inconvenience.”

  Two minutes later, the new room number arrived in a text and they met Hittin Licks outside that door.

  One man was with him. Hittin Licks nodded to his burly mate. “I’m gonna have Rock wait in the hallway, make sure you don’t run off with the room’s TV.” He smirked. “Other than that, I’mma do whatever you ask, but just so you know, if I wake up with a sore ass, or my jewelry missin’, that’s your life.”

  Corey and Marci stormed into the hall less than three hours later, two short of the scheduled time.

  “Your boss is still sleeping, but he’s fine,” Marci held the door ajar and waited for him to verify and return to the hall.

  Seeing the suspicious look on the man’s face and assuredly thinking what Corey knew—that something had gone wrong—Marci added. “Your boss will be more than satisfied with our service. Trust me on that.” She powered on and Corey followed.

  In the lobby, they retreated to separate bathrooms. Washing his face in the sink, he thought over the continually degrading subject matter of the dream. Every time Hittin’ Licks shot a tied-up man, won a gangland shootout, or snatched a woman by her hair, Corey became more determined to exit the dream.

  Corey finally ejected after the Jinni arrived on the balcony.

  This Jinni had been darker than the one in Walt. A bumpy grit, like coffee grounds, was stuck to its skin. It hadn’t noticed Corey at first, but the current of evil and hate it injected into the swirl had turned Corey’s stomach.

  It had been the worst experience to date. On the upside, the undeniable evil might draw Marci closer to accepting they had stumbled onto something more sinister than manifested egos.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Driving home, Corey’s attention volleyed between the road and the speedometer. He’d caught himself as high as forty over the posted limit, twenty more than the accepted norm in Las Vegas.

  Marci’s fingers were interlaced in her lap, her gaze was on the road ahead. She possessed strength and a temperament fit for any complication, but she was human, and their situation was abnormally intense. He longed to know what she was thinking, about everything.

  He looked at the speedometer, eighteen over. Slowing down, he peeked at Marci and found her eyes on him.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. You already know what I think. It was awful, the man is sick and we’ll never meet with him again, so there’s no point delving into any of it.”

  He stayed quiet, but they would talk about it, someday.

  “I’m thinking I’ll add some psychological surveys on Dreamriders before the check-out, to help us screen clients—once the site is back online.” She pulled the Smartphone from her purse.

  He checked the speed. He was driving twenty over. Judging from his surroundings, they had reached Henderson.

  “Yes!” Marci pumped her fist while staring at the smartphone’s glowing screen. “Dreamriders is back online.”

  Corey laughed, but then he frowned. Did he want it back online? “How about the other sites?”

  “All the comments are gone.” Marci said. “But the rest of the content is working fine. I copied most of the comments to my notebook. I’ll contact some of the people and ask if they mind reposting them verbatim.”

  “We can ask Mr. Labarge when we see him on Friday.”

  She nodded while clicking through her phone. “Oneiromancy is up.” Her shoulders sagged. “All the comments are missing here, too. We would have reached a thousand by the end of summer.”

  He knew she printed the new comments every week or so and read them in bed, sometimes aloud. Even without having contributed to the interpretations, he enjoyed listening to the praises of strangers. Marci helped a lot of people.

  “How awful for us if the first review on Dreamriders is left by Hittin’ Licks,” Marci said.

  “I’m sure it would be a ringing endorsement.”

  She frowned.

  “Maybe he’ll drive a diverse crowd to the page.”

  “Something tells me we don’t want to be rooting around in the minds of people who respect his opinion.” She interacted with the phone. “Thedreampuzzler is back online as well. Same story, all the comments are gone. But once I create our new Facebook pages and sync with the sites, we’ll be in full swing; minus the two thousand likes, excellent reviews, and many comments.”

  On this night, the greater the distance from Las Vegas, the more the traffic lightened on the 215, until the Jetta was alone.

  As they neared familiar territory, and Corey knew he would soon be pulling into his own driveway, much of the images and emotions expressed by Hittin’ Licks were drifting from him. A few days would set him straight, but the additional exposure to ugly increased his capacity to deal with it. He’d rationalized that aggressive and dominant emotions existed, and then be grateful for his upbringing in a two-parent home, and for his lack of hate.

