by Kyle Rutkin
The Blog of Kaleb Reed
(Continued)
Only those in the literary community truly understood how unexpected my sudden rise to stardom really was. Authors don’t become overnight sensations, or casually land on the New York Times Best Sellers list. We are supposed to fight, claw, write until we outlast the amateurs, master the craft. Cast aside our demons. Confront our darkest fears. Triumph over the compulsion to self-destruct and evade the blank page. The first one doesn’t sell, fine. Write the next one.
I was handed a shortcut.
As my publisher can attest, Pay Me, Alice was an utter disappointment. Forty-four measly reviews on Amazon, split evenly between one star and five stars. One-star reviews said the same thing: Pay Me, Alice was too long and whiny, disheartening, and tragic. One reader claimed she wanted to cut herself after she read it. My publisher wasn’t exactly eager for a sequel. I wasn’t eager to write it.
My agent forwarded me a clip of Kelly mentioning the book on Good Morning America. She was sitting with George Stephanopoulos, bullshitting back and forth. He asked her what she had been up to. Reading a lot. Anything good? She mentioned her new book club. She raved about my novel. Next subject. I had my doubts. It was her mannerisms. The conservative black-and-white blouse with tight leather pants, a far cry from the half-naked pictures that flooded the Internet. It was her hair, combed neatly to one side, her makeup soft, not overdone. There was something about her I didn’t trust.
Either way, my book soared up the charts. Reviews sprang from Kelly’s infinite well of cohorts. New editions appeared with refreshed jacket art and fluffed-up endorsements. Only one mattered: “A masterpiece.” —Kelly Trozzo.
Her fans asked questions. They tweeted, emailed, demanding insights. Commented. Posted. What happened to Alice? What happened to AJ? They searched every crack and crevice of the Internet. There was nowhere to hide. Critics were dumbfounded. It reads more like a stalker handbook than a literary novel. To them, the New York Times Best Sellers list was sacred, impervious to pop stars tweeting out Amazon links.
I agreed.
Despite the literary world’s rejection, people were reading my words. That scared the shit out of me. There was something unnerving about it. Something I couldn’t shake. There was something rewarding about not selling books. Staying in the shadows. No critics, no limelight, no offers to speak at graduations. No one was calling for interviews. My past would stay buried.
My first public appearance after Kelly’s endorsement was at the Grove in Los Angeles. I was standing next to a giant cardboard cutout of my book cover, my hands gripping the podium. Nerves rattled in my gut like an overworked dryer. The crowd was a mix of young girls and older moms, a few guys scattered throughout. Girls with Kelly Trozzo-branded crop tops smiled in the front row. I opened my book, cleared my throat. Scanned the crowd for a familiar face. Sara wasn’t there.
I closed my eyes and pictured her in the fifth row, smiling brightly. Much better. She came to my first book signing. Only ten people showed, but she was the only one that mattered. She was proud of me that day. I was sober. I had written a book. She had never seen that side of me. She had this gorgeous smile. I wish you could have seen it. Her presence always calmed me. Everything was going to be okay. Even when it wasn’t. I had a good life, once.
“Did you miss me?”
The memory of Sara vanished.
My eyes bolted open. It was his voice. The packed bookstore crowd moved in and out of focus. Ice in my veins. Knees buckled. My hand slipped off the podium. The girls in the front row stared at me with horror. Where did that voice come from? My eyes shifted back and forth, scanning the seats. He would be in his usual attire, dark trench coat, and a low-brimmed hat that covered his dark and menacing eyes. He would be doing his crossword puzzle. Where are you? Show yourself.
“Sir, are you okay?” A bookstore employee was holding my arm, steadying me. “Would you like a glass of water?”
A few people coughed to fill the silence. I took a sip of water, gazed back at the crowd. It was nothing. Just my imagination. This was exhaustion, stress. Of course it was. It made sense. I wasn’t sleeping. I locked eyes with a pretty redhead in the back. She had a playful smile, a copy of my book clutched to her chest. I cleared my throat, opening to the marked page.
