The door at the end of t.., p.1
The Door at the End of the Stars, page 1
For my grandmother, Consuelo, who loved her family, soap operas, and refried beans… in that order.
Abuela, I’m still working on my Spanish, but I think you would’ve really liked this book. I hope I make you proud, despite my English-speaking ways.
Copyright © 2022 by K.J. Sutton
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
ISBN 979-8-8490068-5-7 (paperback)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Front cover image by Red Leaf Book Design
Published in the United States of America
ALSO BY K.J. SUTTON
The Fortuna Sworn Saga
Fortuna Sworn
Restless Slumber
Deadly Dreams
Beautiful Nightmares
Standalones
Straight On ’Til Morning
The Door at the End of the Stars
Novellas
Summer in the Elevator
CONTENT WARNING
Please be aware this novel contains scenes or themes of suicide, anxiety, dubious consent, drugs, profanity, sex, cheating, and a toxic relationship.
In love, one always starts by deceiving oneself… and ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.
―Oscar Wilde
CHAPTER ONE
As I wait to sign over my soul, the sound of trickling water drifts through the air.
There are no fountains in the room. There are also no visible speakers, but I know it must be an artificial sound, a deliberate effort to soothe any nervous potentials. I sit in an upholstered chair beside a desk, trying not to fidget. I make sure the tag to the blazer I’m wearing is still out of sight. It’s not the only thing I’ll be returning after this appointment—the black pumps on my feet are above my pay grade, too.
The only item of clothing that truly belongs to me is the tights. They’re the cheap kind that can really only be worn once before they tear, and they’re currently riding up my ass. I never wear shit like this, and I feel like everyone who sees me knows it. Knows that I’m trying to be someone I’m not.
But I need this. My family needs this.
A dark-haired person sits near me, their skin alight with the glow from my file. It shines upward, coming through a slit in the desk. There’s a glinting piece of silver pinned to the left side of their white button-up, the name MAEKO engraved on it. Beneath this, her pronouns are listed. She’s entirely human, a fact I shouldn’t be surprised by—having human employees is either an indication of a poor business or an extremely successful one. These days, real people are trendy or considered a personal touch.
Maeko hasn’t said much beyond a polite greeting and some brief directions as we came to this room. Even when she took my blood, and then plugged the other end of the needle into the reader, she only offered a brief reassurance that I would feel no pain. I’m not sure if her silence is a good thing or a bad thing. Her celpro is on private mode, which makes her even harder to read. I fight the urge to crack my knuckles, a nervous habit that always makes my mother wince and say, Mija, stop that!
When I began the application process, it seemed like I’d be the perfect candidate. As per the program’s many requirements, I have no tattoos, I’ve never done drugs—hard ones, at least—and I don’t use any medications. I’ve never had a child or undergone any kind of surgery. But what if these people, in their shiny, glittering facility, which bears silver letters outside that vaguely read THE HOTEL, only want candidates from certain zip codes? What if they’d made their decision about me the moment I pressed “submit”?
Or maybe, more likely, my stutter has disqualified me. I made sure to address it within my application, and my speech impediment isn’t because of anything physical. It was diagnosed as psychogenic stuttering, a disorder caused by emotional trauma. It developed when I was fifteen, shortly after I found my father’s body in the garage.
Or what was left of it.
“How m-m-many stays did you say a Host is supposed to complete?” I ask into the silence, darting a glance around for the hundredth time. A mirror spans the entire length of the wall across from the two of us. Right now it shows a simple scene: the wall behind me, mahogany cabinets, two elegant chairs, and Maeko’s slender back.
“Twenty-five, Miss Torres,” she answers, shooting me a kind but distracted smile.
“Right. Th-thanks.” I fold my damp hands together and put them between my knees, resolving to ask the rest of my questions once she’s finished typing. Usually I prefer to communicate over celpro—the implant millions of people now contain within their wrists in place of the cell phones we used to carry around—but that’s generally considered rude when you’re speaking with a stranger. A few more seconds tick by, and as Maeko starts moving her fingers again, I give in to the urge to fidget by crossing my legs. The cushion muffles any sounds, thankfully.
The rest of the room is meant to muffle every other kind of sound, I think to myself. Fear, doubt, uncertainty. The walls are cream, undecorated except for modern light sconces. The floor matches the cupboards, all that wood gleaming, as though it’s polished every day. There are no posters, no warnings, no pamphlets like you might find in a doctor’s office. That invisible water fountain trickles on. The space is appealing, quiet, and pleasant-smelling. Nothing bad happens here, it says.
Maybe that’s why the Hotel requires potential Hosts to come in person. So they can make their pitch as effective as possible.
