I try. It’s hard, but I try.
We head inside the villa. It’s like a Polynesian mansion in there, and it’s way too big to fit inside the walls. But I guess that’s how it works in here. I fawn over the décor for a few minutes. I want to steal some of the ideas. There’s these crazy Tiki masks hanging on the walls, and these totem pole thingies for pillars. A bamboo floor, palm trees growing in the middle of the main room, cute little flower garlands dangling from the ceiling.
I head for the bedroom and throw open the doors to the balcony. The perfect sunset, the perfect view of the ocean. There’s a dial on the wall. I turn it, and there’s a click. Now it’s sunrise, the sky purple. Another turn and it’s high noon, a pod of whales dancing in front of me. One more turn and it’s dolphins. Every beautiful scene you could think of, and I can have whichever one I want, whenever I want.
I’d keep playing with it, but I hear a shout from Sean from somewhere downstairs.
“Karen!”
I find him in the kitchen. He’s standing in front of the refrigerator, screaming his head off and yelling every curse word in the book. He turns on me like some kind of animal, and I can’t help taking a few steps back. “Where’s the fucking Corona?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
It’s a lie, and he knows it.
“I want watermelon,” he says, and there’s a happy little beep from the fridge. He pulls out a plate, holds it out to me, and drops it on the floor. I wince as the plate cracks and bits of red fruit go flying everywhere.
“I want cantaloupe,” he says. “I want roasted boar.”
Done and done. Two more plates on the ground.
“I want a fucking beer,” says Sean.
And all he gets from the fridge is a sad little buzz.
“You know anything about this?” he says.
“I asked them to,” I say. “To keep that stuff out of here. Just for the weekend—”
“It’s my fucking vacation,” says Sean. “It’s my fucking vacation and all I wanna do is relax—”
“Our vacation,” I say. “It’s our vacation. Our honeymoon.”
He looks pissed. Then guilty.
Those beers ruined the first one. And they ruined a lot of nights after that.
“Baby,” says Sean. “I’m not that person. You know I’m not.”
“I know you won’t be,” I say. “Not this weekend. Not in here.”
His eyes flash with anger. But he’s smiles again right away. I know he’s pissed. I know he wants a drink. Just one, maybe two. And maybe that’d really be all he’d have. Sometimes it is.
But sometimes it’s more, and sometimes he can’t stop.
“There’s more to do in here than sit on the beach,” I say. I use my most seductive voice. “Take me upstairs.”
It works. His smile grows bigger, and he whisks me off my feet. He carries me to the bedroom, closes the door behind us, and for the next few hours we’re having the honeymoon of our dreams. There’s a naughty little book by the bed with all these things to try. It’s like a Kama Sutra for virtual reality. It’s crazy stuff, and it’s good. Turn off the gravity, give yourself two extra arms, that sort of thing. Freaky things I can’t believe anybody ever thought up.
We get thirty pages in before we’re too tired to keep going.
Sean flips the switch on the balcony. The sun’s gone, and it’s the middle of the night, the stars clear in the sky, the moon right outside our window. The sound of the ocean even changes: it’s softer, more soothing. It makes me want to sleep. I curl up in his arms, and after a few minutes we’re both out like a light.
I don’t dream. I usually dream, even though I can’t always remember more than bits and pieces. But when I wake up, nothing. It’s like a switch turned me on and off. Maybe it did. But it feels weird. Maybe you can’t dream when you’re already in one. I don’t know.
Sean’s in the shower. He doesn’t need to be, but it feels right to do it somehow. I join him. We spend another few minutes trying another thing from the book, and then we wrap ourselves up in our bathrobes and head downstairs.
The cook’s in the kitchen, making us breakfast. He sings a song to us in French. Sean wants to send him away, but I stop him. I like the music, and I like the feeling of being pampered by somebody else, even if he isn’t actually somebody else. The cook puts on a show. He’s tossing eggs up into the air and catching them with his pan, then cooking with the pan turned upside down and gravity gone all funky. He folds the bacon into the shape of a piggy and waves his hands over it. Then it’s moving on its own, a balloon animal made of bacon dancing along the counter and making all these cute little oinks.
