Catching Ivy

by Eliza Tilton

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  Nineteen

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  thank you

  for reading

  About the Author

  CATCHING IVY

  Copyright © 2018 by Eliza Tilton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN-EBOOK: 978-1-945519-16-1

  ISBN-PRINT: 978-1-945519-18-5

  Cover art by Covers by Combs

  Edited by Stacy Sanford

  Interior fleurons by Pablo Luis Gómez Hernández

  www.elizatilton.com

  Give feedback on the book at:

  info@elizatilton.com

  Twitter: @elizatilton

  First Edition

  Printed in the U.S.A

  “It is not in the stars to hold our

  destiny but in ourselves”

  ~William Shakespeare~

  One

  ~Damion~

  The time on the clock hologram reads ten P.M. From thirty floors up, the city glitters like a thousand stars. A smooth-skinned beauty is featured on the latest bio-cream advertisement on the building across from this one. If you have a few thousand credits to spend, wrinkles won’t ever plague you.

  Coldness seeps into my skin. The heaters turn down around seven, once most of the workers are out of the building. A cleaning robot zooms past the door. Its barrel-sized butt slams into a nearby chair, knocking it over. I take a hit from the vape and watch the tiny blue light on the end pierce the darkness before it dies for good.

  Out again . . . I toss the dead vapor into the trash and lean back against the stiff leather chair. It’s my last one, and I promised Mom I would stop. She already worries too much about my well-being. A hologram frame of me and my sister as kids sits on my dad’s desk; the only object besides the black remote he uses to switch on the left wall screen. Melanie and I have the same piercing-blue eyes as Mom, and the same thick, dark hair as Dad.

  When I was younger I hoped I’d grow up to be just like my dad: a full six-foot, two inches with a strong, broad chest, a square jawline instead of chubby cheeks, successful. I run a hand across my chin. Mom always says how much I look like him. Now, I don’t know if that’s a curse or a blessing.

  My watch beeps. I read the message flashing on my wrist.

  Outside.

  “Coming,” I say into the phone. It texts back while I bump into the edge of the desk in my rush to get out the door.

  Zipping my coat, I leave Scole Towers and head into the night. The city feels alive; pulsing with lights, sounds of whizzing cabbies, and endless chatter from people strolling the ave. Uptown has been the hotspot for the past thirty years, and it’s where my family’s company sits. Shopping, food, and late-night variety shows to keep you titillated at all hours.

  A symphony of lights pulsates around me, creating a hum that makes the city breathe with life. Chatter from people shopping and waiting in line to watch the late-night live shows clutters the streets.

  Jims creeps out of the dark alley beside the entrance of Scole Towers.

  “Do you always dress like a bum?” I scoff. “I know you can afford more with what I pay in vids.” I fold my arms and lean against the building.

  “Keeps the police from watching me. They’ll think I’m just another homeless guy.” He glances left then right, his jaw twitching as he stuffs his hands into his old, brown coat.

  “You feeling okay?” Jims and I have been friends for the past year, and every day he seems more worn out. His mousy brown hair is slicked back. I question if it’s with gel or straight grease. One day that high is going to kill him.

  “I’m fine,” Jims answers furtively while he plays with a round, black object in his left hand. “Got that vid.”

  “How much?” Previous experience tells me he’s going to shoot high, and I’m ready to play our little bargaining game.

  “Five large.”

  I laugh. Higher than our normal starting point. “No vid is worth five thousand dollars.”

  “This one’s different.” His voice is hushed. His gaze darts around as if he’s being watched.

  “I’m not going to spend that much,” I say. “You know that.”

  Jims steps closer. The wind shoves his heavy scent of body odor and Korean BBQ into my face. “I got this straight from BORAS, and it’s the only copy.”

  “Impossible.” BORAS, the founder of VRR: Virtual Reality Reads, has a monopoly on the device. So far, no other company has been able to replicate their intrinsic core. Yeah, you can play a VR game, but nothing that will affect your senses the way a VRR device does. “How did you get your hands on that?” I marvel.

  “From one of the techs. He’s the guy I get copies from. You gonna buy this or not?”

  Curious, I bite. “I’ll give you thirty-seven fifty, no more.”

  “Deal.” He glances around us and slips a thin black case from the inside pocket of his coat.

  I move in front of him, snatching the disc from his palm and putting it inside my jacket. “I’ll come by tomorrow, same time, and drop off the credits.”

  Jims nods. “See you later, Damion.”

  I flick him a goodbye and walk to the bus stop.

  Anyone who lives in the Court can take a tram from any area of the city and ride for free, but I like the bus. I tap my foot against the sidewalk. Excitement buzzes through me, thinking of the vid in my pocket. The bus slowly pulls to the stop. I step on and slide my card into the bus pass reader. “Hi, Mr. Connors,” I greet the old man who always drives this route.

