The Voyos Reunion Page 3

  “Fine, maybe I—”

  “But you should do it now. You probably don’t remember the schedule here but they don’t like to send runners between—”

  “I’ve only been gone for a few months, Mom.”

  “Real quick, Chloe,” Nicole said, leading the way toward the stairs. “I’ll help you. Do you have anal toys? I know you’ve never really been into ass stuff but a lot of the clients here like it when you make the first—”

  “Mom.”

  “You can borrow my prostate stimulator. I don’t know how it got back here anyway. It’s not like I’m stimulating my own prostate.”

  “Mom,” Chloe said.

  Nicole’s eyes scanned Chloe as if seeing her for the first time, toes to head. “You have something else to wear for check in, right?”

  “I’d really like to settle in first.”

  “Me too,” Nicole said, still at the stairs, fidgeting. “Let’s get this out of the way first. Then I’ll make us some piña coladas. When you called earlier, did I take the tablet out back and show you what I did with that playhouse—”

  “Mom!”

  Nicole stopped speaking as if slapped.

  “I don’t want to send a bag to the spa right this second. I just got off a long flight, a tram ride, and out of a cab. I feel like I stink. And I’m tired. I want to sit on the deck. Just sit. You don’t care if I stink, do you?”

  “Well, no. As long as you wash your vagina before—”

  “And no work talk, okay?”

  Nicole looked like she might go on about Chloe’s vaginal hygiene but instead, she closed her mouth and nodded. She had her deep brown hair cut in bangs. Her eyes were big and blue beneath them. For a second, Chloe saw her mother as she had sometimes in the past, but this time it bothered her for reasons unknown.

  She saw Nicole as a sex worker whose rejuvenation treatments had kept her looking thirtyish, an adorable, fuckable doll that men would soil their pants anticipating.

  Chloe willed the thought away. She’d grown up proud of Nicole’s profession, proud once she was old enough to understand that of the glass table girls, her mom was among the prettiest and most desirable. But since uncovering the corner of Nicole’s story with Clive Spooner, Chloe couldn’t help seeing her as something else. Like an ordinary woman with a broken heart.

  “All right,” Nicole said.

  “I need to grab my sunglasses. I forgot to hold onto them when I handed over my bags.”

  “Okay.” She moved away from the steps, toward the door to the porch. “I’ll … dust off another rocker.”

  “Great.” She took two steps up the steps, then turned. “And Mom?”

  “Yes, Chloe?”

  “I’ll take you up on those piña coladas.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Fifteen minutes.

  Thirty.

  Forty-five.

  Chloe kept snatching glances at the time in the corner of the big vidscreen. Her mother seemed convinced that the first thing Chloe would want to do after traveling across the ocean to visit after months away would be to watch some bullshit on Crossbrace.

  Chloe had asked the time when they’d first sat and never killed the display. Now it was the barometer for her self-restraint. She wanted to delve right in, ask about Clive Spooner and her possible parentage, but it would be rude to do that so soon. Maybe ungrateful. She had to put in her time, then circle back once they’d relaxed. Once the rum had kicked in.

  An hour.

  An hour and ten minutes.

  Quiet fell. A natural lull. Anything Chloe said now, assuming it didn’t come totally from left field, would be fair game.

  She searched for a corner to pry up.

  Her mind played over what Brad and The Beam had shown Chloe when she’d asked the question, Who is Chloe Shaw?

  The Beam’s narrative — comprised of records both hidden and private, none complete, none transcripts of private conversations, none anywhere intimate enough to spin the full yarn — had been that of Nicole and her longest-term client. How was that an answer to her question?

  Who is Chloe Shaw?

  She is this story. She is this origin. She began with this couple almost in love: Nicole and Clive.

  The emptiest answer. Clive wasn’t her father; that much Chloe clearly knew. So why had The Beam told her about him at all?

  The only way to learn more was to ask.

  And asking was the only way to start.

  Somewhere.

  Anywhere.