I clap. I laugh.
Sean just grunts and grabs his plate.
He’s a killjoy when he’s in a bad mood. He’s staring at that fridge, and I know what he’s thinking about. Well, too bad. I’m not giving in. Not this time. He can do whatever he wants when we get home, but this weekend’s special. I’m not letting him ruin it for me.
The porter comes back after breakfast. “Are we ready for today’s excursion?” he asks.
“We are,” says Sean.
“Then follow me,” says the porter, and he leads us outside.
“What’s the plan?” says Sean.
“We have a variety of options, and we’ve come to a recommendation based on your data profiles,” says the porter. “We think you’ll both love it. And if you don’t, there’s always something else to try. What do you think about pirates?”
“I love them,” I say. And I do. Not just pirates. I love all kinds of stories. But those vids, the ones with Captain Hawke. They’re all over my tablet. He’s dark, he’s daring, he’s always in charge and he always knows what to do. Pirates could be lots of fun.
“Pirates,” grumbles Sean. “Pirates have grog.”
“We don’t want any grog,” I say.
“The hell we don’t,” says Sean. He’s glaring at me, itching for a fight, but I glare back. He backs down. This time.
“We’d love something with pirates,” says Sean.
“Excellent,” says the porter. “Let’s try it out.”
“I want romance,” I say.
“And I want lots of violence,” says Sean.
“No,” I say. “No blood. I can’t stand the sight of blood.”
“No fun,” says Sean. “I’m not spending my honeymoon watching you make out with Captain Eyeliner or whoever.”
“You could each try a separate instance,” says the porter. “We could keep you together at first, and split things off for a bit once the violence starts.” He winks at me with a sly smile. “Or the kissing.”
“Instance?” says Sean.
“Follow me,” says the porter, and he walks through the door to the villa. I give Sean a look. He just shrugs. So we both follow.
I walk inside, and it’s just me and the porter, standing together in the foyer. Sean’s still outside. I could swear he was right beside me, but now he’s gone. I look out the door. Nothing.
“Honey?” I say. He doesn’t answer.
“He’s in his own instance of the villa,” says the porter. “And so are you. It’s like taking a little section of the simulation and doubling it. Or tripling it, or as many copies as we’d like for as many people as we’d like.”
“So you and I are here,” I say. “And he’s in another villa.”
“I’m in both villas,” says the porter. “I’m explaining the concept to him as we speak. And I’ve been so good as to deny his requests for prohibited libations.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Very good,” says the porter. “Let’s regroup and settle on a plan for today’s excursion.”
He walks me outside again.
When I come out the door, Sean appears out of nowhere and bumps into me from behind. He grabs my waist and smiles.
“The two of you will spend part of the day on your own excursions,” says the porter. “During the scenario, we’ll pl
an on splitting you into two instances. Sir on one ship, participating in a raucous and violent naval battle. Madam on her own version of the ship, attending a pirate’s masquerade with a man of mystery at her side.”
Sean’s eyes flare.
“A very chaste man of mystery,” adds the porter hastily. “One who looks very much like Sir, but controlled by the system’s artificial intelligence. And the two of you will rejoin one another in time for a romantic dance and a kiss to culminate the evening.”
“Sounds great,” says Sean.
“Sounds perfect,” I say.
The porter nods his head like the genie in that old vid show. There’s a sound like bells ringing. And something feels different.
My clothes. I look down at my clothes. I was in a white sundress, and now I’m in a leather bodice, knee-length boots, and a cute tricorn hat. Sean’s in a tattered black coat, a patch over one of his eyes, and he’s got the biggest sword I ever saw hanging from his belt. He smiles and waves it around, slashing at the air. It’s making me nervous. I back away.
The porter notices, and he tries to calm me down. “Neither of you can be injured in here. It’s a physical impossibility.”
