Dream King by Elise Knight
1
The heavy cream envelope sat on my dresser, mocking me. Downright sending me into a murderous rage, if truth be told. It offset the lovely pile of bills with the red ink of OVERDUE stamped all over them. Cream and red. Like blood and bandages. And I was pretty sure there would be both if I actually opened the damn thing. A fucking massacre!
Trying to ignore it, I slurped back a cup of coffee for the caffeine hit and attempted to pull my long white-blonde hair into something managing a ponytail.
The envelope stared at me. I stared back with narrowed eyes before giving into temptation, snatching up the envelope, and ripping it open savagely. Sucking in a deep breath, I pulled the invitation out. It was beautiful. Thick monogrammed cardstock with a hand-drawn picture of a bride and groom surrounded by embossed hearts. It was elegant but also vaguely sickening. I swallowed thickly before opening the card.
Mr. and Mrs. Johnson request the presence of Miss Anastasia Lowell at the wedding of their daughter Sophie Louise Johnson to Mr. David Smith on...
The words blurred. I didn’t read any further. After five years of dating the dipshit, he hadn’t even bothered to give his in-laws-to-be my correct name. I was Anasazi Lowell, not Anastasia, though most everyone called me Ana. I slapped the invitation down on the dresser and slammed my half-full coffee cup down on top, staining the card with a tidal wave of murky brown liquid. I’d braced myself ever since I saw the perfect calligraphy on the card, but the pain still stole the breath from my lungs. It wasn’t the murderous rage I wanted to feel, but a squeezing of my heart that was fucking pathetic. The card was a shot to my already well-pummelled heart. And now I was facing a wall of grief like I’d not felt since my mother had come down with the sleep curse that was still affecting people. And it was worse because my mother hadn’t chosen to leave me. Not like David, gorgeous asshole David, who had made the choice, just as my father had done when I was too young to remember. At least, David and I hadn’t gotten around to having kids yet. That would have made this whole shitshow so much worse.
Picking up my brightest lipstick, I painted my lips, smacking them at myself in the mirror. Grey eyes stared back at me. “You’re still hot!” I pointed at myself and clicked my tongue before sighing. Picking the soggy invite out from under my coffee cup, I threw it, embossed envelope and all, into the trashcan beside my bed. The one that still held condom wrappers and the used condoms that David had left behind, together with the crippling debt and mortgage on the apartment. The apartment he’d shared with me until three months ago when the bastard announced he was marrying someone else as calmly as he might ask what was for dinner.
Yes, it was disgusting, and yes, I really should have taken out the trash by now, but grief has a way of hammering at your soul and leaving you bereft—debilitated. Mundane shit like cleaning seems less important when your whole future’s been flushed down the toilet.
My phone chirruped in my pocket, and for the briefest of seconds, my stupid, ridiculous, treacherous heart hoped to see the fucker’s name. But it wasn’t him. I pressed the call answer button.
“Hey, Chris.” I flopped back onto my unmade bed and closed my eyes.
“Bitch!”
“I love you too.” I pulled my spare hand to my forehead, already knowing what he was going to say. If I had an invitation to the wedding, Chris would too. David had always hated my best friend, but he liked to show off. Rubbing Chris’s face in his posh expensive wedding was the perfect way to do it.
Chris audibly sighed down the phone. “You know I’m not talking about you. I can’t believe the audacity. The whole thing is a disgusting sham. Please tell me you aren’t going.”
Thank fuck for Chris. The one person still on my side. I shook my head then moaned at the pain that was beginning to creep through my temples. Downing the last of my tequila last night had not been my finest moment. “Nope.”
“Good,” Chris enthused. “The whole thing is such a cliché. Marrying the boss’s daughter. What a loser. We’re obviously not going. We should go on a shopping spree that day, then paint the town red. What do you say?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I couldn’t even afford enough paint to cover the questionable black stain on my bedroom ceiling, let alone splashing it all over town. The shopping spree was equally unlikely for the same reason.
I murmured something incoherent, hoping he’d understand.
“You know what they say,” Chris sing-songed. “The best way to get over a man is to get under another one.” I could almost see the mischievous grin on his face to accompany the words. And while getting under, or indeed on top of, behind or in any other position with men was something Chris liked to do on a nightly basis, I wasn’t planning on dating another man ever again. Though I did appreciate his enthusiasm.
“Will you stop gossiping on my time. Tell her she’s needed.” The cranky tones of Gerald McGee, my prick of a boss, had me sitting up straight.
Chris came back on the line. “Oh, yeah. You have to come in. Alexis has got an emergency spa appointment, so we’re understaffed. See you soon. Love ya.”
He hung up before I had the chance to respond. Before my eyes, my room began to spin, my headache turning into something epic. At the last minute, I managed to lunge over the side of the bed and puke in the overflowing waste paper basket.
Feeling slightly better, I fished the dripping invite from the trash and memorized the address before writing it on one of the clean, padded envelopes I kept in case I needed one. The old condom doused in tequila, and stomach acid came next. Writing a little note telling Mr. and Mrs. Johnson that I was sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to make it to the upcoming nuptials, but here was a gift for the bride and groom, I put the whole stinking lot in the envelope and attached my last few stamps.
Gazing wistfully at it, I placed it in my bag. Petty and juvenile, I knew, but so was leaving your long-time girlfriend saddled with debt to marry some rich bitch at the office.