“I chose this scene because it reveals AJ’s transformation to his role as protector . . .”
“The storm came quicker than expected. The bartender warned him as much. A lone leaf scatters onto the shoulder of Alice’s coat. AJ grabs the leaf, and she leans into his hand. He moves closer, placing his cheek gently on the side of her cold, bruised face. As if his own warmth could heal the tissue aching from her husband’s fist. She turns away, ashamed. AJ’s willpower is weakening. There are a million things he wants to say. A million memories he wants to bring up. The late nights at the law firm. The weekend they got stranded in Maysville. The night he found her in that diner. Anything to make this moment last longer. One last smile, that’s all he wanted.
No. No. No. He can’t. He must be resolute. One day, she will know. One day, she will understand. It wasn’t just words. He would do anything for her. Anything.
‘Take care, Alice.’
He puts one foot in front of the other. No matter how badly he wants to turn back. He had trained for this. He pulls up the collar of his coat. He is a new man. A determined man. He walks away with things unsaid. From a girl that stole ten years of his life without truly conceding her heart. Every dream, every waking thought, she governed it all. But it’s okay now. He would gladly do it again. Repeat every mistake. She was worth every moment. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t turn. This was never that type of story. His eyes become as cold as the winter air. He’s made up his mind. A surge of determination and strength courses through him. He checks the pocket of his coat. The gun is still there.”
Applause.
The attractive redhead raised her hand. “Hi, my name is Jez, and I just wanted you to know how much my friend and I enjoyed your book,” she said, blushing.
“Thank you,” I responded.
“And we actually had a question about Alice’s husband.”
My throat clenched.
“Why did you choose to make him a tattoo artist?” she asked.
I shifted in the silence. That was an unexpected question. Frankly, I didn’t want to answer. Why should I? They are my characters. My words. My secrets. The pain, the suffering, the love. Straight from my basement. All mine. Wrapped with some half-assed over-photoshopped cover that I didn’t approve. Blanketed with some disclaimer that it was a work of fiction. That’s what I wanted. Layers and walls. No connection to its source. I hated feeling vulnerable.
The truth wasn’t that simple. My characters are products of my past.
The crowd needed something, anything. I grinned. “Actually, there’s not much to it. The hours of a tattoo artist made it a convenient occupation for the plotline. Anyone else have a question?”
Hands raised. I was just about to call on a girl in the front row when the redhead interjected. “How about Alice? She was based on a real person, right?”
Hands lowered.
I turned back to the incessant girl. There was something peculiar about her interest. I didn’t like it. These were hardball questions. I would never give her the truth. She was undeserving. None of them could understand. I gripped my book tightly, gazing back to the crowd.
“Alice is a symbol. The definition of something elusive and intangible in human form. She is the perfect person, mate, friend, or possession. Alice isn’t real. It’s the fantasy we seek but never find.”
The redhead and I stared at each other as if she was still waiting for my confession.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you. But this story is a work of fiction.”
Lizzy: Fiction? Please. That book was filled with that man’s skeletons.
Jez: You won’t find one KTroop that didn’t love that novel!
Lizzy
: It was an obsession for Kelly. You don’t understand, Lizzy. You just need to read it. This tragic but endearing conclusion. That’s how she put it. I finally bought the book—just to shut her up. I read the ending, and it was some grade-A psycho killer shit. Just like the author. Did you read it? Honestly, it wasn’t my thing. A little too dramatic for my taste. But Kelly ate that kind of stuff up. Why else would you love a four-hundred-page book about some guy’s creepy obsession with a married woman?
Jez: The book signing? Oh goodness. Drunk, stoned. Whatever. He still looked hot. Kelly asked me to attend. She always relied on me to do the important stuff. My job was to invite him to lunch. Oh, and to ask him a few questions if I had the chance. Trust me, I didn’t let her down. She loved that book. She used to read it to me at bedtime. It was so adorable. Then one day she leaped up from her bed and said, “Let’s do something different. Let’s start a book club.”