“Let’s go,” says Sean. He grabs me and yanks me towards him. “You’ll walk the plank, ye wench. Arrrrr.”
The porter nods his head again. More bells. He points off at the horizon.
There’s a ship coming into the dock. A big one. It’s got the flag and everything, the skull and the crossbones. The crew’s singing some kind of pirate song. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum. The ship glides up to the dock, and a wooden ramp plops down over the side. Men scramble along the sides. Guys who look like they’ve been at sea too long. Missing teeth, stubble, lots of eyepatches.
“After you, wench,” says Sean.
“Princess,” I huff. “I’m a pirate princess.” At least he’s got enough manners to hold my hand as I walk up the ramp.
“Avast, land lubbers!” shouts a man in the middle of the deck. He’s the captain. Grey hair, a peg leg, a big old beard hanging down to his waist. He’s even got the parrot on his shoulder. It’s like going to a theme park. Kind of a cartoon, I guess, but it’s fun. I wouldn’t want it to be too real. Sean can have that with his sea battle or whatever. I just want the good parts.
“Sir,” says the porter. “Madam.”
I’m at the edge of the ramp, just about to step on board the ship.
“The time has come to part from one another,” says the porter. “Until later in the evening.”
“Go be a princess,” says Sean. He kisses me on the cheek, then pats me on the ass. “While I go hoist the black flag and slit some throats.”
I blow him another kiss, and then I step on board.
I look back. He’s gone. The porter’s gone. It’s just me and all these dirty pirates. But when I turn around, everything’s changed.
The captain’s not an old man anymore. He’s Sean. A more dashing version of Sean. He’s in a perfectly tailored scarlet coat. It’s lined with golden buttons, a ruffled shirt peeking out at the collar. His hair’s still white—except it’s not his hair. It’s one of those powdered wigs they used to wear, and he looks great in it.
He smiles, bows low, and reaches for my hand. I give it to him, and he plants a gentle kiss right on my fingers.
A more gentlemanly version of Sean, too.
“All days are nights to see till I see thee,” murmurs Captain Sean. “And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.”
He smiles. A little cocky, a little confident. His eyes burn right through me. Soulful. Warm. Everything I ever wanted in a guy.
Everything I wish Sean could be.
Captain Sean snaps his fingers and the crew forms a line on either side of him. They’re just as sharp looking as he is. No more eye patches, no more scraggly beards, no more torn-up clothes. These are fancy pirates in fancy outfits. Rich ones with lots of plunder.
We walk through the line of men and into the door leading to the lower decks. And inside it doesn’t look anything like a pirate ship. It looks like a palace. There’s tables on the side of the room filled with every kind of food you could imagine, and a roasted pig in the middle with an apple in its mouth. The center’s been cleared out: a pirate ballroom for a pirate ball. A military band plays waltzes at one end of the room, dressed in those red British soldier uniforms. There’s even a crystal chandelier on the ceiling, slowly swaying with the waves.
The fancy pirates pour into the room from all sides. There’s men, there’s women, and they’re all wearing masks. Captain Sean hands me one: a pretty thing made of purple lace, the top shaped like a fleur-de-lis. I put it on. He’s got one of his own, an angular black metal mask with a laurel leaf design. He looks even more dashing in it. Mysterious. I like it.
A man whisks up to me, a distinguished British officer type. Older, but handsome. “May I borrow the lady for a dance?”
“She’s taken,” growls Captain Sean possessively.
I like that, too.
Captain Sean takes my hand, and then he’s whirling me around the room. A sea of other dancers parts, and we’re at the center. The Swan Lake Waltz plays. I always loved that one. I wonder if they knew somehow. They have all my data from all my devices. They must have known.
Captain Sean leads, and he’s an expert at it. He grabs me by the hand, twirling me around the room, circling the edges of the crowd. The pirates clap and cheer and whistle. He dips me towards the ground again and again, always with perfect control, always with the perfect step. Real Sean never could have done this, not with a million years of practice.