  The Beam hadn’t shown Chloe what Clive and Nicole had done or discussed. She knew only that they’d been together, then apart. She intuited their relationship from shadows, with no true proof that it had even existed off the island’s books.

  But of course it had.

  And some records told her things that suggested other things. Like trips they’d taken, their content unknown.

  Places they’d gone.

  Performances Nicole and Clive had seen — those records, at least, verifiable by credit transactions.

  Chloe’s heart thumped faster. She wanted to make this next sentence sound nonchalant, even though it was a trial volley for questions to come.

  “You know who I saw in DZ the other day? Natasha and Isaac Ryan.”

  Chloe kept her gaze forward, looking out past the low shrub. But she watched her mother from the corner of her eye, waiting for acknowledgement.

  And she got it: Nicole flinching. Unknown even to herself. A visceral reaction to the mention of Natasha Ryan, who’d begun her career as Natasha Thomas.

  “Really?”

  Chloe nodded, metering Nicole’s reactions like a spa client. She heard skips of cadence and shifts in pitch. Mixed emotions. It sounded almost as if Nicole both loved and hated Natasha Ryan — as if she enjoyed the music but couldn’t bear to hear it.

  She pressed on, deepening the probing lie. Walking on ice.

  “I think Natasha must be a friend of Alexa’s or something. They came through the spa.”

  “That’s … interesting.”

  Chloe squinted, feigning uncertainty. “Didn’t you like her music, Mom? I remember seeing lots of her old stuff in the home system.”

  “I used to.”

  “But not anymore?” Chloe forced a laugh, still carefully observing. It was important to play this just right. “Mom, that’s backward. She’s more popular now than ever.”

  Nicole said nothing. She shrugged, glancing away.

  “Did you ever see her perform?”

  Now her mother flinched. Chloe felt a moment of guilt, but it passed. Chloe was a vampire starved of blood, suddenly seeing a victim bleed out before her. There was shame in the pain she was obviously causing, but her hunger had to be fed.

  “No.”

  “Really? Never?”

  “Why is that so strange? Lots of people haven’t seen Natasha perform.” She was nervous, probably feeling interrogated, despite the lightness of Chloe’s voice.

  Shame pressed into her. But Chloe didn’t care. She’d lied this far. She’d simply lie some more.

  “I got to shake her hand. And I told her when we met that my mom was a big fan.”

  “Why would you say that? I never played Natasha Thomas after you were born.”

  “I said you might even have seen her in concert.”

  “I just told you I didn’t see her in concert.”

  “I know, but I told Natasha I thought you had. I guess I got confused.”

  Defensive now. “Why would you think I saw her?”

  “I think you mentioned it. Are you sure you didn’t? Like, even before I was born?”

  “Yes I’m sure,” she snapped. “Because I never saw her perform.”

  Nicole was digging in deeper because she’d told a lie and now she couldn’t take it back. She should’ve said yes from the start, then made up an excuse for why she’d gone to the concert, and with whom.

  But now Chloe had her pinned.

  “I told her your name,”
Chloe said.

  “That’s silly.” Looking away. Voice starting to waver.

  Why? This wasn’t a murder case.

  Maybe it had something to do with Chloe’s tone. Maybe she wasn’t the only intuitive in the family — and maybe part of Nicole had figured out that something was amiss, and was afraid where all this might be going.

  “I told her, ‘My mom’s name is Nicole Shaw.’ Then I described you.”

  “Like she’d remember some random person from all that time ago even if I had gone to see her!”

  Chloe’s thoughts processed faster.

  She recalled her search, what she’d found.

  She could see it in her mind as clearly as if she was looking at a screen.

  The seating chart of the Layback Lounge from that evening, provided by The Beam.

  The record of which seats had been sold to which customers.

  At the front table, VIP section: Clive Spooner, two tickets.

  And next to Spooner was Isaac Ryan, one ticket.

  The records had otherwise told Chloe nothing about Isaac, but it was a loose thread.

