by Calinda B
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
Headspace
By Calinda B
Published by Sumner McKenzie, Inc.
Kingston, WA, 98346
Ebook Edition
Copyright @2013 Calinda B
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-0-9839126-9-9
License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people, but it can be lent according to the retailer’s coding. If you would like to give this book to another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the most awesome Street Team in the world - The Wicked Hot Street Team! Thanks a million, Becki, Dea, Katrina, Eva, Peggy, Michelle, and the other Michelle…
Chapter One
“So,” I begin, twirling a long lock of purple hair around my finger. The purple lock is surrounded by blond hair. I have Nordic features—blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin—but a rebellious streak in me calls for touches of bold color from time to time. “What if I told you a secret?”
“I’d say, ‘What this time?’” the male voice on the other side of the phone answers. He chuckles. “You tell me everything.”
“I do seem to.” I picture his dark wavy hair and intense blue eyes. I imagine his six-foot-four-inch body clad in jeans and a clings-to-every-muscle recyclable thermoplastic 3-D-fiber high-tech T-shirt, which is his uniform of choice. The man is sexy, sexy, sexy. And he’s taken, taken, taken. It’s as it should be, I think for the millionth time. I pick up a pen from my desk and tap it thoughtfully on the scratched wood and dinged-up silvery titanium.
“What are you doing? What’s that tap, tap, tap sound?”
“Tapping a pen on the desk, why?”
“That’s what I thought. Nervous? Or contemplating using your skills on me?”
“Maybe both.”
“What are you nervous about? Is this about your past? You’re not daydreaming about your abusive upbringing again, are you? Anything you need to share? You know I’m here for you.”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so. You never like to talk about your past.” He sighs. “You know I’d listen.”
“That’s not what it is.”
“Okay, so why are you contemplating accessing my mind? Is this about me or you? If it’s about me, the answer is yes.”
He pauses and I can almost hear him smiling. He’s always joking about how much he wants me.
“I’ll just tell you,” he continues. “You don’t have to read my mind or manipulate it to get at the truth, you know.”
“I know.” I was only a child when I learned that I’m a little bit different than other people—I can mess with people’s minds and make them think they’re seeing and experiencing things. “Maybe it will work this time.” I smile.
“Probably not. I like my version of reality just fine and don’t like to have my mind accessed without consent.”
“I can always use the practice.” Jonas is the one person whom my skills don’t work on. Whether it’s because we’re best friends, or he’s got some mad skills of his own, I’ve never understood it.
“Vienna, if you want an all-access pass, I can…”
“Never mind.” I tug my purple lock.
“I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again. You want in, I’ll let you in…all the way in. But not that way. Not the way you’ve told me about.”
A flush creeps up my face. “What are you and the missus having for supper tonight?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.
“My girlfriend and I are having tacos and beer. You can join us if you like. Quit stalling. What’s your secret?”
“No, thanks. I have to work. And she acts like your wife. And I’ll get to it…The secret, I mean.”
“You’d best act fast, Vienna. I’ve gotta jet in ten. I’ve got to get to an appointment across town.”
“What kind of appointment?”
“Dentist. I hate going to the dentist.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I know, right? So, spill the beans, girl.”
I swallow. Push a piece of glossy plastic around in circles with my fingertips. Bite the nail of my index finger. Unbutton the collar of my high-tech jumpsuit—the one I wear when I work. It’s made from a silky see-through fiber extracted from sour milk. The fiber was developed a couple decades ago but has withstood the test of time for its ability to regulate body temperature and blood circulation. Right now it’s not working all that well—it’s trapping a lot of heat inside of it and I mean a lot. I wasn’t this hot a minute ago. Beads of sweat are forming along my neck and face. I pluck at a couple of the highly sensitive electrical nodes on the suit. These nodes help me do the magic that I do at my job—take my special ability and allow me to sense and feel what a client is thinking, craving, and desiring, and project that fantasy into the space around me for his personal enjoyment. I fan my face with my hand. I’m thinking, feeling, and sensing that telling Jonas my little secret is a bad idea. I don’t need any nodes to determine this.
“Vienna?”
“Still here. I’m gathering courage.” I smile at the phone, staring at it.
“Wow, this sounds serious. Are you finally going to tell me what you do for a living?”
“I already told you. I’m sort of a counselor.” Not.
“Well, Ms. Sort-of-a-Counselor, I’ve got a serious problem. I can’t stop looking at porn holograms. They’re dancing all around me right now, as we speak.”
I burst out laughing. I know he’s not looking at a porn holo. He’s probably looking at the Lumber Liquidators visual or Handyman High-Tech Hardware. But Jonas always seems to know just what to say to make me laugh. “Which one? ‘Bitches and Beauties’?”
“No, ‘Naughty Temptresses.’ They remind me of you.”
“Ha! That’s what you always say.”
His voice lowers to a caress. “It’s true. When are you going to let me love you?”
