While I don’t have anything exotic to share, I explain my plan to get outside by sunrise tomorrow to look for treasures on the beach. “Believe it or not, I’ve never actually put my toes near the lake before,” I admit, a little sheepishly, though Axe doesn’t need to hear it again—how my mother was afraid of everything from riptides to jellyfish to the petri dish of ocean germs, all waiting to pounce.
“You know,” says Axe, as if reading my thoughts, “I meant to tell you earlier, but for a bairn as sickly as you supposedly were, you’re surprisingly…hearty. We’ve spent an entire day together, and I haven’t seen you so much as sneeze.”
I nod as my eyes prickle. I’ve been thinking about this so much lately—how my mother’s worries, at least sometimes, might have been more about her own anxieties than my actual health. But it’s not a thought that I’m quite ready to share.
“I guess I grew out of some of it,” I say, my voice steady. “I still have to be careful, but yeah.” I smile. “It’s time to take risks and live on my own terms.” My hands are sweaty; I take a breath. Not good for the app.
At that moment, Sally returns with the check, placing it on the table with a smile. “Enjoy the rest of your night, kiddos,” she says with a knowing smile. Which is funny because I bet that whatever she’s thinking doesn’t involve haptic suits.
Axe tosses a few bills onto the table without even glancing at the total—Sally’s easily getting a 50 percent tip.
It’s go time. As we head out of the diner, Axe’s eyes lock ontomine, a flame of something exhilarating passing between us. But reality tugs me every bit as hard. What we’re about to do isn’t just a moment between Axe and me. Every move we make is about to be sliced, diced, and fed into the algorithm. And I really need this job. My medical history means I have no choice but to be on constant lookout, that the threat of expensive treatments always lurks in the shadows. I can’t forget that in recent days, I both had the stomach flu and passed out while driving.
Funny how, despite all this, I’ve never felt more alive.
I let out a small sigh, barely audible over the rain, which has started up again, as I try to ground myself in the here and now. Axe pops open the umbrella—because of course he remembered to bring one—so that it shields us both, and he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, his touch offering a tiny moment of calm and comfort in the storm of my thoughts.
As we walk back to the hotel, I steal another glance at him, determined to savor this connection before the next-level suits and their high-tech sensors intrude. I want to enjoy this for what it is: something real—almost real?—in a world of simulations.
Even if, soon enough, everyone will have my data in their hands and know just how real it feels to me.
Thirty-Seven
Axe
We’re both quiet as we cross the threshold into our room, bringing with us the scent of rain-soaked pavement. As the door clicks shut, I’m keenly aware of the charged atmosphere. I shake off the umbrella, sending droplets scattering across the shag carpet.
When I turn on the light, the theme hits me again like a sugar rush. Walls plastered with cartoon murals of mermaids lounging on rocks, and above the bed dangles a giant starfish light fixture, its limbs spread-eagle.
“Today was perfect,” Josie says, flopping onto the bed, which emits an unnerving creak in response. “The rain really adds something magical to this place, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” I reply, dimming the light and tossing my damp jacket onto a chair. The bedspread is an explosion of glossy seashells, with a plush, sequined mermaid-tail blanket tossed on a treasure chest. The whole room looks like the ocean decided to host Glastonbury and forgot to clean it up, but Josie is genuinely chuffed with it all. She is truly oblivious to the chintzy crap, and I adore her for it. Her enthusiasm might be catching, too—there’s something glorious about all this naff kitsch.
Josie kicks off her shoes and stretches out with a sigh, her headsinking into a pillow embroidered with seahorses. “And that cherry pie at the diner…heavenly. If we sold those pies at the shop, we’d make a fortune.”
“If anyone could do it, you could,” I agree, sitting beside her. She giggles as the bed dips with my weight. The way she relaxes into the pillow and peers up at me makes me hard again—yes, the day was perfect, right down to the acute case of blue balls I’m getting just by looking at her. And that kiss earlier…Strike called at the perfect time, because I didn’t trust myself not to take her right there on the boardwalk if she’d have had me.
“So, do you think we’re ready?” she asks, glancing at the corner where the suits hang like two high-tech wet suits. Which feels appropriate, given the whole under-the-sea vibe. It’s like we’re about to go scuba diving, not have really awkward virtual reality cybersex. “Want to try them out?”
I exhale, pulling my hands through my hair. “I realize this wasn’t the plan. The contract was pretty clear about separate rooms, so we can call it. No pressure if this makes you uncomfortable—”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” she says, cutting me off. She tucks a rogue curl behind her ear, and it is so fucking cute, I force myself to think unsexy cool-down thoughts.
Gym socks. The outrageously convoluted American tax system. Moldy cheese.
Jesus, it’ll be an effort to take it slow. The last thing we need is me coming in my haptic suit too early. I’d never be able to look my team in the eyes again. “I’m sort of looking forward to it,” she adds.
Something clenches low in my sternum, and all I want to do is chuck those suits out the window and toss her straight onto the bed. I want to lock her legs around my neck. Screw the data, andto hell with She’s the One. I want this woman for myself, but I know as well as anyone, we don’t always get what we want.
“Okay, I’m game if you are,” I say, clearing my throat and swallowing. “Though I can’t promise I won’t make a fool of myself. I’ve never tried these, either. This is not the way I’m normally intimate.”
“You mean you don’t normally wear head-to-toe latex to fuck?” she asks, and that word,fuck, said so casually by Josie—who wears socks with ruffles and tiny hearts on them—as if it rolls right off her tongue, makes me go rock solid. The wanting has turned into something I can’t quite control. Every part of my body longs to touch hers—I want to lick her pussy, eat her until her eyes roll back into her head.
I’m already pissed off at these stupid suits and the bloody barrier they’ll put between us, and I haven’t even zipped mine up yet.
“Nah, lass, I don’t need accessories,” I say, smug as you like. She’s not actually going to feel the real me tonight, so there’s no point warning her.
We take turns in the bathroom—me first, then Josie—to wriggle into these ridiculous haptic getups. The material’s sleek and tight, with all sorts of compression, massage, and vibrating bits. Makes me feel like some off-brand superhero. I can hear Josie struggling with hers, grunting in frustration.
