Elysium

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Elysium

  Copyright © 2015 by Thea Landen

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-807-0

  Cover art by Fiona Jayde

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  www.decadentpublishing.com

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  Second Skin

  Dedication

  To those I love, whether they’re sitting right next to me,

  or are worlds and lifetimes away.

  Elysium

  A 1Night Stand Story

  By

  Thea Landen

  Chapter One

  April Patterson

  March 21, Bridgeport

  Janie stood in my living room, one hand holding a bag of food from the local Chinese take-out place and the other planted firmly on her hip. She fixed me with a stern glare. “You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked.”

  I shrugged. “I knew you’d be here soon. I didn’t want you to have to wait in case I couldn’t hear you over the blow dryer.”

  “But still, it’s not—”

  “What, you think someone’s going to burst in here and shoot me dead so they can steal that ancient TV? Lightning doesn’t strike twice like that.”

  Her hands fell and her body hunched over as if I’d punched her in the stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, before I could do more damage. “I didn’t mean to….”

  “It’s fine.” She dropped her purse onto the sofa and headed into the kitchen with our lunch. I followed her, listening to her prattle on about her job as a high-powered attorney, not paying much attention to her latest case while we set out some plates and napkins. With her strawberry-blonde hair and the sprinkling of freckles that hadn’t faded with age, my cousin and best friend could have passed for my twin sister. Our lives had played out quite differently, yet I’d never faulted her for her success.

  Before she lifted the containers out of the bag, she turned to me and beamed. “I have something for you.” Her singsong voice made me wary. “Besides your favorite kung pao chicken.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  Janie went back to the sofa and rummaged in her pocketbook. When she returned to the table, she held a plain white envelope, which she slid over to me. I eyed it warily, unsure if I should pick it up.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the information for an exclusive dating service called 1Night Stand. The contact is the owner, Madame Evangeline.”

  Good thing I hadn’t touched the envelope. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Janie nodded. “She’s supposed to be the best.”

  “How nice for her.” I should’ve been angry with Janie for whatever scheme she cooked up, but I only mustered mild annoyance. “I’m not interested.”

  She shook her head. “You have to get out of this place, even if it’s for one night.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not signing on for a lifelong commitment with one date, you know. She’ll find you someone you can just have a good time with.”

  “I’m not good at meeting people. I never know what to talk about.” I reached past her for the box of rice. “I’m not an interesting person.”

  “Sure you are. All you have to do is talk like we’re talking right here.”

  “It’s not that easy.” I stared down at my empty plate. “How do I even get started? ‘Hi, I’m April. I sell overpriced lunches six days a week. I live in a tiny one-bedroom apartment where the windows don’t open all the way. And my husband, Kevin, was killed in the line of duty two years ago, as you probably heard about it on the news.’”

  The hurt look Janie had worn earlier crossed her face again. “You could try something like movies or music,” she muttered.

  I hated arguing with her, as much as I hated that she believed she had to walk on eggshells around me. “It was a nice gesture.” I patted her arm. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “You can thank me by finally going out on a date.” A gleam lit up her gray eyes. “Anything you want, April. Your deepest, darkest fantasies. Madame Eve can make them happen.”

  One eyebrow arched again. “I don’t have deep, dark fantasies.” I spoke the truth. The spice in the kung pao chicken was as thrilling as it got for me.

  “Fine, then she’ll match you up with someone nice and normal, if that’s what you prefer.” Janie tightened her jaw, about to make me a defendant on the receiving end of an irrefutable closing argument. “Besides, it’s already paid for, and I doubt I can get a refund.”

  I sighed, unwilling to concede. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.”

  We ate the lunch she’d brought and watched some mindless TV for the rest of the afternoon. After the third cooking competition, Janie got ready to leave. “Start thinking about your date.” She wagged a finger at me. “I’m going to keep nagging you until you do.”

  I gave her a small smile. “I know you will.”

  Scooping up her bag, she flounced out the door with a promise to call me the next day. I returned to the kitchen but decided to leave the dirty dishes for another time. Then my gaze fell on the envelope she’d given me, and I gingerly picked it up by one corner as if it would explode on contact.

  The page inside contained a few short lines, including an email address and some phone and fax numbers. Taking the sheet into the bedroom, I grabbed an old laptop off the dresser and flopped onto the bed.