I don’t mind the strange requirement, though. I don’t like the Hub, or the other side, as most people call it. The Hub is a virtual universe that’s overtaken our world. It’s endless, massive, full of sprawling metropolises and biomes bloated with people wearing avatars as they spend credit or scrabble for coin. Unlike most people, I try to avoid it as much as I can. In theory, it should feel as substantial as reality—eating, dancing, fucking, all the things that make a life—but I’ve never been able to shake the sense there’s something cold about it. Or maybe I’m just biased.
Toward the end, Dad was spending most of his time on the other side. Sometimes I still wonder whether things would’ve turned out differently, if he’d been with us instead of losing himself to the vibrant, false dreams the Hub offers.
Now I’m the one on the verge of losing myself to a dream. Beside me, resting innocently on the desk, is a contract. It’s on paper, along with the elegant folder it’s tucked inside. When Maeko first handed it to me, she called it a welcome packet. It still seems far too convenient that, when she flipped it open to “make sure I had everything”, she left it open on the page with dollar signs.
For what’s probably the hundredth time in just the half hour I’ve been in this room, I dart a glance at the numbers. They’re in the middle, printed in bold, impossible to miss.
Every “stay” will earn me $10,000. Which means that, after twenty-five of them, there will be $250,000 in my bank account. That kind of money could change our lives. But it comes with risks, of course—there’s a reason every young person in L.A. isn’t racing to sign up. Some people sustain brain damage during the procedure. Some just never wake up. It’s a gamble with fatal consequences.
If one of those things happened to me, who would help my mom manage the bills? Who would bail Fernanda out in the middle of the night? I stare down at the tiny print, thinking that I should have a lawyer look it over before I sign anything. But I can’t afford one, of course—it’s probably the same for most of the young people coming here. I wonder if the Hotel counts on that.
Suddenly an urge to run grips my bones. I take a breath, digging my fingers into the chair cushion, and the movement draws my gaze back to the reflection across from us.
This time, I focus on the girl who sits beside Maeko. She looks pale and strained. Her hair is long and brown, with a natural wave to it, and thick eyebrows to match. Beneath them, her eyes are dark in both color and worry. Her jaw is graceful and proud. She has a straight, pert nose. Her lips are pink and pretty.
I am striking, and I know it, which is why I’m here.
The thought makes me think of all the men who will undoubtedly notice this face, this body, even when I won’t exactly be able to protect myself. I clear my throat. “Wh-when the other p-person—”
“The guest, Miss Torres,” Maeko corrects gently. She keeps typing.
I nod. “Right, s-sorry. When the guest is staying with me, they can d-do whatever they w-w-want? Like… h-have sex?”
The woman finally pulls away from the desk and angles her petite body towards me. I wonder if she’s truly finished or if she could sense my unease. “The guest may engage in any activity that does not put the host in physical danger, Miss Torres,” Maeko informs me. “However, they may not alter your appearance in any way, which includes piercing and tattoos, or leave the city limits.”
“What would s-s-stop them from doing all th-that?” I ask. A flutter goes through my stomach.
She offers yet another comforting smile. “The Host is never alone, actually. Not only w
“I’m s-s-s-sorry, I don’t m-mean to interrupt, b-but I’m just having trouble… b-b-elieving it.” Agitation makes it difficult to speak. “Trouble believing that I w-won’t remember a single th-thing when I wake up, I mean.”
When I’d done my preliminary research on Hosting, I’d apparently focused too much on the good it was doing, rather than the potential darkness within the process. I’m not sure why I can’t think about anything else now. Maybe none of this felt real before, but here, in this place, it’s like someone screaming the truth in my face.
“Please stop apologizing!” Maeko says with a tinkling laugh. It sounds rehearsed, somehow. Her silky hair falls over one shoulder as she tilts her head. “Answering your questions is exactly why we’re doing this consultation. You’re an excellent candidate for our program—the Hotel is very interested in moving forward with your application.”
“I a-am? You are?” I say. My voice has fallen to an involuntary whisper. Maeko nods, smiling some more.
Holy shit. This could really happen. Suddenly I’m trying to imagine it. My body, wandering around Los Angeles, dancing, laughing, talking… fucking. But what if the guest runs into someone that knows me?
“To address your skepticism,” Maeko goes on before I can ask, “everyone on our staff has experienced the procedure. This is so I can honestly tell you, as someone who’s been through it, that you regain consciousness without a single memory of what occurred during the guest’s stay.”
This revelation makes it easier to breathe. After a moment, I shift in the chair again and meet her gaze. There are more questions to ask, but right now, only one fills my throat. Despite the risk, despite the fear, I don’t need to think about whether or not I should say it. “I’d like to m-move forward, too. Wh-what’s the n-n-next step?”
Maeko flashes yet another white-toothed smile, picks up a pen, and places it on top of the contract.
CHAPTER TWO
My younger sister doesn’t look up when I come into the apartment. A familiar, sickly-sweet smell coils through the air.