  These past few weeks had delivered an additional silver lining. Up until their calamitous exploration of human psyches, he lived apathetically and yearned for purpose. Increasingly, he felt compelled to take stances, even on something as mundane as reading a newsfeed and leaving a comment. These choices to get involved were helping to redefine his character. If he continued to pivot and become more assertive, it would act as a testament that anyone could change, to any degree.

  Regardless, he owed Justin a thanks for opening his eyes to the importance of friendship, service to others, and possibly about the vital importance of faith. In time, he would drag Marci to Hope’s Corner for some volunteer work. She’d love it.

  Rounding the corner of Tiger Lily Way, police cars were in front of their house. Corey held back a yelp and resisted the urge to throw the car in park and run into the desert. Seeing spinning blue and red lights wash against their home compounded his angst. His vision blurred. His knuckles tightened over the wheel. He squirmed in his seat.

  Marci typed on the phone, seemingly unaware. In an ideal world, he could turn around or somehow shield her from the fright coursing through him. Since he lived in this reality, he said, “Marci.”

  “Wha…” She trailed off as the red and blue lights of a police cruiser illuminated the interior of the Jetta.

  With a hundred feet to go, Corey wanted to stomp down on the accelerator, but found the car slowing and himself glancing at the rearview and to either side of the road in hopes of learning he still dreamed, or had turned down the wrong street.

  A uniformed officer raked his flashlight across the desert across the street from their home as if looking for evidence. Footprints leading from the home could mean one, or both occupants of the house—Lisa and Janey—were missing.

  As they neared, the officer shined his light at the vehicle. Behind the glare, Corey saw the man place his hand on his firearm.

  Corey stopped one driveway short.

  Marci bounded out of the car before Corey shifted the transmission to Park.

  “That’s our house,” she yelled as she jogged toward the front door, which hung open. The glowing light from inside pierced the dark and made it look like a beacon warning of unseen dangers.

  “Ma’am,” the second officer yelled as he chased behind her.

  “Janey!” Marci yelled as she vanished inside.

  Corey
exited the car but walked slowly to the house. The surrealism of it all added weight to his steps. He could handle a thousand dreams with demonic spurrings, but the hint of Janey experiencing too much fear or pain could end him.

  Marci cried out their daughter’s name a second time, punctuated with a heavy exhale, as if in relief. Needing proof his life could continue, Corey ran to the door.

  Marci had dropped to her knees and was hugging their daughter, who looked rattled, but alert, and unharmed.

  The police officer that followed Marci spoke, “You’re the homeowners?”

  “Marci and Corey Padesky,” Corey said. “What’s going on?”

  Marci rose next to him. “What happened?”

  The sound of crunching glass from the dining room drew everyone’s attention. Lisa and a tall officer with matching blond hair entered the home through a gaping hole in their glass sliding door. Attempting to square this as an accident, Corey surveyed the scene.

  Glass littered the dining room floor. Shards pebbled the table, counter, and floors. The night winds carried a strong breeze into the home, yet only sparse grains of sand dotted the entrance, a clue the damage had occurred recently.

  The greatest shock was the brick on the dining room floor, butted against the back wall.

  Lisa nodded confidently to Corey as she passed him and took position with Janey and Marci.

  “Someone hopped your back wall and chucked a brick through the slider,” the first officer said as he eyed Corey’s reaction. He was a stocky man with a mustache thick enough to impede breathing; Rodriguez was stamped on his nametag.

  “It happened about forty minutes ago,” Lisa said. “I was resting on the couch and this huge boom-crash had me jump up. I ran to Janey’s room. She was asleep. I armed myself and listened for a solid minute. Hearing nothing, I came out here and called nine-one-one.”

  “Armed yourself with that thing?” Marci asked, motioning to the heavy silver cross resting on the coffee table.

  Lisa looked to the cross with the pointed end. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure if someone was in the house, but if anyone had tried to get in Janey’s room, they would’ve learned Jesus is a useful weapon.”