Chapter 2

The room is sparsely furnished. One virtual reality unit, a light, a chair, that’s it. The chair’s covered in worn leather, and you’re sure Vito must’ve bought the contraption from a medical surplus auction as it’s the kind you find in dentist offices. The light’s a sconce set high up on the wall, shining a sepia bulb at the ceiling, so the room falls around you like a memory. The VR unit is still fairly new, the goggles gleaming in the low light, the gauntlets strapped to the arm rests and curled into permanent fists, the suit draped over one arm of the chair like a promise. Waiting. For you.

You have this down to a science—kick off the shoes while pulling the shirt off over your head, shuck down the pants and briefs in one motion. There’s a condom in your wallet just for this occasion, and now that you’re naked, you’re hard enough to slip it on without having to stroke yourself. You step into the suit and zip up.

It fits like a second skin, snug over your thighs and ass and cock, smooth across your chest. Goggles next, propped on your forehead while you place your chit into the slot on the chair. Can’t forget that, it’s the reason you’re here—twenty-three gigs encoded on a strip of plastic when you plug it in and turn him on, a lover spun out in binary code. Hedoesn’t call you James but then again, he doesn’t really exist.

The goggles come down, snug against your cheeks and forehead, and the world turns black. You fumble into the chair, hands finding the controls easily. A few adjustments and the seat stretches out, reclining back, ready for action. You slip your feet into the heavy boots latched to the foot of the chair, ease your hands into the gauntlets, and wiggle your fingers until you’re comfortable. A steady throb already pounds your crotch, a flame of anticipation you savor for a moment before you thumb on the control inside the gauntlet and disappear.

* * * *

Rain.

The soothing sound pounds around you in a steady rhythm. Like a massage, the sound works the tension from your neck, your back, your arms. When you open your eyes you find yourself inside your car again. A tiny voice inside your mind whispers this isn’t real.

You know that. But this is exactly where you want to be.

The car is off and you’re stretched back in the driver’s seat, the windows frosted with a thin layer of condensation. The only sound is the rain, pouring as if it’ll never stop. But this is your reality. If you don’t want it…

You do. It’s hard and fast, like the music you listen to when no one else is around, and it’s just what you need to wash away the rest of your day. As you think this, the rain picks up outside until it beats against your car with monsoonal ferocity and the vehicle trembles beneath the downpour. A harsh roar drowns out everything else and when you press your hand to the window, you can feel cool air curl around your fingers, and the glass fogs up beneath your skin.

Then you see him.

He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt—no, that’s not right. It’s chilly out there, and he’s been…traveling, or something, you’re not sure yet. He’s dressed in jeans and a tank top—no, a button-down shirt, white, open in the front so you can see the white tank top he wears beneath it when the wind catches his shirttails and whips them back from his thin frame.

He’s lanky because you like your guys like that, and he’s taller than you but only by an inch or two, that’s it. And he’s younger, almost a full three years, because you want him to be. Narrow waist, ropy arms, strong hands. He can dance because you can’t. He has eyes like crystals, so blue they’re almost transparent, and hair that falls back from his face in loose waves. Maybe it’s cut short—you think he might look good with a crew cut. Or something in between, yes, long enough to run your fingers through but not quite to his collar. That’s how you want it this time.

He stands beneath the overhang of a building across the street, the only person in sight. In this rain, that’s no surprise. He’s eyeing the sky like he thinks maybe he can wait a few more minutes and this storm will let up, but he’s wrong, it’s going to rain all night, only letting up in the wee hours of morning. You’ll lie awake in his bed later, his arms draped around you in sleep, and listen to the runoff drip drip drip outside the window, mingled with his soft snores. But that’s later. You don’t like to skip ahead.