  Chloe pulled it.

  “Well, of course. She didn’t remember you,” Chloe said, now struggling to keep her voice casual.

  2035.

  The year — the date even; close enough — after which the gossip sheets had begun to hint that Isaac Ryan and Natasha Thomas might be a couple.

  “But Isaac did,” Chloe finished.

  “Isaac?”

  “Her husband.”

  “Why would Isaac recognize my name?”

  “He said he’d never forget that night because it was …”

  Careful, Chloe … you don’t know what’s true and what’s not here.

  “… a memorable landmark in his and Natasha’s relationship,” she finished. “He sat in the front row, at the front table of a concert. In a place called the Layback Lounge. He said he could’ve sworn someone named Nicole Shaw was sitting at his table.”

  “That’s just—”

  “You really didn’t see Natasha Ryan perform in 2035?”

  “Chloe, I think I know damn well when I have or haven’t seen a concert.”

  But she was lying. Snared. Deception and panic transparent in her voice.

  “I got out my tablet. I showed him pictures of you. And he said—”

  “He’s mistaken.”

  “—that he was positive you were there. And you were sitting with some guy named … What was it? … Oh, right. With some guy named Cli—”

  “No, I said. What do you want me to say, Chloe? It was over twenty years ago, this concert he was talking about. Whatever Isaac told you, he’s wrong.”

  “So you weren’t there?”

  “I already told you, no.”

  “Isaac seemed sure, though! He said the woman even had the same tattoo as you,” Chloe said, purely fabricating, plucking at her mother’s loose threads. She pointed at the ankh on the underside of Nicole’s left wrist. “He remembered it specifically because—”

  “Chloe!”

  Chloe stopped.

  There was something new in her mother’s eyes.

  It wasn’t just shame or fear or helplessness.

  Now she saw the first flare of anger.

  “I’m just asking,” Chloe said.

  “I answered. I wasn’t there. Why are you being so insistent?”

  Chloe regarded her mother’s gaze. She was at the edge of going too far. It didn’t matter to Nicole that she’d kept secrets from Chloe. It only mattered that those secrets were kept. They’d laid protected for years in a heart-shaped box inside her — a chest of precious memories she’d obviously fight tooth and nail to protect.

  Chloe leaned back, slowly rocking the chair.

  There was definitely information in her mother’s head that would help Chloe’s quest — that would fill The Beam’s black and white records of Nicole and Clive’s relationship with vibrant, vital color. She was more certain than ever.

  But not now.

  Not now that Nicole’s guard was up.

  She looked across the blue sky, the green trees. Waiting. Impatient and deadly curious, but realizing that biding her time was the only solution.

  Nicole’s mouth was firm, her arms crossed, her body language closed.

  Chloe rocked. Affected innocence. Pretended that the question had been irrelevant, the inquiry already forgotten.

  “The air here smells so much sweeter than the city,” she said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Days passed.

  Chloe checked in at the spa, then wrangled tour duty while making the manager believe that sending her out naked to show guests around had been his idea. Voyos, like Elysium, was a sexual paradise — an Eden on earth. Unlike Elysium, it was also a thriving resident community: yin to sexuality’s raging yang.

  Chloe played the dual natures against each other, skipping between nonsexual and sexual duty. The two intermingled almost invisibly, such that public displays of copulation were almost as common as Slava had joked on the beach. Tour guides — like wait staff, slab-muscled and shirtless grounds workers, and just about anyone else — were generally considered “on the menu” for spa guests.

  Plenty were interested in Chloe. She got them interested in each other instead. What was Voyos if not a modern-day free love utopia?

  Three days in, Slava pulled Chloe dragged Chloe off the street and into a retro-themed malt shop for a stern lecture.

  Everyone in the shop, save some of the less adventurous guests, wore 1950s period costume. A man was getting a blowjob from a waitress in skates two booths down while whipped cream melted from atop a tall pink milkshake.

  “What’s up, Chloe?”

