Sci-fi Urban Fantasy
Date Published: 09-28-2021
The sudden death of Jenna Hess provides an ideal setting for The Dollmaker. Jeremy Dillon is captivated by CR1XY, an elite model that he can't resist. Is her creation exclusive to him, or are we merely learning about an elaborate plot? Nothing is certain in this high stakes game.
Chapter 1
After
the last drop of tequila rolled off my tongue, the empty shot glass taunted me.
I slammed it against the bar. “Hit me again.”
“Sorry, Jer, I’m cuttin’ you off.”
A sharp pang of
sorrow cut off my oxygen and echoed in my throat as I growled, “Don’t call me
that. Jenna called me that.”
Matt flung the bar towel over his shoulder and rolled
his eyes. “Dude, I’ve been calling you Jer since junior high.”
Jenna’s angel-like voice flitted through my mind: Jer.
My sweet Jer.
I glanced at Matt, standing behind the bar, eyeing me
with a narrowed gaze. Since we were teenagers, the scruffy blond-haired guy,
littered with piercings and tattoos, had been my best friend. His twin sister,
Missy, had brought Jenna to my eighteenth birthday bash.
The uninvited memory unfurled in my brain, with me
helpless to stop it.
My parent’s living room, stripped of its
furniture, had been transformed into a makeshift rave to house my crew.
Missy—the grand entrance queen—made her appearance a half-hour late, with a
dark-haired girl at her side. The girl’s big brown eyes found mine, turning my
brain to mush. I just stood there, gawking like an idiot.
Missy tossed her long blonde mane over her
shoulders, grabbed the girl’s hand, and led her through the crowd toward me.
“Jenna, meet the birthday boy, Jeremy. Jer, this is my BFF, Jenna.”
“Nice to meet you, Jeremy. And happy
birthday,” she said in a sweet, angel-like voice.
I offered her my most charming smile.
“Thank you. And it’s great to meet you too.”
She looked at my hair. “I like the man
bun. Very hipster.”
“Is that a good thing?
Missy groaned before she walked away and
joined the others.
Jenna’s eyes seemed to smile at me; then,
she’d giggled. “Yes, it’s a good thing.”
Realization punched me in the gut. She was flirting
with me. Holy crap!
Don’t be a creep. Relax. Take a breath, I
thought to myself and casually asked her, “Can I get you something to drink?”
I shook my head, forcing my attention to the present
and back to Matt. “It was the way she said my name. You know, with sheer
devotion. She was…” My voice crackled
with pain.
Reaching across the bar, Matt laid his hand on my
shoulder and narrowed his jade-colored eyes. “I can’t even imagine the
heartache you must feel, but Jenna wouldn’t want this. She’d want you to keep
living.”
Hot tears stung my eyes as her face formed behind
them. I soaked in every beautiful inch of her before blinking her away. Alcohol
was the only thing that allowed me to forget, even if only temporarily. Jenna
wasn’t coming back. “She didn’t just walk out of my life—that, I could’ve dealt
with—but her death… it haunts me,” I said, wiping the tears from my face. “I
should’ve told her not to drive, to wait until the morning, but I… I wanted to
see her.”
“The accident wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame
yourself.”
“She’d be alive if it weren’t for me!” I yelled, anger
spewing from my lips. “She wouldn’t’ve fallen asleep at the wheel and crashed
if I’d just told her to wait.” Taking a few deep breaths, I held up the shot
glass and urged, “Please, Matt.”
A look of sympathy tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Just one more, I promise.”
He shook his head in a slow, sad manner. “I’m doing this
for your own good.” He snatched my car keys off the counter and set them behind
the bar. “Someone’s gotta look out for you.” He filled a mug with black coffee
and set it in front of me. “You can hang out and wait for me to drive you home,
or you can Uber it, but you’re not driving.”
I waved him away and grumbled, “Fine.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
“Doubtful.”
Matt walked away to tend to a couple at the other end
of the bar.
I took a swig of coffee, cringed, and scanned the bar
for packets of sugar.
“Looking for this?” a male voice inquired from my
right, sliding two packets of sweetener my way.
“Thanks,” I said, eyeing the bald, wrinkly-faced man.
He moved to the barstool next to mine and remarked, “I
couldn’t help but overhear. Was she your girlfriend?”
