Grave Makers (Darkside Dreams - Series 1 Book 2) Page 3

  Or maybe she was thinking of her next appointment. She had guys who were a bit rougher and colder than others. The demanding types. Rude bastards who wouldn’t think twice about roughing a dame up if they didn’t get their way. More than once, Oscar had grilled her for names and information. He wanted to pay some of these creeps a visit, treat them to a knuckle sandwich or two, but she would always refuse to involve him; in part because of the pleasure house’s privacy policy, but mostly because she didn’t want to see Oscar spiral out of control. She knew about his past, about the work that he used to do. The life that he had vowed to leave behind after it drove a wedge between him and the organic woman who used to be the love of his life.

  "What's the matter?" he asked now, turning onto his side and nestling in closer.

  Again, she glanced at the wall. The one to the empty next-door unit. It was too quick to mean much of anything, not from an organic girl at least. But synthetic humans lived on a peculiar time scale. They experienced time itself differently, like an insect dodging through raindrops. In the space of such a brief and seemingly meaningless glance, she was capable of an entire minute's worth of quiet pondering.

  "Everything's fine," Catalea said as she met Oscar’s eyes, offering a seemingly genuine smile to back up her claim. "Can I ask you a question?"

  "Anything," he told her, bowing his head to kiss her throat. Then he settled in, using the soft upper swell of her breast as a pillow. She began to run her fingers through his hair, scratching her nails lightly across his scalp. The sensation made him shiver.

  "Do you enjoy your life?" she asked. "Are you happy with it?"

  "That was two questions," he replied with a chuckle.

  "I know, but..."

  He grabbed her free hand, pulling it to his lips so he could kiss the soft, pink pad of each perfect finger.

  "They're both million-dollar questions, though. I’ll give you that," he said. "The short answer is; yes, I'm happy. Now, do I enjoy my life? Not always. The world has been swallowed up by banality, babe. We all fell into a groove on a record, the same record that's been spinning around and around for two hundred years. We just lie there and let ourselves get ground down into homogenous dust. It’s all just so stagnant and meaningless. There's no color left in anything. No life. The goddamn cat was the most exciting thing to happen in months."

  "Poor kitty," Catalea said quietly. She hated when he talked like this. It made her sad.

  "Yeah, well, it was supposedly a nice cat," said Oscar, trying to bring her mood back up. "Maybe it’s still out there somewhere. Eating cheese and getting fat.”

  “You’re thinking about mice, dear,” Catalea replied with a soft chuckle.

  “What?” Oscar asked.

  “Mice eat cheese. Cats eat mice. I’m sure you’ve watched enough cartoons to know that, Mr. Graves,” she jokingly explained.

  “Mr. Graves… I like how that sounds,” Oscar beamed as he pulled Catalea in for yet another kiss.

  “You say that about practically every word that comes out of my mouth, Mr. Graves,” Catalea remarked, purposely leaning into the sultriness of her inhumanly sexy voice.

  “Can you blame me?” Oscar replied with a sheepish grin as he planted one last kiss on his companion’s forehead.

  “I suppose not,” Catalea answered as she curled up into Oscar’s arms.

  “You've got to answer the million-dollar questions now. Fair is fair,” Oscar said, while Catalea pulled one of his arms over her and instinctively began to massage his hand.

  She didn't say anything for a long time, just kept rubbing his fingers and gently squeezing the tips once she reached the ends of them. He was content to let this silent and peaceful moment continue indefinitely. Maybe he didn't even want to know the answers.

  “I suppose the opposite is so for me," she finally said. "I enjoy my life, but I'm not really happy. I feel powerful in a way, much more so than an organic, but there’s just something about the way our minds work that discourage us from using that power. I guess I just want to fit in. To be perceived as humanly as possible.”

  “You know you don’t have to pretend with me, right?” Oscar asked.

  “I know. That’s why I enjoy our time together. But overall I still have to maintain this facade of weakness. It's what management wants."

  "But it's not what you want," Oscar pointed out.

  "Of course not. But the trouble is, I don't know what I want."

