Dreamscapes

Dreamscapes

by Elisabeth Flaum

Copyright 2011, 2014 by Elisabeth Flaum

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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CHAPTER 1

It started, as things so often do, in a bar. It was our weekly ritual to gather at a place called Rick’s, to down expensive drinks and pick up gorgeous women, or just to hang out. That night the pianist played Sinatra, and liquor flowed as we bragged and laughed and mocked each other in turn.

Paul, said Frank, that was absolutely the worst joke ever. Just for that, the next round’s on you.

Okay, okay, said Paul, wounded. Did I ever tell you guys about the time I met those twins?

Yeah and nobody believes that one either.

Raucous laughter. We’d consumed quite a number of those drinks by then.

Guys, hey guys, said Marty. Check out the blonde at the bar.

Too young for you, Marty. I jabbed an elbow in his ribs.

Jailbait! Troy boomed.

Shut up, said Marty, and we did. She’s the ice queen, nobody can get near her. Watch.

Like foxes around a chicken house, we watched. The girl sat alone at the end of the crowded bar, twirling a straw in her soft drink. She stood out from the cocktail-dressed crowd in blue jeans and a slim-cut tee shirt that emphasized her youth. Golden hair spilled over her shoulders, and her eyes as she glanced around flashed fire. No one braved the empty seat beside her.

Damn, said Frank. She’s an ice queen all right.

Marty gave us a shark-like leer. Any of you boys man enough to walk up and get her number?

Troy thumped his chest and laughed wolfishly. Slam dunk, he said.

Kid like that? said Frank. Piece of cake.

Paul and I nodded agreement over our drinks. All right, then, said Marty, all teeth. Put your money where your mouth is. Buy-in is fifty bucks, and the first guy to score digits gets the pot.

Fuck that, said Troy. Make it a hundred, you’ve got a game.

The rest of us chorused assent. Marty scribbled numbers on a napkin and tore it up, dropping the pieces into an empty glass for us to draw. One by one we fumbled for the scraps, and I came up with 5.

Damn. I dropped the number on the table. So much for me.

My friends laughed. Tough luck, Winters, said Marty, thumping my shoulder. Who’s number one?

Troy stood up first, a smirk in his Nordic blue eyes. No woman stood a chance before his flaxen locks, rippling biceps and lightning-bolt smile. We watched, discouraged, as he swaggered toward the bar like a prince of Asgard.

So much for any of us, snorted Frank. I nodded.

But thirty seconds later, the thunder god trudged back to the table with the look of a kicked puppy. Our incredulity quickly turned to hilarity at his defeat.

Swing... and a miss! Marty intoned as we laughed.

Troy sank into his chair, crestfallen. She wouldn’t even talk to me!

Thought you didn’t like ‘em to talk, snickered Paul.

Who’s next? said Marty.

One by one the guys approached the blonde at the bar. One by one they limped back to the table. Even Marty, dimpled Marty with the coffee complexion and the grin that would charm Jesus, dropped into his chair as if his world had just crashed in on him.

Marty the Master gets the smackdown! said Paul with delight. Yeeeeeeee’re out!

Troy shook his head. If I hadn’t seen it, I’da never believed it.

Marty looked at me with a challenging glare. Looks like you get your shot after all, smart-ass.

Fine. I stood up, a little unsteadily. Prepare to be schooled.

Up close she seemed even younger; I wondered how carefully they’d checked her ID. Still, not my problem. I slid onto the barstool next to her and ordered a whiskey neat. After an appropriate interval, I glanced her way with studied nonchalance, only to find her dark eyes fixed on mine.

The intensity of her stare startled me. I recovered quickly, turning on my signature charm. Can I get you something, gorgeous?

She didn’t answer. Time slowed down; the hum of conversation receded to a distant buzz as her eyes held mine, bottomless and captivating.

You’re the one, she said.

I blinked, the spell broken. Sorry, what?

She looked me over, studying my face as if memorizing it. I swayed drunkenly on the stool; my wit and charm abandoned me, leaving me speechless for absolutely the first time in my life. She glanced away, fishing in the pocket of her jeans, and then her eyes were on mine again. Call me, she said, pressing a slip of paper into my hand. It’s important.

She slid down from the barstool and was gone. The noise of the bar surged back like the sea. My friends whooped and catcalled, keen as monkeys. I picked up my drink and returned to the table with forced insouciance.

Piece of cake, I told them.

You da man, Winters, Troy bellowed, thumping my back.

Next round’s on you, said Paul.

Marty handed me a stack of bills. Very slick.

I tucked the money into my jacket and downed a mouthful of my drink. Our conversation turned to other things, sports and work and women, but my mind was off the game. I kept seeing those bottomless brown eyes.

By morning, however, I’d forgotten her completely. Waking up hung over, I popped a few aspirin, fiddled with the leaky faucet in the bathroom, and went on about my life. That night at Rick’s was just like any other, ordinary and inconsequential.

One evening later that week, I stopped to pick up my dry cleaning. The pixie-faced girl behind the counter passed me a little plastic bag along with my clothes. Don’t forget this, she breathed. It was in your jacket pocket.

Thanks, hot stuff. I accepted the baggie with a wink; she blushed up to her little elfin ears. I tucked the thing back into my jacket and sauntered out to the car.

Once behind the wheel, I took it out again. The baggie contained a slip of paper bearing a neatly printed telephone number. No name, no note. I mulled over the days to the last time I’d worn that particular jacket, and it all came back to me at once.

It’s important, she’d said, as if she meant it.