“Fiancée.”
“Lost my wife years ago. Without The Dollmaker, I don’t think
I could’ve overcome this.” The focus of his gaze slipped.
I jerked my head in his direction. “Dollmaker?”
He pulled a tattered business card from his worn denim
jacket and laid it on the bar top. “This man saved my sanity. Might be able to
help you too.” He offered a kind nod, got to his feet, and exited the bar
without another word.
The name on the card read “The Dollmaker,” with a
phone number printed underneath—no address or website on the front or the back.
What the fuck? How could a dollmaker help me? I shrugged, then
punched the number into my cell.
It rang twice before a recording clicked on,
announcing, “You’ve reached The Dollmaker. We are closed at this time, but
please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and we will return your
call the next business day.”
Once the machine beeped, I sputtered, “Yeah, um… My
name is Jeremy—Jeremy Dillon. Cell’s 310-555-9189. A prior customer gave me
your card and said you could help.” I paused, debating if I should elaborate.
Instead, I mumbled, “Thanks,” and ended the call.
Chapter
2
I
woke up, sprawled out on my bed in last night’s clothes, reeking of alcohol. I
tried to sit up, but my pounding head knocked me flat on my back. What the hell
day is it? The clock on the nightstand read 9 a.m. My brows pinched together as
my brain struggled to remember the previous night, bringing up a hazy image of
Matt’s bar. Had he driven my drunk ass home?
Check your cell, ran through my
head, and I grabbed it off the nightstand and scrolled through my calendar. My
million-dollar listing with ocean views had a 2 p.m. showing, followed by
another at 3 p.m. I could smell a bidding war, but my hangover was in full
bloom. I needed to get rid of it before the open houses.
My cell rang just as my eyes were about to close, the
sound piercing my ears and aching head. Before it rang a second time, I quickly
answered, “Hello?”
“May I speak to Jeremy Dillon?” a woman asked.
“This is Jeremy.”
“Hello, Jeremy. This is Alicia from The Dollmaker,
returning your call.”
I bolted upright, and the room started to spin. Damn
hangover. “Yes, thank you for getting back to me. I—I’m not really sure how
to…”
“Let me help with that,” she gently cut in. “Have you
experienced the passing of a loved one?”
“My… fiancée.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“At The Dollmaker, we understand how devasting the
loss of a loved one can be. Our creations have helped many clients live through
the pain and recover.”
Creations? Does she mean a
doll? I still don’t get it. How could a piece of plastic with a blank stare
help anyone? “I’m a little unclear of what it is you do. Can you provide more
details?”
“We had a cancellation for ten this morning. I know
it’s short notice, but would you like to come in for a consultation? See who we
are and what we offer?”
“That would be great. Where are you located?”
I grabbed a pen from the nightstand and wrote the
address on my hand.
I hung up, flying into
the bathroom and colliding with my reflection. I looked like shit, and I needed
a shave. I reached for the razor and knocked Jenna’s dry shampoo into the sink.
My gaze lingered on the bottle. “Why not?” I thought and sprayed the hell out
of my hair, trying to rid the bar smell. Just before I needed to hit the road,
I threw on faded jeans, a long-sleeved Henley shirt, vintage boots, slapped on
deodorant, cologne, and twisted my hair into a man bun. I dashed out of the
house, and I was on my way to White Rock.
“You’ve reached
your destination,” my GPS announced after a short drive. I parked, wiped the
address off my hand with a little spit and my shirt sleeve, and headed for the
door of the large, two-story industrial building with frosted glass windows.
Stenciled to the center window were full-scale Barbie and Ken lookalikes, with The
Dollmaker in big black letters framed on the front door. This was no
ordinary dollhouse. The structure was massive, completely modern and techy.
What the hell is this place?
The door automatically swung, revealing a vacant lobby
with a curvature marble front desk and a few leather chairs scattered about.
The sound of high heels tapping against the polished floor came from the left.
I turned, and my gaze fell upon a woman—forty-ish, blonde hair slicked into a
ponytail, dressed in a dark pantsuit—approaching me.
“Jeremy?”
I offered my hand. “Yes. And you must be Alicia?”