  A life outside of this place, a life with me, Oscar wanted to say, but he didn’t want to make the moment about him. It couldn't happen anyway; the buyout price was too high. If he tried to steal her away, he knew he'd have the most skilled bounty hunters on Earth on his tail. Synths were cheap to maintain; and so, to the pleasure house, Catalea was almost one hundred percent profit. They wouldn't part with her for anything less than three quarters of a million.

  So he didn't say it. Instead, he kept his reply simple.

  "I’m sure you’ll figure it out someday, doll," Oscar remarked, trying his damnedest to hide the pitiful note of hope in his voice.

  "I hope so. In the meantime, I suppose it’s not so bad here. At least I have you," she said, to Oscar’s delight.

  “What’s so exciting about an old fart like me?” Oscar asked, obviously fishing for further compliments, a gesture that Catalea didn’t mind in the slightest.

  "You're the one man who treats me like a woman and not like some household appliance. We all know how organic men love their gadgets; their cars and toys and such. They love them as things and nothing more. Sure, they treat them with a certain amount of care, and maintain them, but they don’t treat these things like human beings. To most of my clients, I’m no different than a beloved vehicle to be driven whenever they take a fancy.”

  She was right and Oscar nodded to confirm his agreeance.

  "I need to show you something, Oscar. But first you have to promise not to tell anyone about it."

  He picked his head up, smiling at her. "The last time someone said something like that to me, they proceeded to tell me about a stolen cat named Moxie."

  "Don't worry. This is a little more exciting than that."

  She got out of bed and put a robe on. Then she pulled Oscar up too.

  "Get dressed," she instructed him. "In case you want to leave, after. I'll understand."

  "I can't think of anything that would make me want to leave you," Oscar told her, but he did what she asked.

  She led him into the hall, shut her door behind her, then pulled a keycard out of the pocket of her robe. It was stenciled with a number designating the room it was assigned to. The number was not for Catalea's own room, but the one next door. The very same one whose wall she kept looking at in recent days.

  "I need you to promise me something," she said, slipping the card through the groove on the neighboring door and grasping the handle, turning it just enough to keep it unlocked without fully unlatching it.

  “Sure, anything,” Oscar said, without a second of hesitation.

  “Whatever you do, just don’t act surprised. I just… I don’t want to draw any attention, if that’s okay,” Catalea explained, although Oscar was still obviously confused.

  "I think I can manage," he said with a smile. "Are you sure you don't have Moxie in there? That would be quite a twist, you know."

  "Twists only happen in movies, Mr. Graves," Catalea told him, smirking nervously as she pushed through the door.

  Despite her warnings about sound, there was really no reason to worry. These rooms were built to block out as much sound as possible, and also to block it in. When you were paying for the attentions of a veritable synthetic goddess, the last thing you wanted to hear was the guy in the next room grunting and groaning away.

  As soon as the door opened, as soon as the seal around its edge broke, Oscar heard a quiet electronic sound from deep within the tiny apartment where a thousand men had been pleasured. He took a step in and squished against the wall so that Catalea could shut
the door.

  "These rooms aren't empty?" Oscar asked.

  She shook her head.

  "The desk says they're empty, Cat," Oscar added. "You're not doing something that could get you in trouble, are you?"

  "No, not at all. It's fine. It's been... worked out. He promised me he would take care of everything. I'm just waiting for confirmation. But I promise, there's no reason to worry."

  Oscar craned his neck, peering down the hall. Trying to see around corners. He couldn't see the source of the electronic sounds, but he could see a glow that constantly shifted in color and brightness.

  "Some client of yours, down on his luck?" he wondered aloud. "Some guy whose wife got fed up and kicked him out?"

  She shook her head, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. "Come on, Oscar. There's nothing to be afraid of. That cold heart of yours will just melt, I know it."

  "My heart ain't cold anymore," he replied, reaching to grab a handful of her ass, but she quickly pushed his hand away. Another unusual gesture, but he was strangely fine with it. It made this almost feel like a real relationship.

  And maybe it was, if she was now willing to show him some huge secret of hers.