Lizzy: How did she come across the book? You know, she never told me. That’s one thing I never asked.
Jez: Maybe she picked it up at the airport. No, that’s not right. That’s when I first noticed her reading it. She was so cute when she was reading. I loved watching her little brow furrow when she was concentrating. We were on a flight to Miami. That’s right. I remember seeing the skull on the cover. I thought it was so cool. Kelly wanted a tattoo of it. She was totally obsessed. Read the entire flight. Wouldn’t even drink the free champagne. Then straight to the hotel room to finish. At breakfast, she had this really passionate look in her eyes, even though she must’ve gotten like two hours of sleep. She told me that this book was going to change my life.
Lizzy: Her motive? Easy. She wanted to help him. Kelly believed that every artist had a duty to share their talents, even authors who wrote stalker novels. The guy had like four hundred Twitter followers before Kelly. He was a nobody. His book was a total flop before she got her hands on it. That’s why she gave it her stamp of approval. But he didn’t deserve the attention. And he definitely wasn’t ready for it.
Jez: She was right. That book changed my life. It changed all our lives. Look where we are, detective. And there’s so much more to uncover.
The Real Kelly Trozzo
TheInsideJuice.com Interview 2019
INSIDEJUICE: Since your comeback, your entire image has changed. The clothes, the hair, the tattoos. Yet, you’ve worn the same silver sparrow necklace since you were a child. Where did you get it?
TROZZO: I got this necklace from my manager, Barry. I remember the day he put it around my neck. “The sparrow has many meanings,” he said. “A sparrow is vigilant in its goals. It’s a symbol of protection and love. It’s also a symbol of resurrection and life.”
INSIDEJUICE: So why is it so important to you?
TROZZO: Barry is more than my manager. He is my mentor. He empowered me to aspire to greatness. He taught me how to be resolute in my agenda, to not concern myself with the small-minded and weak-willed. To me, this sparrow represents the power to safeguard my bigger purpose. Zoe wrapped that precious sparrow around her fingers before each show. The same necklace Princess Jade wore when she was in the recording studio. The same one I wore when I was sick and depressed, alone in my bathtub. It was around my neck when my true self emerged from the ashes of my weaker existence. Now it’s a symbol of my inner strength. It was, and always will be, my favorite piece of jewelry.
The Blog of Kaleb Reed
July 21, 2019
My motel balcony is a thing of beauty. Rusty patio furniture. An ashtray filled with cigarette butts. The smell of bacon and greasy burgers wafts over from the diner next door. Trucks skid out of the gravel parking lot below, a constant stream of dust swirling in their departure. But most importantly, the balcony is the perfect vantage point to watch the sunset over this sleepy old town. It makes me sentimental. The fantasies I used to have in this very spot. Those were special times. Looking out across the horizon, imagining the perfect life. Growing old.
My fantasies are much different now. Nothing about the future. Only the finale. I know what happens if I stay in this forsaken motel. I can picture the sirens blaring from the parking lot below.
Like father, like son. Once upon a time, the news vans came for him. My brother and I opened the curtain to find the local reporters camped out on our front lawn. His affair had been leaked after domestic abuse had been reported. The great governor was resigning. My family lined up in the foyer, backs straight, chins up. My father came downstairs with a crisp white dress shirt, suit jacket, slicked brown hair. I always stared at his fists. I knew what they did. He gave my mother a cold kiss. Patted my brother on the top of his head. He didn’t look at me. Then he walked out to the flashing cameras. Nothing would be the same after that.
It’s my turn now.
My reckoning will be so much grander. Helicopters. Breaking news. Thousands of bloodsuckers standing in the parking lot outside, broadcasting live. The locals will come out to see the chaos. They will talk about it for years. Long after I rot in prison.