  “Hello, Mr. Scole. Wonderful night, isn’t it?” he replies with a smile as he tips his wide hat.

  “Sure is.” I smile back.

  I head to the back row of seats. I always sit on the right side, and there always seems to be an empty seat.

  Tonight, the bus is quieter than usual. Besides me, there are only a few tired-looking oldies and a couple trying to hide their make-out session behind the backseats. I relax against the seat, pull the ear bud from my pocket, and insert it into my ear as hard techno beats pour out. My watch buzzes again, but this time I ignore it. There’s no one I want to talk to, not when all I can think about is the black case hidden within my jacket.

  The bus leaves Uptown and heads to Midtown, the oldest part of the city. On this side of the bus, I can see a few of the historic buildings, their old skeletons still gleaming with beauty. When Superstorm Dixie crashed into our coast over twenty-five years ago, the storm surge destroyed the lower half of the city. Every rodent, insect, and homeless person scurried to Midtown for safety, turning the once popular tourist section into a gri
tty mess.

  The city officials rebuilt downtown into a sparkling fantasy called the Court, where I live. Passing through Midtown to go to the Court feels like a time warp. We pass over the crystal bridge, the lights of the bus reflecting on the glossy surface. Twinkling lights wind around massive trees, whose leaves lift and flutter with the breeze. Delicately placed vines creep around pristine buildings and sculpted fountains gush clear water, sprouting and pouring from the different levels of the buildings, which are all connected by ornate bridges and meandering walkways.

  Scole Incorporated had a big piece of the Court project, back when my grandfather ran the company. He envisioned a city resembling Ancient Babylon, with manicured gardens and intricate waterfalls being the focal point of the design. Everything you need is in the Court: a school, food, entertainment, its own hospital … even though we’re all living in the same city, people from the Court stay with their own.

  Glancing up at the hotel my father built, I have to admit, the curved columns and golden cherubs standing guard add a classic glam even I can admire.

  By the time the bus drops me off and I head to our penthouse, it’s close to eleven P.M. Dad scheduled an early meeting for seven, which means I’ll only have a few hours to check out the new vid. Tomorrow, I’m presenting the company’s next charity project. It’s the first one I’m leading, which means I need to be alert and ready to win over the team with my proposal.

  The penthouse is dark, except for the flashing colors of the TV screen. Walking over to turn it off, I see Mom asleep on the couch. I grab a nearby blanket and tuck it around her, then kiss the top of her forehead. She shifts and hugs the blanket closer, snuggling down and rubbing her cheek against the pillow.

  Dad hasn’t come home yet, and I wish for her sake he would. I know he isn’t having an affair, but all the late-night business calls with a myriad of international clients always keeps him out to all hours of the night. I can’t remember the last time we ate dinner as a family.

  My bedroom lights turn on with a silent flicker as I cross the threshold. Turning to a keypad on the wall, I punch a button and the door locks behind me with a barely audible click. I quickly change into sweats and slide the VRR device out from under my bed. The silver visor resembles oversized sunglasses, the only difference being the tiny electrodes that latch onto the forehead.

  I load the tiny disc into the reader slot, sit back into the buttery, soft leather recliner, and put on the visor. After a tiny pinch from the VRR’s implants, I’m plugged in. My bedroom fades away until I’m surrounded by a white menu screen.

  The AI sits behind a sleek, ebony desk that floats eerily in the stark white room. Her dark hair is twisted into an efficient bun and a communicator sits on her head. She smiles with perfect, white teeth.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Scole,” she declares in a sultry voice.

  “Hi, Vicki.”

  She taps expertly manicured fingernails on a flat screen housed within the desk, sliding images back and forth. “Will you be reading your latest installment?” she inquires solicitously.

  “Yes.” I walk soundlessly across the room and take a seat in an overstuffed, antique chair across from her. Instead of the sweats I wore when I plugged in, I’m wearing grungy black pants with heavy buckled boots and a nubby grey sweater that covers my arms and wraps around my hands, where only my fingers show.

  When you’re inside a VRR, everything you visualize is perception. There’s no mirror, so I don’t know how different I look, but the fringe of black hair that always seems to fall in my eyes is still there.

  “Download is now complete,” Vicki announces. “You may speak a command when ready.”

  “Play.”

  Two

  ~Ivy~

  I slap my hands over my ears, but it does nothing to silence the drumming of my heart. The pounding is so loud, I’m certain it echoes through the far corners of the room. With nothing but darkness surrounding me, I pray I’m safe. Hidden. There’s too much at stake.

  A few more minutes.

  The heavy scent of mildew clouds my senses until all I can think about is fresh air. Dust motes tickle my throat, and it takes every ounce of my willpower to stifle the cough that threatens to erupt. My body is frozen in place, and although I know I should make a run for it, my limbs won’t move. What if I open this closet and the guards are standing right there?