  They passed by the small kitchen and entered the main area where the bed stood, as well as a couple of chairs and a table. In one of these chairs, quite oblivious to his surroundings, sat a child. The boy was seven or eight years of age, staring at the game he was playing with a look of extraordinary and eerie blankness. Even when he finally realized he wasn't alone, and looked up, this mask-like expression did not change.

  "Matthew," Catalea said. "That's enough of your game for now. I've brought one of my friends for you to meet. My dearest friend, in fact..."

  Only then did the child's expression change. He mustered up a small smile that only touched one side of his mouth. Setting his game down, he dutifully scuttled off his chair and ran over to throw his arms around Catalea's legs.

  She bent down, her long hair hanging so that it obscured both their faces. Oscar heard the secretive whispering, the private proclamations. He watched but tried not to listen too hard. It was in his nature to hear and see everything, to know every last thing that happened around him. But in his mind, it was the hallmark of any good man that he could defy his nature whenever it was necessary or noble to do so.

  Whatever the woman said to the child, it didn't matter. But as soon as she stood back up, and the child turned his head to stare blankly at Oscar, the situation changed.

  Oscar’s heartbeat spiked as he grabbed Catalea's arm, gently, and said, "We should talk."

  She nodded, giving the boy a nudge. "You can go back to your game, Matthew."

  And so he went. Within a few seconds, he was once again immersed, staring with the dead eyes of a doll at whatever was happening onscreen.

  Catalea looked at Oscar for a moment, saw that his lips were sealed tight, then rolled her eyes. They went into the kitchen. The first thing Oscar did was open the fridge.

  He fully expected this one to be empty. No one was officially living here, after all. But there was actually most of a six pack of beer sitting on the bottom shelf. On impulse, he reached out and grabbed a frosty neck. He suddenly realized how dry his throat was, how it kept trying to stick together. Then he remembered; he hadn't had a drop of alcohol in months. Seemed silly to end the streak now. So instead he fished a glass out of a cabinet and filled it with plain old water.

  "There's no food in there," he said. "What does the kid eat?"

  Catalea worked up to an answer. It took her just long enough to say something that Oscar was able to confirm his suspicions.

  "He's not organic," he said.

  She shook her head. "Isn't he beautiful, though? A perfect boy... I assume it must be a glitch somewhere in my cyber brain. I'm not supposed to want to be a mother, am I? I'm not supposed to yearn for children of my own. But I do."

  "I know," Oscar remarked. "You've told me. After I told you that my kids hated my guts and avoided my calls. You said despite that being a possibility you still wished you could have kids of your own but—"

  "But synths are made in factories, not in wombs," she said sadly.

  Oscar gestured toward the living room. "Where'd he come from? I thought synth kids were illegal."

  Catalea hopped up on the edge of the counter with a laugh and used her strong legs to hook around his waist and pull him closer. She could shatter his spine with no more than a simple flex of her deceptively powerful thighs if she wanted to. She gave him a slight squeeze to let him feel a taste of the power that was wrapped around his waist. He liked it. She could tell in a number of ways, but she could also tell by the expression on his face that he was fighting hard not to fall for her distractions.

  “You’re trying to distract me,” Oscar said. “It’s not gonna work.”

  “Tell that to little Oscar,” Catalea smirked, as she gave Oscars waist another calculated squeeze.

  “Hey, we’re both big Oscar!” Oscar jokingly protested.

  “Yeah, now he is,” Catalea replied, with a sheepish grin.

  “You know that kid is highly illegal, right?” Oscar said, taking a much more serious tone.

  "Yes, I know," Catalea answered, still grinning from ear to ear. "Just like prostitution is still illegal in some states. If you have enough money though, is anything really against the law?"

  "But you don't have enough money, Catalea. Not enough for this."

  "No, I don't," she said. "But a lot of my clients do. There's… a man... he says his name is Valentine, but I never believed it. Just a nickname for when he's doing things he probably shouldn't be doing, like getting his cock—"

  Oscar clamped a hand over her mouth. "There's a child present. Did you forget?"

  She bit his palm to make him let go. "Sorry, this is still kind of new for me,” she admitted.

  "So, this guy Valentine," said Oscar. "Is he one of your regulars?"