With a mental shrug I pulled out my phone and punched in the number. Voicemail picked up almost instantly, but there was no message, just an electronic beep.

Hi there, I said in my most charming tones. This is Jon. Sorry I didn’t get your name; we met the other night at Rick’s. You said call, so here I am. Call me back, okay?

I left my number and disconnected. Who was she, I wondered, tapping my phone absently against the wheel. What could be so damned important? Or was it just her little game? I shook my head to clear it, pocketed the phone, and started the car.

The car purred to life like a lady tiger. She was a Miata, a sporty little model I called Lulu. Silver-blue with chrome accessories and black leather interior, she turned heads everywhere we went. She also turned traffic lights green. We roared out of the parking lot and headed for home, traffic parting before us like the Red Sea. It was her own special brand of magic.

That night, she was not the only conjurer on the road.

Not far away, some other guy sped down some other street. His ride was turning them red, and he dodged through yellow lights at the last second, time after time. So when he and I approached the same intersection at the same time, his luck and mine got badly tangled. Lulu and I didn’t stand a chance.

And then I woke up.

CHAPTER 2

Another hangover. Whatever I had drunk, it must’ve been good; I remembered nothing. The dripping of the leaky faucet pierced my brain like a chisel. My hand groped for the bottle of aspirin on the nightstand.

It wasn’t there.

Propping one eye open I looked over at the empty nightstand. The aspirin bottle, my magazines, even the beside lamp were gone. I lay back against the pillow with a sigh; it was going to be one of those mornings.

Crawling out of bed I stumbled into the bathroom. My head pounded like the hammer of Thor. I fumbled through the medicine cabinet for aspirin and leaned on the counter to wait for it to work. Vision swimming, stomach roiling, I wondered if I was bad off enough to call in sick. If it was even a workday. I couldn’t remember; I cursed the demon booze and whoever I’d allowed to buy my drinks.

Staggering out of the bathroom I went in search of my phone. It was not on the nightstand, nor on the dresser. Pants pocket, I thought, but my clothes were not scattered on the floor. The laundry hamper was empty. Increasingly annoyed, head throbbing, I trudged down the hall to the living room.

And there she was.

The girl from the piano bar, the baby-faced blonde with the unforgettable eyes, stood at the window in my front room looking out into the yard. Her golden hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her jeans and t-shirt failed to disguise a flawless body. I blinked and rubbed my eyes; surely I’d have remembered bringing this one home.

Just then she turned. Her eyes flicked downward; my cheeks burned, and I covered myself with both hands. Hi, I managed. Um.

She smiled. She had a gorgeous smile, like winter sunlight, or a fresh ocean breeze. Hi, Jon, she said. My name’s Rose. Get dressed, we have to go.

Go where, exactly?

Save your life.

I pulled on my clothes in a daze. There was no sign of my phone, my wallet, or my keys, but I decided I was only dreaming, so it didn’t matter. I wouldn’t need them in this world.

Rose waited by the front door. With a crooked grin she stepped outside. I followed, curious, and stopped dead in my tracks on the front step.

My neighborhood was of the pleasant suburban type, full of single-family multi-car homes with basketball hoops in the driveways and trash cans out on the curb. Close enough to the city to make a quick commute, far enough out to keep the wife and kids I thought I’d have someday. On an ordinary day, I could hear the shouts of children, barking dogs, the hum of traffic on the main road nearby.

Not this day.

Instead, my little yellow ranch house stood all alone in the middle of nowhere, nothing but tawny rolling hills for miles in every direction. On the far horizon a clump of trees formed a dark smear against the hazy blue sky. The air smelled of dry grass and dust; insects buzzed, and somewhere nearby an invisible stream trickled.

And in the yard where my driveway should have been, two saddled horses grazed contentedly as if they’d been there all their lives.

Do you ride? said Rose.

What?

She gestured toward the horses. Do you ride?

Never been on a horse in my life.

Thought not. With a mocking grin she took the reins of the nearer horse and led it toward me. The immense black beast towered over her like a monolith; I looked up into its fist-sized eye, feeling like a bug about to be squashed.

This is Lulu, said Rose. She’s an angel, really.

Hastening to recover my dignity, I accepted the reins. Hello, Lulu, I frowned. We haven’t met before, have we? I could swear I know a Lulu.

The horse sniffed me up and down like an enormous dog. Playfully she bumped her giant nose against my shoulder. I staggered to keep my feet and laughed out loud.

Well aren’t you fresh? Usually I get to know a girl a bit before I let her push me around.

Rose laughed, a pleasant silvery sound. Do you need help up?

Give a guy a chance, I said. I’ve seen enough cowboy movies. Channeling John Wayne I gripped the saddle, stepped into the stirrup, and threw my other leg over Lulu’s broad back. Just like riding a bicycle.

Rose climbed smoothly astride the other horse, a brilliant white with deerlike grace and energy. I envisioned Lady Godiva aboard a unicorn. The horse settled, and Rose looked at me over her shoulder.

Are you ready?

Lead on, my lady, I grinned.

Returning the grin she whispered to her horse. The animal burst into a run like a race car from the starting line, zero to sixty in a blink; Lulu leaped after them, nearly leaving me behind. I grabbed handfuls of mane and saddlehorn, holding on for dear life as the reins flapped around me and Lulu’s hoofbeats pounded the earth like cannon fire. We flew across the grassy plain, the wind screaming in my ears, hot in pursuit of the beautiful blonde on the gleaming white horse.

My kind of dream.

CHAPTER