  I hadn’t decided how I felt about Janie pushing me toward 1Night Stand. The urge to snap at her and tell her to mind her own business lurked somewhere beneath the surface. She was the only one left who really knew me, though, and I trusted she had my best interests in mind. For as long as I could remember, she’d always watched out for me and supported me while our completely useless mothers involved themselves with everything but raising us.

  And she’d held me and let me cry on her shoulder in the courtroom when Damian Patrick Hennessy pled guilty to shooting my husband in a liquor store over forty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents and wine that came in a cardboard box. So many lives destroyed for less than fifty bucks. It almost sounded comical, but I’d done a lot more cry
ing than laughing. I hoped that asshole thought it had been worth it.

  Janie wanted the best for me, even if I hadn’t figured out what that was yet. She’d never let the subject drop, so I resigned myself to giving her date idea a try. If I went on a date and it turned out to be a total disaster, maybe she’d stop bugging me to meet new people for a while.

  After the laptop finished booting up, I logged into my email account. Dear Madame Eve, I typed…and then stopped. The cursor blinked at me expectantly, but I had no idea what to write. It occurred to me I had no clue what I wanted out of any future date, whether it took place that Saturday or ten years in the future.

  I tried to think back and pinpoint exactly what had attracted me to Kevin in the first place. He’d had a way of making me feel like the only person in the room, even when I thought there were plenty more fascinating people around. I’d never believed I was special, and he’d done a pretty good job of convincing me I had something to offer.

  Since his death, I’d heard all the platitudes about moving on and how he’d want me to be happy. Deep down, I knew everyone from grief counselors to well-meaning acquaintances were right. Perspectives changed so much, though, I didn’t know how to find happiness anymore. How could I feel the way I used to? Should I feel that way? Everything was so different without him. I was different.

  Blink, blink, blink went the cursor. Somehow, telling a complete stranger about what I found attractive in a potential partner led me to completely idealize what I’d once had, and pretend we’d never argued about him leaving dirty socks on the bathroom floor or how I didn’t want to go on vacation with his parents for the Fourth of July. He wasn’t perfect, and no marriage is either. Yet whatever flaws we had were our flaws, and I missed those, too.

  Hidden desires. Forbidden fantasies. I needed to write the email that night or else I’d never get it done. My fingers flew across the keyboard in a show of defiance, an act of desperation. Before I could stop, I issued a challenge.

  I want a date with my husband.

  Chapter Two

  Drew Monroe

  March 24, West Hartford

  I slammed the door to my apartment and tossed a ring of keys at the kitchen table, where they skidded across the slick surface and clattered onto the floor. I didn’t bother picking them up. Without even taking off my coat and tie, I headed right for the fridge and flung it open. Half a six-pack of beer sat on the bottom shelf. That wouldn’t last the night.

  I pried the top off one of the bottles and downed half in a single gulp. A voice in the back of my head told me that was not healthy behavior. Ignoring it, I took another swig.

  Most days, I worked late at Elysium, sometimes even staying overnight when immersed in an upcoming project. That day, I’d just needed to get out of there. A far cry from a standard office job, the company encompassed infinite possibility, wild imagination…and a large amount of raw, excruciating grief.

  Virtual reality never changed the finality of death. I wasn’t raising zombies or channeling spirits, nor did I claim to. But for those who sought some sort of closure, having that illusion of their moving, breathing loved one in front of them while they said their final words seemed to help.

  It wasn’t until I’d finished the first beer that the ache finally disappeared from my neck and shoulders. I shrugged out of the coat and draped it over a chair. Once I lost the button-down shirt and changed into a pair of baggy gym shorts, I grabbed a second bottle from the fridge. A pair of running shoes sat by the door, but it was already dark outside and I wanted nothing more than to lose myself in something mindless for the rest of the night. Other obligations beckoned first. I took the beer over to the desk and sat in front of the computer.

  I paced myself with the second beer so I could actually read the words on the screen when I signed in to check the new messages in my personal email account. Online bill-pay reminders and various coupon codes held little interest for me as I scrolled through. At the bottom of the list lay an email from Madame Eve, the matchmaker my mom had suggested I contact. It’s never a good sign when your own mother doesn’t trust your abilities to go out and meet women, but I’d decided to forgo an argument and send Eve some information about myself. Curious, I opened the message.

  Dear Mr. Monroe,

  A client of mine mourns the loss of her husband and desires a romantic date with him. I believe you and your company would be perfect to provide her with what she needs at this time.

  Perhaps you and I can make arrangements for an exchange of services, should you assist in helping her attain her dreams.