  But I have no choice.

  Go. Go. Go.

  Gathering all my courage, I press on the metal door and peek through the slatted opening.

  The door leads to the basement, where mounds of boxes and rows of dusty furniture fill the space. Heavy footsteps resonate through the floorboards above, dropping more dust on my head. They’re still inside the house, searching. Scanning the room, there’s a white drop cloth covering a couch in the corner and one of the corners is flapping in an unseen breeze. My gaze follows the movement to an open window. It’s small, but so am I.

  Sweat beads on my head and slicks my back. I tiptoe inside the room, grab one of the chairs, and push it under the window. The scraping of chair legs raises every one of my hairs and I pause, wondering if I’ve just given myself away. When I don’t hear the rush of feet coming for me, I make my move.

  The muscles in my arm strain as I pull myself up. I wish I’d worked harder during my physical lessons instead of spending countless hours drawing. Then again, I never thought I’d be running for my life.

  “In here!”

  One of the guards, dressed in his military fatigues, runs toward me.

  Channeling all my strength into my arms, I heave myself up and through the window. A split second later, a hand grabs my foot.

  “Get off!” I shriek, kicking the man with my other foot. As he stumbles back, I use the momentum to snatch both legs away from him and I’m through.

  The moon hangs desolately in the sky, its ominous light illuminating the sidewalk. Which way? Seemingly endless rows of identical brick houses stretch out in both directions.

  Headlights come from the east. I glance quickly behind my shoulder and dash into the road, waving my arms wildly.

  “Stop, please!” I shout, panicked.

  The car slams on its brakes, narrowly avoiding a collision, and I run to the driver side door.

  The dark window rolls down with a soft whirr of expensive machinery, revealing a man with silver-rimmed glasses staring back at me. Before he can yell or ask questions, I speak.

  “Please, help me!” I plead. “These men want to kill me.”

  “Where?” he asks simply, as if I had just asked him for directions instead of revealing there were murderers on my heels.

  As the words start to tumble from my lips, the front door of the abandoned house crashes open and three guards run out.

  “Get in.”

  The doors unlock. I jump into the back seat without a backward glance. My savior takes off as bullets spray the back of the car.

  “Get down!” he commands.

  I fall flat against the leather seat, covering my ears, my mind racing with impossible scenarios.

  The car lurches right and left, using evasive techniques to lose our pursuers. My body slides back and forth, whipping with each turn. Sporadic gunshots punch through the air. I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the edge of the backseat.

  “Hold on,” he instructs calmly.

  Every few seconds the driver’s gaze flits to the rearview mirror, searching for our pursuers. I want to see if we’re still being followed, but my heart locks onto this spot, and every time I move, it beats wildly.

  After a while, the car stops.

  The man turns around. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” I admit shakily, and sit up.

  I notice that we’ve pulled into an enclosed space, and the car ignition is off. A loud growling noise sounds outside the large door. The
man I’m with holds a finger to his lips in a gesture for silence.

  An image of heavily armed, black-clothed guards bursting through the door and finding us enters my mind. I shake it off.

  I’m safe. I’m safe.

  And so we wait.

  And wait.

  After what seems to be a very long time, the driver sighs. “I think it’s okay to get out.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I lost them a couple streets back and pulled into the garage before they caught up.” He looks back at me sheepishly. “My wife complained when I bought this car. She thought we were too old to drive anything sporty. Good thing I didn’t listen to her.” He smiles. “My name’s Rob. And you are?”

  “Ivy.” My name jumps out of my mouth before I have time to think. Instantly, my stomach clenches. I shouldn’t use my real name. It’s a stupid mistake.

  Rob pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “It seems you’ve gotten yourself into a bit of trouble, Ivy.” He doesn’t give me a chance to explain. “I think you should come inside. We can talk more comfortably.”

  He opens his car door and steps out. The garage is dark except for the light from the car door. I open my door and see an image in the glass that gives me a jolt. My reflection, a portrait of a sad girl, too frail for the mission pushed in front of her. I’ve never been on my own before, and here I am stranded at a strange house with a man I don’t know.

  But then I think of Bethany, and strength pours into my body, fueling me.

  All I can do is nod and follow Rob into his home.

  The door from the garage leads to a set of four steps, which takes us into a brightly lit kitchen.

  “Hi, honey!” a woman’s voice chirps. “I’ve officially decided that every Tuesday should be taco night, and …” The woman’s voice trails off as Rob steps aside and I come into view.

  “Sally, this is Ivy,” he offers calmly.

  Her brows narrow just a bit, and Rob places a comforting hand on her back.

  “I was on my way home when I found her. She needs a place to stay for the night.” Rob leans into Sally and whispers in her ear, acceptance dawning in her eyes as she flicks her gaze to me.