Her laughter floated toward me. “That I am. Nice to
meet you.” She shook my hand and waved me forward. “I’ve got a room ready for
us. Follow me.”
She led me down a long, well-lit narrow hallway with
images of mannequins displayed along the walls. The farther we went, they
evolved, becoming more lifelike. Veering toward an open doorway, she announced,
“Here we are. Please, come in and take a seat.”
A mahogany table sat in the center of the room with
several high-back chairs tucked underneath. She claimed the seat in front of a
laptop, and I took the opposite seat.
Her red-painted lips spread into a smile. “I’ll give
you a brief summary of the company before jumping into the interview questions.
Then, I’ll take you on the grand tour.”
“Interview?”
“Just some questions about you, your fiancée, and what
you’re looking for. Shall we begin?”
My curiosity piqued, I nodded.
“In
1995, after the loss of his mother, Vsevolod Bykov
created her likeness in a doll. The sole purpose of his creation was to cope
with his grief; thereafter, he quickly became known as The Dollmaker. He worked
in his father’s garage for nearly eight years, perfecting his dolls into
lifelike designs. Ten years later, he founded The Dollmaker.” She paused and
spread her arms out. “And here we are in 2024, an innovative, high-tech
company, staying true to Vsevolod’s original mission of helping others cope
with the loss of a loved one.”
What
a bizarre way to grieve. Hello, aren’t you doing the same thing?
I shifted in my seat and shook off the thought.
“Some
questions will be rather hard but necessary as they help us proceed.”
I’d
been asked so many questions about Jenna and always avoided them. I was pretty
sure, though, Alicia wasn’t going to let me off the hook, so I drew in a breath
and prepared for the worst. “I’m ready.”
“Very
well. Your name is Jeremy
Dillon, correct?”
“Yes.”
Her fingers flew across the keyboard. “Date of birth?”
“April fourteenth, 1997.”
“Family members?”
“Yes—mother and father, no siblings. Three aunts, two
uncles, and four cousins.”
“Friends?”
I laughed. “Plenty of those. Do you really need to
know how many?”
She shook her head. “It’s not necessary. What do you
do for fun?”
Fun? That word had disappeared from my
vocabulary when Jenna died. “Um, kickboxing, snowboarding, rock climbing,
concerts, hanging out with friends.”
“Are you employed?”
“I have my own real estate business. I buy, flip, and
sell houses.”
“How long have you been in real estate?”
“Six years. I’ve owned my own company for four.”
“You mentioned it was your fiancée who passed. What
was her name?”
The room blurred as Jenna Hess whispered
through my mind. A distant stare claimed me as I said her name out loud. “Jenna
Hess.”
“How long were the two of you together?”
“Eight and half years.”
“How old was she when she passed?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Just a year younger than you?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago
did she die?”
I blinked. “Does that matter?”
She pursed her lips. “You’re a nice-looking young man
with blue eyes women swoon over. You’re accomplished with your own business,
surrounded by family and friends. One might say you’re in the prime of your
life, but you’ve come to us. My job is to find out why.”
I offered a feeble shrug. “Honestly, I’m not sure why
I’m here.”
“We’ll find out together if you agree in proceeding
with my questions.”
“Okay.”
“How long ago did she die?” she repeated.
I looked down at my multifunction watch, then back at
her. “Eight months, seven days, twelve hours, and thirty-seven minutes.”
Her expression softened. I’ve seen that look many
times before, the “I’m so sorry for your loss” look. I’ve grown to despise it.
What good does it do? Jenna was dead. Their sympathy doesn’t lessen my
devastation. Yes, people mean well, but I don’t want empathy. I want Jenna.
“I can see in your expression, hear it in your voice,
how hard this is for you.” And still, she fired off another grueling question
without batting an eye. “Was her death sudden?”
“Yes,” I
managed to mumble.
“Have you sought counseling?”
“I went to a therapist for a few months.”
“What was the outcome?”
“It helped.” Had it? I’d poured my guts out and
bawled like a baby every time I sat on his couch.
“Over time, do you see yourself finding lov—”
I cut her off. “No.”
She angled her head to the side. “Are you sure? Time
can mend the heart if you give it a chance.”
“Not mine.” A cool touch of awareness prickled my
skin. “I guess that’s why I’m here. I don’t want anyone else. I want… her.”
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