  “You grabbed me.”

  “Because something is up. What is it?”

  Chloe looked around. She hadn’t noticed the cook behind the grill until now. He was shirtless and his six-pack was gleaming. Several diners stared at him wide-eyed.

  “I don’t understand this game.”

  “Why are you on tour duty? You’re an escort.”

  “You’d have to ask Timothy.” Chloe shrugged. “He put me here.”

  “Uh-huh. Because you batted your eyelashes and got him to put you here. I don’t mean to inflate your ego, Honey, but you’re some of O’s top talent. It's hardly a fitting use of your skills to have you parading people around, showing them where to get their hoverbus passes.”

  “I’m as on-duty as anyone.” Chloe gestured down. She was still naked. It no longer fazed her. Voyos was warm. “Maybe you didn’t notice my uniform.”

  “Pfft. So your tits are out. When’s the last time you polished someone’s knob?”

  “It hasn’t come up.”

  “Even though all anyone has to do is ask. Even though you can be pointing out the grotto entrances and any guest, at any time, is supposed to be permitted to pull out his dick and use your entrances.”

  “Nobody’s asked.”

  Slava gave Chloe a hard eye. “Bitch, please.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Slava.”

  Slava nodded toward a trio of handsome, young-looking men in a booth by the door. They were wearing ‘50s sweaters, per the theme of the diner, but all had chiseled jaws, bright eyes, and bodies that were obviously sculpted as if cut from granite. They were looking toward Chloe and Slava, practically licking their lips.

  “Look at those three. Three dudes for three holes. You should go over there and get 'em.”

  Chloe looked over. She saw one reach beneath the booth as if to scratch his leg — although in all likelihood, he was already stroking his cock.

  “They’re not interested.”

  “Oh, please. The one on the right is either beating off while looking at you or shooting a craps game under the table.”

  Chloe watched. His jerking arm was obvious. It should have been creepy, but the guys were all smoking hot. Interesting how that worked.

  “I don’t think so.”<
br />
  “Is something wrong, Chloe? This was supposed to be sort of a vacation for you.”

  “It’s work.”

  “And vacation,” Slava insisted. “Remember all those things you told me about how much you loved your work? How you told me that when you’re with a client, you adapt to him and become his girl for an hour? Remember how you said that work sex is hot as fuck because you want it as bad as the guys do? Or the girls?”

  “What about it?”

  Slava looked from Chloe to the men. From the men to Chloe.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Slava, no. I love my work. I’m here to work.”

  “And yet, you haven’t availed yourself of any opportunities. Like those three guys.”

  “You want them? They’re yours.”

  “They want you, Chloe. Don’t you want to please them?”

  The way Slava said it carried new undertones, making it more than a question. It was practically a moral imperative — a question as poignant as the one Chloe had come here to answer: Who is Chloe Shaw?

  Escorts weren’t grudging servants; they were chosen because they were all able to love fucking their clients as much as the clients would love fucking them. Slava, though not an official escort off of Voyos, was no different. And Chloe couldn’t help but feel the meaning behind her simple inquiry: Don’t you want to please them? questioned Chloe’s dedication to her career’s meaning, to O, to her very purpose.

  If Chloe didn’t want to serve, then maybe it was wrong to serve. No one had doubts in this profession. Chloe’s strangeness was infecting Slava. If she had reservations, then Slava might want to consider having them, too.

  Escorts existed to serve. They were fulfilled by fulfillment. It was practically O’s mission statement — an escort’s raison d'être.

  Chloe looked at her friend. She saw concern and the seed of doubt: Chloe’s spoilsport behavior threatening to soil the mood for everyone.

  Chloe stood, walked to the men, then chatted briefly. Two minutes later Chloe returned to Slava and the men were outside the front door, partaking the services of a dominatrix with a wheeled cart full of Crossbrace-enabled sex toys.

  “They wanted nano-sprays and visual enhancers,” Chloe explained. “I offered, but they were more interested in …”