This certainly wasn’t my finest moment, but with my tequila headache threatening to take over my entire brain and my stomach still planning a rebellion, I didn’t much care. My only wish was that I could be at the wedding, if only to see the looks on the guest’s faces as David and his bimbo bride pulled out the vomit-splattered condom.
Caught between groaning and giggling, I picked up the waste paper basket I’d not emptied for three months, threw the contents into a bin bag, and put the lot outside. After my shift tonight, I’d start on the rest of David’s crap that he’d left behind. Not that he’d left me with much. The bank accounts he’d emptied. He’d even taken the engagement ring he’d given to me. Cheap bastard had told me he was going to get it cleaned for me, and like a fool, I’d believed him. There was no doubt in my mind that the only diamond I’d ever owned was now sitting on the finger of Sophie fucking Johnson.
Apart from the used condoms (he took the unused ones with him), he’d left me with three socks, half a bottle of aftershave his nana had bought him three Christmases ago that smelled like bleach gone bad, a chipped mug, and his Game of Thrones DVDs. Like an idiot, I’d kept hold of the lot, hoping that he’d come back for them, come back to me. But not anymore. I was sick of simpering after the useless, cheating, bastard, sleazeball. I was going to throw away everything he’d ever touched...If my hangover didn’t kill me first.
* * *
Fuck Vancouver traffic and fuck Vancouver weather right along with it!I cursed under my breath.
Today was supposed to be my night off. I wouldn’t have consumed half a bottle of tequila had I known that Alexis was going to flounce off to some spa. But I should have known. It wasn’t the first time. Being the boss’s daughter came with perks, and she used them to her advantage as much as she could. But who goes to a spa at night? Urgh. My version of a spa was a hot shower, a luxury ever since I’d forgotten to pay the electric bill.
“You’re late,” McGee roared as I tramped through the door, soaking wet from my dash across the parking lot. McGee was as round as he was tall, fat off the millions he was currently making from owning The Vancouver Sleep Clinic. When I’d started, we’d been lucky to have more than a dozen clients a month, but since the Big Sleep, business had boomed, and we were booked out months in advance, commanding the highest rates. His bushy, once auburn but now mostly white moustache took up most of his face, though his beady, piggy eyes peering out over the top were equally unnerving.
“I wasn’t meant to be in today,” I reminded him grumpily, pulling off my soggy coat and hanging it up on a coat hanger. “It was supposed to be Alexis’s night, remember?” I added spitefully. At eighteen, McGee’s daughter was nine years younger than me and already earning more, despite knowing absolutely nothing about anything and having more spa days than I was currently having hot dinners.
McGee’s moustache twitched. I knew there was no comeback to that. His daughter was a lazy bitch and we all knew it. “Yes, well, Chris is already here and setting up tonight’s subjects. Take care of them. They’re paying handsomely. I’m going. I have a golf game this evening.”
I gave him a wry nod, then headed down the low-lit corridor into the sleep chamber where Chris was carefully hooking the subjects up to the monitors.
The sleep chamber had been built to accommodate two beds, but cheapskate McGee somehow managed to squeeze twelve in there. It reminded me of the hospital ward my mother was in, but more cramped. I had to turn sideways to get between the beds. The people we took nowadays were mega-wealthy, but very few complained about their lack of privacy or cramped accommodations for the night. Their lives were more important to them than luxury.
As far as I could see, Chris had done eleven of the twelve already. I moved to the last bed and read the chart. Mr. Collins. He was an old chap who looked to be in his mid-seventies. He gave me a doleful smile as I attached wires to his chest then to his temples. I wondered how he’d made his money. It was a game I liked to play. Was he rich to begin with, or had he been saving up for a year for this? The cost for one night alone would pay for a luxury cruise to the Bahamas or two weeks in the Maldives. Instead, they spent their money being watched sleeping by me and Chris. Utter fucking insanity!
“These won’t hurt,” I assured him, reading his expression, “but they’ll restrict your movement a little. It’s best to sleep on your back and try not to move too much. It will provide us with better readings.”
He nodded in understanding. “Thank you, my dear. I’ll do my best to.” I liked the guy immediately. He had a sad kind of compliance to him that I had a feeling had nothing to do with the wires or machines I was hooking him up to.
When I saw that everyone was attached to the machines, I made my usual announcement to the group of faces peering at me. The one I’d memorized once the customers had started pouring in after The Big Sleep.
“I know this is a strange environment, but please do everything you can to get a good night’s sleep. Chris and I will be watching through the mirror there.” I pointed to the long mirror, taking up almost one wall of the room. “It’s a one-way mirror, and we can see you at all times. The doors will be locked once we leave and will remain so all night. If, however you wish to use the bathroom, there is a button on the side of your bed. It will be silent to you, but we’ll hear it and open the door for you. The toilets are just along the corridor, which will be kept lit throughout the night. The button can also be used if there is an emergency, but we ask that you don’t press it for any other reason. Any disturbances in the room affect the readings, so we like to keep everything as peaceful as possible. The time is ten p.m. We’ll open the doors at six a.m., and once we’ve collated the data, we’ll send you your reports. It usually takes twenty-four hours. The lights will be dimmed but not turned off completely to allow us to monitor you throughout the night. If you need one, a sleep mask has been provided for you on the nightstand beside your bed. Does anyone have any questions?” I waited for the inevitable questions, but none came. I left the room and joined Chris in the observation room for another long, boring, pointless eight hours of watching old people with more money than sense snore and fart their way through the night.