Don’t worry.
We’re not there yet.
There’s still much work to be done.
I turn on the television, prop my head against the headboard. Crack open a new bottle of vodka. The first gulp makes me shiver. My apartment is in the news again. The yellow caution tape draped across my banister. I take another swig. Snort another line. I change the channel: The Murder of a Hollywood Princess flashes across the screen. I love the special effects, the ticking hourglass. The host theatrically strolls through downtown Los Angeles with her inside source.
“Jez Bransen was not only a close friend of Kelly Trozzo’s, but her personal assistant and backup dancer. She appeared in several live shows, including Kelly’s provocative performance at the VMAs last year. Tonight, we talk with Jez about the night of the murder.”
If I close my eyes, I can still see Jez’s face in the bookstore. I see her in line at the signing, handing me my invitation. I can picture her in that low-cut shirt, opening the door to Kelly’s mansion. Welcoming me into their world.
No. Not yet. The fantasies must wait. I must keep my eyes open. Just a little longer.
The camera pans to the restaurant. Jez and the host are sitting across from each other at a patio table. The table linens are crisp and white, expensive silverware, porcelain bread plates. A rusted metal cage that encloses the patio blocks the sun. Green ivy runs through the gaps.
I met Kelly at that restaurant. The camera zooms in on Jez’s young, freckly face as she dabs at her eyes with a tissue. The picture of innocence. If they only knew. I want to hear her speak. I can’t. The drugs are taking over. The fog rolls in. I close my eyes. I can feel them numbing my body. The dreams and the fantasies will resume shortly. The voices begin to slow down. I look at the screen. It’s the pivotal moment.
“Do you think Kaleb Reed murdered Kelly?”
I turn the television off. Another swig. Another line. I won’t see the light of day. Not for a long time. I want to see her. I want to escape. I want to go back. I want to see the sun splash across her face.
Kelly was bright and alive in person. Pictures don’t do her justice. It was her eyes that caught me, crystal blue, too big for her face, but in the right way. Long blonde hair swept over to one side, tiny ears, smooth neck.
That day at the restaurant, she was wearing a white V-neck shirt with faded jeans. The silver sparrow necklace dangled from her neck. Long pink acrylic nails and bright gold jewelry on her fingers. Black tattoos scattered around her arms.
Kelly took a sip of a cocktail and set the glass down on the white tablecloth. Sunshine gleamed through the open roof, illuminating her smile. The aroma of overpriced salads and perfume wafted over the patio.
She burst out laughing, shaking her head. “Sorry. I’m nervous. I’m a fan. I just…I loved your book.”
I took a sip of coffee and nodded appreciatively. “Thank you.”
“I can’t put my finger on it, but there was something, it wa
s just so personal, so moving. It was just…just so real.”
“Thanks. I’m a fan of yours, too,” I lied.
“But I do have one question…about your book, that is,” she said.
“Something your assistant didn’t ask?”
Smiling, she continued. “I believe I understand the literal meaning of the title, that Alice owed you forty-five dollars for a delinquent video bill, as well as a couple thousand for lunch dates—”
“You mean the main character, not me?” I interrupted.
“Sorry.” She combed loose strands of hair behind her ears. “Alice owed AJ forty-five dollars. But on a more symbolic level, AJ thought Alice owed him for four years of not reciprocating the love you…I’m sorry…he gave her.”
I nodded hesitantly.
“And here’s my only problem with your main character,” she said, tapping her nails on the table. “I found him kind of pitiful.”
Shadows rolled across the metal cage.
“Hear me out,” she went on. “Alice made her position perfectly clear. And yet, AJ grew increasingly obsessed and attached to her and, in my opinion, he was extremely selfish by projecting his fixation onto her. He demands that she expend the same amount of energy on this delusional love story that he created. And because he does it in such a passive-aggressive way, it makes me dislike him.”