I swallow. I’m glad he can’t see my face right now. My cheeks are hot. “You do love me,” I say, twisting my purple hair.
“Really love you.”
“You can love me as much as you want. But you’ve got a longtime girlfriend, remember? She’s the one you get to have sex with.”
“Get to or have to?” he mumbles.
“What?”
“Nothing. You know I think you’re exotic.”
“So you say.”
“And unique.”
“Heard that, too.”
“And sultry.”
“Uh huh.”
“And I think you’ve made it your mission to package yourself in such an appealing way and not be available.”
“You’re the one who’s not available.” I’m grinning. We play this game all the time. “You’re with…what’s her name?” I blank out
on her name, even though I know it by heart.
“Oh, come on, V.”
“Oh, right, it’s Jenner. Jenner Cartwright, your bitchy mean-as-sin girlfriend. Former High School Cheerleader and Up and Comer in the game called Life. Jenner and Jonas, also known as Joner, which rhymes with Boner.” I sing the last sentence.
He laughs.
I like it when Jonas laughs. He’s got a great laugh. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“For the secret? I’m listening.”
I take a deep breath, clench the edge of the desk, and blurt it out. “I’ve never had an orgasm.”
He laughs again. “Then I’ll have to counter with ‘Well, baby, you’ve never been with a guy like me.’ Seriously, what’s your secret?”
“I just told you.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. Dead serious.” No response. “Jonas?”
“I’m still here.” He breathes deeply into my ear. “No joke?” he says softly.
“No joke.” Now that it’s out there I feel ashamed. My face heats to boiling and I suddenly want to be doing something else—anything. Why, oh, why did I think it was a good idea to tell my longtime best friend Jonas about the secret I haven’t told a soul?
Oh, sure, I’ve had plenty of encounters. Tall, short, fat, skinny, and sculpted. Men who professed to be awesome lovers. Men who seemed to have never done it in their lives. I even loved a couple of them, or at least I think I did. None of them managed to give me an orgasm. Good thing I have a gift in mastering voices. I can fake it like crazy.
“Uh, I’ve got to go, Jonas,” I say.
“You’re going to have an orgasm by Christmas,” he blurts.
A sarcastic laugh burbles from my throat. “Right. In a couple months, I’m going to miraculously achieve what I’ve never achieved before. And who’s going to give it to me? You?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t think your girlfriend will like that.”
“I’m coming over, Vienna.”
“What? I thought you had to get to the dentist’s?”
“I do. Then I’m coming over. I’ll need a drink after whatever Dr. Bob seems to think I’ll need.”
“Well, sure, but I thought it was taco night at the Joner’s house. And I told you I have to work.”
“It’ll be quick. I want to talk to you about what you just said and what I just said.”
“Uh, okay, but I’m kind of sorry I told you. It’s my secret.”
“Now it’s out in the open. Or at least it’s a shared secret. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you in about an hour and a half. And Vienna?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for trusting me with your secret. It means a lot to me. Seriously, a lot.”
“Okay. You’re welcome.” Kind of. “I’ll see you in a while.” This was a big mistake.
Chapter Two
A minute later, my heart begins to hum pleasurably, thanks to the pulse-com chip embedded behind my ear. I softly stroke my lips to answer. “Hey, it’s me, Kaama.”
“Hey, Kaama.” Kaama’s my skinny wild-haired techno-geek friend from high school.
“Just wanted to check and see how the new system’s working.”
“So far so good.” I reach out to pet Nigel, my sleek Savannah cat, who’s jumped up on the desk. Hey, kitty.
Hey, human. Get under the chin, will you?
Like this? A side effect of my special abilities is animal telepathy.
Purrfect. Nigel is a cross between a domestic cat and an African wildcat known as a serval. He’s got beautiful black markings along his golden fur, long ears, greenish-gold eyes marked by black streaks called “Cheetah tears,” and a bit of a bad attitude about life, like his mistress—me. We get along just fine.
“You didn’t accept that new upgrade the pulse-com ads are pushing, did you?”
“Hell, no. You’ve made it so much better than that. You’re a genius.”
“I am that, true. So it hums in your heart when a friend calls?”
“It does. It just did when you called. It’s a very pleasurable sensation.”
“Good, that’s good. And when your mom calls?”
“It buzzes like a fly.”
“A stranger?”
“Static. All I hear is static.”
“How does the ‘ignore’ feature work?”
“Great. I tap my right cheek and the caller gets a ‘do not disturb’ message.”
“‘Send to message memory’ work okay?”
“Yep, I just run my fingers through my hair and it takes a message.”
Kaama chuckles. “You’re sure old school, V.”
“Because I don’t see a projection of who’s calling?”
“Right.”
“Yeah, well no one has the badass system that I’ve got. And those other people…” I wave my hand in the air. “They don’t have the freak skills that I have. I like the element of surprise. So much of the time I sense and know things ahead of time, it’s good to be surprised now and then. I think your system kind of scrambles the impulses; otherwise I’d know who it was each and every time. I’m telling you, you’re a frigging genius.”
