by Dylan Newton
“Sorry about that. I’ve got all my things now. I’m ready to meet,” she panted, her smile pained with obvious embarrassment. “Plus, now I’ve got my cardio done for the day!”
Drake wanted to say something. Smile. Make her feel comfortable. But all he did was nod and hold open the door for her. Cursing himself for his ineptitude, Drake followed her into the foyer. He hit the switch to turn on the crystal chandelier and grabbed a small towel off the metal coat hook to vigorously rub the mud off Sasha’s paws before setting her down. The dog made a beeline for the event planner, dancing in circles around the woman’s dirt-speckled feet, clearly aiming for some attention and petting.
Kate, however, stood awkwardly on the small burgundy Oriental rug covering the hardwood floor in the entryway, her shoes in one hand and her briefcase clutched to her chest. Her green eyes, made more vivid in color by the dark smear of rain-smudged makeup, scanned the entrance hall with something like…fear? Surely, she didn’t believe all the garbage people said about his house being haunted? Or was she looking for the coffin he supposedly slept in?
Drake’s expression hardened. She must be one of those people who assumed he was some sort of deviant just because he wrote creepy stories. Whatever. He was just going to have to put up with it. Cerulean Books was determined to make the launch of his tenth book—in conjunction with the announcement of its having been optioned already for a movie—a freaking circus, and since he’d already agreed to the marketing plan, he didn’t have much of a choice.
He forced his lips into a smile. “We can meet in here. By the fire.” He gestured to the pale-yellow room his grandmother had called the front parlor, where he’d been inspired to write this morning, and hastily went to clean off the coffee table. He gathered up the boxes of World War II–era letters he’d hauled out of the attic months ago and shoved them into a corner, jamming a thick manila folder he’d aptly labeled “Forbidden” on top to disguise the mess. He couldn’t run the risk that she’d see what he’d been writing…or more important, what he hadn’t been writing.
“Have a seat,” he said after the clutter was cleared. He gestured to a plump leather couch—some piece his grandmother had collected—and was startled to see that the woman in his foyer hadn’t moved, except to transfer her briefcase and shoes to one hand so she could bend at the knees to pet Sasha with the other hand. Although he’d waved her into his house, gesturing for her to take the seat by the fire, she stood, awkwardly holding her things, a smile pasted to her lips.
Was she so wary of him that she wouldn’t move too far from the door, just in case?
Even though he wanted to roll his eyes at her reaction, Drake kept his face neutral as she began to speak.
“First off, let me just say how excited I am to be working with you and Cerulean Books on this launch,” she said, beaming. “Imani informed me your previous point person, Jeremy Rodriguez, had to step down, and I want to take this opportunity to assure you that my reputation as an event planner is impeccable. Your tenth book launch will be spook-tacular, and I’ve been working around the clock to ensure the plans begun with Jeremy will continue seamlessly. I’ve even included a few details to make it truly memorable for both you and your fans. I’d wanted to wait for Imani, but since she’s running late…”
Drake watched the woman turn her head, peering at the door behind her with a pained expression, as if willing it to open and for the publicist, or anyone, to enter.
Holy shit. Was this woman so terrified that she was going to pitch the entire thing from his foyer rug?
This realization, combined with too many sleepless nights toiling over a blank screen on his next horror novel, snapped his last frayed nerve. He strode back to the foyer, scooped up Sasha, gave her a pat, and deposited her in the dog crate at the entrance to the parlor, tossing in one of her favorite rawhide treats to calm her down. Straightening, he turned to the woman-statue in his foyer, willing his voice to be civil but not surprised when it came out curt and aggressive.
“If we’re going to work together, you’ve got to stop with the damsel-in-distress thing. I’m not a vampire, and I don’t drink blood. I sleep in a regular bed. My attic is not haunted by a dead girl, at least to my knowledge, and we’ve never uncovered any bodies in the walls, under the floorboards, or buried in the old well.” Drake crossed his arms over his chest, meeting Kate’s wide-eyed gaze with a challenge. “If you are too afraid to meet here, you should have told Imani to set up something downtown—that way, we wouldn’t waste your time. Or mine.”