The rest of the night is a blur. We waltz, we tango, we salsa, we even do a little pirate hip hop. The entire evening’s a blast. The whole time he’s absorbed by me, like he doesn’t care about anything else in the entire world. When the party dies down at the end of the night, he grabs my hand, gives me a crooked smile, and stares into me with those beautiful brown eyes.
“Come with me,” says Captain Sean.
He leads me through a pair of double doors and out onto a private balcony at the back of the ship. It’s just the two of us, cuddling close and staring up at the stars. He feels warm, just like a real person would. I run a hand along his abs. Those feel real, too. Rock-hard.
“I wish this night could last forever,” I say.
“Forever in our memories,” whispers Captain Sean in a husky voice. “You’re etched into my very soul. A work of art, a treasure more precious than any buried in the sands of the remotest island—"
And then he burps.
I glare up at him. It isn’t Captain Sean anymore.
It’s real Sean, and he’s plastered out of his mind.
“How’s the romance novel shit going, baby?” says Sean. He smirks down at me. His coat’s torn to pieces, and it’s covered in blood. He’s got a new sword, a gold one, and he looks like he’s been swimming in mud. And the smell. Alcohol. They gave him alcohol.
“You’re drunk,” I say.
“I’m not,” says Sean. He can barely keep a straight face.
“You’re fucking drunk,” I say. “One weekend and you couldn’t do it. That man swore he wouldn’t let you touch a drop of it—”
“It’s not even real,” says Sean. “It’s not even fucking real. It’s virtual alcohol. It counts as non-alcoholic.” He grabs hold of me, trying to shove his tongue down my throat. The alcohol might not be real, but his breath still smells like ass. I turn my head away.
“Don’t be a bitch,” says Sean. He shoves me against the balcony railing. “First thing I did. First thing when I got in there by myself. I told that porter who was boss. Made him get a real person on the phone. The guy that sold me the package. I said, who paid for this?”
He looks at me, waiting for an answer.
“Who paid for it?” he shouts.
“You did,” I mutter.
I can’t afford something like this on a secretary’s salary. It’s supposed to be
our money, but he doesn’t treat it that way. He makes twice as much as me, so he thinks he gets twice as much say.
“I did,” he says. “My money. My weekend. And I wanted some fucking grog.” He pulls out a flask and takes a long gulp. “Had a little pirate party myself. Now time for some pirate sex. Let’s do it on a boat. Never done it on a boat.”
“I’m not in the mood,” I say.
“Don’t be like that,” he says. He sounds less angry. Pleading. Desperate, almost. It’s even less of a turn-on.
“Let’s just call it a night,” I say. “Porter! Hey, porter! How do we get him out here?”
“Moody bitch,” says Sean, and he shoves me away.
I’m not the one in a mood, but I’m not saying anything. I just want to be done for the evening. In fact, I think I’m about done for the weekend. “Porter, bring us back!” I shout.
The world flashes bright around me, and then we’re both standing in front of the villa, the porter in between us.
“Don’t be like this,” says Sean.
“Porter,” I say. “Do the instance thing. I want my own place for the night.
“Madam,” says the porter, and gestures towards the door. Before Sean can argue about it I walk inside, alone.
I’m so, so angry. I sit down on the bed and cry. He always gets like this, every time he drinks. And he’s been doing it more and more often. I wonder if he’s off sleeping with some virtual reality girl. At least this time it wouldn’t be a real one.
It’s been six years, and you’d think it’d get better. At least we don’t have kids. Not yet. We’ve talked about it, but the time was never right. Maybe it never will be. Maybe it was all a mistake. Or maybe I’m just mad. There were things I used to love about him. The ambition, the confidence, the way he used to stare at me. He doesn’t do it as much anymore. Maybe we’re just in a funk. I hope we’re just in a funk, or this thing isn’t going to last. Something’s got to give, and I think it’s going to be me. If we can’t be happy together in here where it’s perfect, how can we ever be happy out there?
Restricted Fantasies Page 7