“Thanks. Oh, and how about if one of your clients calls?”
Kaama’s perhaps the only one who knows what I do. He helped me create the means with which to do it. “Mmm,” I reply, closing my eyes. “I get a series of distinct sensations like someone is drawing a feather down my cheeks or tenderly pushing a drop of creamy oil along the skin of my neck.”
Kaama laughs. “That was your brilliant touch. Foreplay.”
“We make a hell of a team, Kaama.” The sensation of soft feathers pulses down my face. “Speaking of which, I gotta go. It’s time to get to work.” We disconnect and I enter the room I call the Headspace Hall of Sexual Delights, or just Headspace, stand in the middle of the room, take a deep breath, and assume the voice of Sultana, one of my crowd-pleasing favorites. I stroke my mouth as I reaffix the nodes and get ready for action. “Hey, big dog. Who wants to come out and play?”
“Sultana,” comes the oozy, dripping, oily voice. “It’s me.”
They always speak as if they know me personally, not just a projection of my personality. I roll my eyes. Ew. It’s that guy. Little do they know that when I’m in this Sexual Headspace, I can access whatever I need or care to know about them. It’s a one-way street and only I know the way. I let my voice melt into a silky purr. “Hello, handsome. What can I do for you today?” I already know the answer. Today Captain Jack—that’s the name he uses—wants me to pretend I’m his love slave, get down on all fours, and stick my tongue between his toes while he comes all over my hair. He wants me to fawn all over him and let him know that he’s The Man. Ew, ew, and double ew. Good thing it’s all virtual fantasy.
“Get down on your knees, you bitch,” he commands.
I roll my eyes again. I know that outside of this room the guy is a pathetic loser. He’s fifty pounds overweight. Smokes Camels. Drinks bourbon, neat. His wife wants to leave him. He’s in a dead-end job. This is the only place where he feels a sense of control. “Anything for you, baby,” I say, dropping to all fours and closing my eyes in disgust.
“Why can’t I see you? Are you trying to be coy, you little bitch?”
I look up. There’s something wrong with the terminal that powers this space, which means there’s something wrong with me. I can only see it as what it is—my back room. There’s a plush sheepskin rug that covers the entire floor. This is in case I have to do elaborate floor play—no sense in getting scuffed knees. Although I could enact the entire scene without moving a muscle, I believe in taking advantage of the time and staying fit. A few overhead lights illuminate the room. The walls are simple, unadorned, and see-through when I want them to be; completely opaque when I have visitors. They are made of plastic and a “special secret blend” alloy that only Kaama knows the formula for. There are delicate fiber-optic strands no bigger than a human hair woven throughout. It’s
highly specialized, high-tech artistry. Thanks to Kaama’s mad skills and my abilities, I can project whatever fantasy my customer wants onto the walls and into the scene. I can appear as whatever they need me to be. Redheaded, blond, brunette, rainbow-hued tech-rocker chick, tall, curvy, slender, athletic—whatever they want, I can deliver in this minimalistic, empty-of-furnishings room.
I scan my high-tech suit. All the nodes are in place. I glance at the power terminal on the wall in the hallway, just outside of the room. It appears to be functional, too.
“Do you have your Headspace headpiece in place?” I ask Captain Jack. To access my Headspace, my clients have to wear a special headpiece that Kaama created.
“Of course I do. Do you take me for an idiot?”
“Never! I would never do that!” I pause, frowning.
“I paid for it. I read the instructions. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Of course,” I soothe. “I’ll have this fixed in a quick sec.”
“I’m pretty good with technology. Let me take a look at it.”
“No!” It’s programmed to dissolve on contact if someone tries to take it apart to see how it operates,.
The client stiffens. When he’s in here, he doesn’t like to be told what to do. “I mean, no, baby. You’re tired. You’ve had a long day. Let Sultana take care of you.”
“She’d better hurry up.”
You just told Jonas your secret, Nigel conveys to me from outside the room. There’s your problem. He blinks at me through the transparent walls, turns, and saunters away.
Augh, I silently moan. A case of vulnerable interruptus. I have got to stay cool, calm, and in control to do what I do in here. “One second, big guy,” I say to Captain Jack. “There’s a wee technical glitch but I’ll have it handled in just a moment.”
“You’re killing me. I pay good money for you, bitch.”
“I know, I know, but…” I close my eyes. Will myself to button up every chink in my armor. Will myself back to control, control, and more control. The lights splutter and blink. Suddenly I am plunged into Captain Jack’s head. He’s standing before me looking every bit like that long-ago character from my grandparents’ lifetime, Captain Jack Sparrow, a.k.a. Johnny Depp. If I didn’t know what a loser my client is, I just might be turned on. “This one’s on me,” I say demurely. “Also, I might need a spanking.”