If it weren’t for the fact the lights were ablaze in the foyer, he’d have missed the pink color that rose like a summer’s sunrise from her chest, to her neck, and finally to her face, tinting both cheeks with the cherry glow of embarrassment. To her credit, her voice was steady when she replied.
“I don’t scare easily, and I make it a point not to listen to gossip,” Kate said, taking a step toward him. She pointed at his chest with the hand holding her muddy heels. “But I am afraid of something, Mr. Matthews.”
“Is it my attack dog?” Drake asked, raising a sardonic eyebrow and jerking his thumb toward Sasha, who chewed merrily on her rawhide a few feet away.
“No!” Kate burst out, her voice losing some of its courteous professionalism. “I don’t want to drip all over your fancy rugs and furniture. It’s like an antique museum vomited all over in here. If I sit on that chesterfield sofa or walk on that vintage Turkish rug, I’ll ruin it, because if you haven’t yet noticed, I’m a complete and utter mess!”
At the last word, Kate threw out her arms, full of a briefcase and heels, as if to showcase her point. As she did, the top two buttons of her tight, black suit coat popped off, tumbling to the entryway rug. One rolled off and onto the hardwood floors, tumbling the remaining distance to him, until wobbling to a stop at his shoe.
Drake reached down to fetch the button at the same time as Kate.
Suddenly, white-hot fire lanced up his arm.
In her effort to grab the button, she’d thrust out her right hand—the same one holding her shoes. The steely heel of one of Kate’s stilettos stabbed into his forearm, and raked its way up, gouging him like a carrot peeler. Fast as a blink, she’d excavated a shallow, six-inch trench in his left arm. Blood immediately welled up in the gash, and Drake grimaced at the sting of pain and the sight of it.
“Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no!” Kate moaned, mashing the syllables into one long word of dread. “Did I cut you? I cut you, didn’t I?”
“Mmm,” Drake hummed agreement, gritting his teeth against the bile rising from his stomach. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
Before he could react, she snatched his arm from his chest. He whipped his head to the opposite side so that he was staring at the coat hooks on the wall and not his arm. Or the blood.
“Well, it’s not ‘nothing,’ but we need to get it cleaned up and get some antibiotic cream on there,” Kate said. “I am so very sorry, Drake. I was trying to grab my button before it rolled under something and forgot I was still holding my heels.”
“Those shoes are deadly.” Drake gently disengaged his arm from her grip. His arm burned like it had been doused with acid, but when he saw the pale oval of her face transform into a cocktail of anxiety and guilt, mixed with a liberal shot of fear, he pushed the pain away, trying for a reassuring smile. “I’ll have to remember that for the next imperiled heroine I write—no woman is unarmed if dressed in heels like that.”
“Maybe I should call an ambulance?” she asked, swooping in toward his arm. “It’s bleeding pretty bad.”
Drake shook his head, sidestepping her reach.
“It’s just superficial. I’ll wash it off and be right back to get you some dry clothes.”
Without waiting for her response, Drake pivoted, heading for the tiny powder room at the end of the hall next to the swinging door that led to the kitchen. He had a first-aid kit in the cabinet there, which had not only bandages and ointment, but also smelling salts. The latter
might be needed before the former, much to his eternal embarrassment. While he’d served six years as a reservist in the Marine Corps, it was a little-known fact he couldn’t stand the sight of his own blood. Ironically, this was the only secret he’d managed to keep from Rachel—the only real phobia that he had—and he wasn’t about to let this total stranger in on it.
He heard the sound of something thumping down on the floor behind him. Suddenly, Kate was at his side, her briefcase and wickedly sharp heels abandoned. The woman’s green eyes were wide as she peered up at him, but her voice was low and calm when she spoke.
“We should really wash it well so it doesn’t get infected. The tips of my shoes are metal, and they’re pretty dirty after walking through your yard.” She touched his uninjured arm as she looked down the entrance hall. “Is there a bathroom on this floor? Let’s get something on that arm, and we’ll get the bleeding stopped in no time.”
Drake resisted the urge to look down, gesturing with his head to the door at the end of the hall.
“Bathroom’s right there, but I’m fine,” he repeated more to himself than to her. Only three more steps to the bathroom. “Just a scratch. I’ve had worse in my life, trust me. I’ve got some first-aid stuff in the bathroom cabinet. Head on back to the parlor—you really don’t have to worry about the furniture there. If it can withstand my childhood, it can withstand anything.”