  Madame Evangeline

  The buzz of the alcohol mingled with confusion. First of all, I couldn’t remember someone ever contacting me on behalf of another person. Most of the time, the bereaved got in touch with me themselves. Secondly, the client wanted a romantic date with her dead husband?

  I’d created a wide variety of settings for those who reached out to Elysium. When clients entered my worlds, however, they focused not on the scenery I rendered but on the people within. They didn’t come to me to appreciate the hundreds of textures I utilized, or to marvel at the technology, or to comment on the realism of every last little detail. They came to say good-bye.

  Over the years, I’d built up enough of a professional façade to distance myself from the sad stories and poignant moments. Then there were days like this one, where I’d spent an entire afternoon listening to a mother pour out her unfulfilled expectations and shattered dreams to a manufactured likeness of her lost child, which sent me a little closer to an emotional breakdown.

  I tried to wash away the memory with another sip of the beer and turned back to the monitor. Eve proposed a reduced rate for finding me a potential match in the future if I agreed to create this date for an equal fee. The idea of lowering prices usually made me wary, but as I neared the bottom of the bottle, I couldn’t bring myself to care. Sounded good enough to me.

  With fumbling fingers, I banged out a reply to Madame Eve, accepting her terms. I attached the folder of Elysium’s informational brochures and questionnaires to the email and asked her to forward the documents to her client. After I clicked send, it was time to disappear into the rest of the shitty day with a clear conscience.

  Sliding the chair away from the desk, I stood, stifling a yawn. The following I’d swing by the supermarket for much-needed groceries and, to be honest, another six-pack or several. The idea of talking to someone about better ways to handle the stressors of the job crossed my mind again. After all, I had a background in software engineering and not in anything like psychology or counseling. Rather than pursuing that line of thought, I took the last beer out of the fridge and cracked it open. If the chance of relaxing and unwinding existed tonight, I needed to capture it.

  The apartment was quiet and empty. Keeping up with the never-ending tasks and chores involved with running Elysium didn’t allow me to get out much, but I’d grown used to the solitude. Maybe Mom did have a point when she’d suggested I contact Madame Eve. I moved over to the sofa and grabbed the Xbox controller from beside the television before collapsing into the cushions and setting the last precious bottle on the end table.

  Bright colors flashed before me when I turned the TV on. The edges of the screen seemed a little fuzzy, a blurred reminder of how fast I’d downed those drinks. Whatever. Some days, work hurt. It really hurt.

  Thumbing the buttons with practiced motions, I settled into the familiarity of fighting faceless enemies and adding items to the characters’ inventory. But, the remnants of what had transpired at Elysium with that grief-stricken mother likely wouldn’t fade for a long, long time. Slipping away into someone else’s fantasy world for a while was the best I could do at that moment and, with eyelids growing heavy, I vaguely wondered if I’d wake up on the couch again instead of in bed.

  Chapter Three

  April

  A thick envelope leaned against the door to my apartment. It must not have looked too valuable, consideri
ng no one had stolen it during the lunch rush at the sandwich shop. Bringing the package inside, I dropped it on the table, where it landed with a loud bang.

  Carefully tearing open the flap, I slid out the first sheet of paper from the stack. Were it not for my own contact information in the header, I’d have thought the mailing came to the apartment by mistake. A glance at the bottom of the page showed the package had been sent by Madame Evangeline.

  The letter indicated she’d arranged a date for me at a place called Elysium. When I reached the end of the note, I went back and read it a second time to make sure I’d put the pieces together correctly. Phrases like virtual reality and immersive experience jumbled on the page. It wasn’t until I’d dumped out the rest of the contents and started sifting through forms and questionnaires that the meaning of the correspondence really hit me: I’d gotten a date with Kevin.

  Damn. Eve was actually going to make that happen.

  A quick Internet search verified all the details in the letter. Some guy named Drew Monroe up in West Hartford planned to create a computer-generated version of my husband based on the information I would send him and then let me have those final moments that had been stolen from me when the liquor store had been robbed by that punk. The date sounded bizarre and surreal…yet my heart fluttered when I considered the idea.

  The last paragraph listed Elysium’s email address for sending any digital picture or movie files and included the guarantee that hard copies of any documents would be returned at the conclusion of the appointment. She also informed me Mr. Monroe planned to schedule the date approximately one month after receiving the paperwork and other files. The more I thought about the prospect, the more eager I felt, and I wanted to compile the necessary materials right away.