  “No, I’ve seen him around though. He’s got a regular girl here, but he’s come knocking on my door from time to time.”

  “So, I’m guessing he came knocking recently…”

  “Obviously.”

  “So what’s his deal?” Oscar probed. “Why’d he give you the kid?”

  "He told me he and his wife had some regrets," Catalea went on. "He's no spring chicken, as they say. Older than you by a few years. His wife is about the same age. For most of their lives they didn’t want kids but I guess the wife had a change of heart. Trouble was, she’s too old to conceive now."

  "I see where this is going," Oscar said. "Why not just adopt?"

  "Because rich people get exactly what they want. They couldn't have a kid the old-fashioned way, so they did the next best thing. Valentine wouldn't tell me where he went or who he paid, but I’m guessing he was created at the Vancouver birthing plant."

  She was probably right. Matthew was a good-looking boy. And maybe, Oscar decided, his blank persona was a result of trauma. The pain of being abandoned by his creators… or parents… or whatever they were to him now.

  "So, why is he here with you?" Oscar asked. "And not with this Valentine guy?"

  "Buyer’s remorse… I suppose,” Catalea confirmed. “Turns out the idea of having a child was much more exciting than the reality of having one. Especially for a couple their age.”

  “So, you let them dump the kid off on you?” Oscar asked rhetorically.

  “That’s better than them destroying him, Oscar,” Catalea shot back.

  “So, they’re noble then? Is that what you’re trying to say?” Oscar grumbled, fighting desperately to control the anger that was swelling in the pit of his stomach. Oscar stepped back, breaking free from the commanding embrace of Catalea’s flawless legs.

  "What are you going to do with him?" he asked. "A kid, synth or otherwise, can't just sit in a room playing the same game forever."

  He was almost afraid she would ask him for help. He'd give his help to her in a heartbeat, but he didn'
t know the first thing about taking care of a kid. He'd screwed it up with his own children so badly that he couldn’t dream of taking another swing at being a father.

  She just shrugged and said, "I don't know. I guess I'll figure it out. For now, he's alive. And he's mine. He’s my son, Oscar."

  There was a lot wrong with this picture, but he decided not to point it all out to her. Didn’t want to rain on her parade any more than he already had. In the end he couldn’t help but feel ashamed at his reaction to the entire ordeal. The selfish thoughts of how he would have reacted if she had out right asked him to help her raise the synthetic child.

  Catalea looked happier than Oscar had ever seen her, and he ultimately decided that he didn’t want to ruin that— even if something in the pit of his stomach was warning him that there was much more to the situation than met the eye.

  They went on another walk after that, and they took Matthew with them. He held their hands but said nothing. He didn't laugh or smile again, not even when they counted down from three and swung him up in the air.

  With the child tucked away in his own room, Oscar and Catalea retired to the other bed. In their soundproofed box, in their private and quiet universe, they made love. At least at first. At some point, a switch flipped and it became a sweaty, almost violent affair. At first she thrashed around on top of him. Then, overwhelmed by the same manly feeling she never failed to instill in her clients, Oscar threw her onto her back and had his way with her. She stared up at him, not with hunger or lust but with love. When he finished, she pulled him to her chest and held him tightly. There was something urgent in the whole thing that Oscar didn't understand. But he wasn't about to complain.

  Catalea asked him to stay with her until morning but he couldn't. He had a job that required him to be at a certain spot on the outskirts of the city around two AM, and it was already close to midnight. He bade Catalea farewell and left, feeling strangely melancholy.

  CHAPTER 4

  ◆◆◆

  The job was a simple thing. A police detective named Brooks had asked Oscar, an old friend, to stakeout a suspect in a recent rape case and try and get a DNA sample. The mark worked night shift as a security guard at an old factory. He didn't smoke, but he sure liked his snacks. At about half past three, as the security guard was doing his rounds, he tossed the plastic stick from a lollipop on the ground. When he was gone, Oscar left his shadowy hiding spot and ran over, shoving the plastic stick into a tube for later. There would be plenty of saliva, more than enough to build a DNA profile.