Out of habit, I wait to hear the door lock. It makes a trilling sound, then whirs and clicks as multiple deadbolts slide home. The entrance to our apartment is on the second floor, but there’s no form of security here—anyone could walk up those stairs, and they have. Last month, a drug deal went wrong in an apartment just a few doors down from ours. There’s still a piece of crime scene tape sticking to the outside wall, farther down the walkway where someone was killed.
As I pull off my jacket and slip off the soon-to-be-returned heels, my eyes fall to the floor. Next to the shoe stand, there’s an unfortunate vase that bears the marks of Fernanda’s temper. During the height of her addiction, she’d come home high or angry, usually both, and something about the vase drew the focus of her rage. More often than not, she’d give it a vicious kick. Now the broken parts have been glued so many times that it looks like a Picasso painting.
Most people would pick up the pieces and throw them away. I put them back together, though. I’ve never understood how people can decide something is disposable just because of a few imperfections. Most things can be fixed with a little time and effort.
Gunshots explode from the screenpro while I drop my purse onto the counter, toss my keys beside it, and pick up the stack of mail. I’m not surprised to discover that every single one of the envelopes is a bill. For two of them, the words FINAL NOTICE are visible through the thin paper. These days, paper is a luxury, but not when it comes to companies wanting their money. Swallowing a sigh, I put them back and remind myself that everything is about to change. My gaze flits toward the fridge, where Fernanda’s community service form usually hangs. When I realize it’s gone, I turn and walk out of the kitchen.
Fernanda still doesn’t acknowledge me. She’s got a joint in one hand—the source of the smell—and a video game controller in the other. She sits on the living room floor with her back against the couch for support. I sink down onto the cushion behind Fernanda, my body angled toward her.
Did you get your hours in today? I ask over our celpros, trying to keep my voice casual. You know you’re supposed to put the form back on the fridge afterward. We need to see the signature.
“No, no, I’m going around,” Fernanda says into her headset suddenly, putting the joint down on a plate beside her. She grabs the controller with both hands now, her expression sharp and concentrated. A lazy trail of smoke rises toward the ceiling. “Just watch my back.”
I’ve learned the hard way that she’ll shut down if I act annoyed or concerned. There’s also the fact that Fernanda sitting on her ass and getting high is better than her old pastimes. Swallowing another sigh, I glance at the violent, blood-spattered game and push myself back up. As I stand, I notice how tidy the apartment is. Every blanket is folded, the tiled floor gleams, and the side tables are clear of clutter. There are other signs that our neighbor was here, like the freshly-washed dishes. I’d bet everything in my checking account, however meager the amount, that there’s leftover tahdig in the fridge. I walk back into the kitchen to check.
Is Mom working? I call to Fernanda, pulling the fridge door open. The suction edges made a crackling sound. I see several Tupperware stacked on the clear shelves.
Thank you, Mrs. Salimi, I think with a rush of appreciation. The mother of three lives beside us, and the only way she allows me to repay her small kindnesses is in the form of babysitting, which I do as often as my work schedule allows.
“Sleeping.”
If Mom is still sleeping, it probably means she pulled an overnight shift at the diner. It’s a place so rundown that they can’t afford to replace the human employees with AIs. I bite my tongue to hold back a remark on the volume of Fernanda’s game; I still plan to mention the community service form later, and my sister always seems one argument away from storming out of the apartment. Mom and I are both afraid that, someday, she won’t come back.
After reheating the tahdig, I take a fork from the drawer and leave Fernanda to her battles, both on and off the screen.
The automated lights in my room flicker on instantly, illuminating the familiar walls that surround my lumpy twin bed. Posters cover three of them, a folding closet door taking up the fourth. The faces and figures of Misty Copeland, Olga Smirnova, and Tamara Rojo look back at me. Ballet dancers that I’ve worshipped since childhood, all of them long dead, immortalized by their talent. Above the desk, there’s an old map without a frame. But I can still remember what it looked like, before I pawned it for grocery money. Gold, with carvings that looked like flowers.
The room is a far cry from the one I used to have, before Dad died, but it’s become a haven.
Simon—an overweight cat Mom brought home from the Humane Society six months ago—peers up at me from the middle of the bed. I think she adopted him for Fernanda, the real animal lover in the family, but he’s become all of ours. I start toward him at the same moment a chiming sound goes through the stillness. I hold up my wrist and the celpro reads my face. The home screen beams upward, revealing a message from my boyfriend.
Everyone is on for Lou’s.
Shit. Knowing Julián, he’d taken his time telling me, which means I’m probably late already. With a clatter, I abandon the tahdig on the dresser and open a drawer. As I change into a pair of jeans, my glance flicks toward the mirror, thinking to check my makeup. A necessary evil, since I can’t afford the filters in the Hub. But a faded image tucked into the space between glass and wood snags my attention instead.