“It’s no worry at all. Getting you bandaged up is the least I can do.”
Drake gritted his teeth, willing his stomach to keep his breakfast where it belonged. Clearly, the woman was not taking the hint to give him some privacy. Instead, she opened the powder room door and pulled him inside behind her, her bare feet making damp prints on the old black-and-white penny tiles. Thankfully, she threw open the mirrored medicine cabinet doors before he caught his reflection.
“Okay, here’s some gauze…some bandages…oh! Here’s the antibiotic cream. We’ve got everything we need.”
Drake ignored the boxes she pulled out, maneuvering around her to get to the tiny antique sink. Twisting the nozzle for cold water, he waited until it was icy before turning his head aside, closing his eyes, and thrusting his left arm under the faucet.
The water stung like acid in the gash on his arm. “Seriously, why are there metal tips on those shoes?” he muttered. “Good thing I’m up-to-date on all my shots.”
He felt her gaze on him and opened his eyes, careful to look only at her oval face, animated with worry. She’d wiped most of the smeared mascara off her cheeks and looked younger and more vulnerable without the dark around her eyes.
“I really am sorry,” she said solemnly. “This is not how I’d intended our first meeting to go. Imani entrusted me with presenting the book launch ideas, and we’ve worked so hard to give you an epic event as Halloween Hacker is released to the world. I was excited to show you a mock-up of the haunted house we’ve got planned for your fans.”
“A…haunted house?” Drake squinted an eye, trying to recall when he’d ever agreed to anything like that. He shook his head. “I don’t remember that being part of the launch.”
The woman smiled, mistaking his horror at the idea for mere confusion.
“That’s because the previous planner had just confirmed the rental of a site before he left for his family emergency—Imani said he’d emailed the plans to her, but they wanted to wait to surprise you with it only after we’d pulled the proper permits,” Kate gushed. “But we’ve got it now. It’s outside of town in an old barn that’s just dilapidated enough to be creepy, but not unsafe, and it’ll hold all two hundred of your guests with room to spare.”
“Two hundred guests?” Drake gaped at her. “We have that many coming?”
Kate nodded, giving him a smile so brimming with enthusiasm, he felt his own lips curving in something like a reflex, despite his dawning horror. Her eyes danced as she continued. “And…I was going to wait to tell you this until we sat down and I showed you all of the drawings, but we’ve already had a structural engineer out there, and we’re good to go on most anything we wanted to hang from the rafters.”
“Like what?” he finally mustered.
Kate leaned forward in a conspiratorial tone. “Like a coffin! I called the local funeral home, and they’ve agreed to rent us a coffin for the event, and we’re going to have it hung so that you’d be standing upright inside of it when it opens for the big reveal when you pop out to greet your fans at the end of the haunted house.”
“You have me popping out of a coffin?” Drake momentarily forgot about his bleeding arm under the cold water. This was insane. Did his publisher think he’d agree to something so cliché and ludicrous? Drake was speechless. His mouth opened and closed, but words wouldn’t come.
“I know. Isn’t it perfect?” Kate raised her fists like she was shaking tiny, imaginary pom-poms by her head. “And I thought we could rig up some fog machines so that it looks like you’re floating when you step out of the coffin with a copy of the book in your hands, and we’ll have you all mic’d up so you can start reading from chapter one in Halloween Hacker. Your fans are going to go ballistic!”
“Ballistic. Yeah. Someone’s going to go ballistic,” he muttered, thinking of the conversation he would have with his publicist when she arrived. There was no way in hell he’d be a part of any circus like this. His contract stated he agreed to participate in a book launch and reading event for his tenth book and the subsequent movie adaptation announcement. Nowhere in the fine print did he remember reading he’d be in a coffin dangling from the rafters of a barn-turned-haunted-house. No way. He’d rather be in breach of contract than go through with this nightmare. He and Imani were going to have a serious sit-down about this launch, but in the meantime, he needed to figure out how to nicely dismiss Kate Sweet and her nightmarish plans.
Before he could speak, Kate shut off the water tap and plucked a clean white hand towel from a neat pile in a cupboard over the toilet and pressed it to his forearm.
“You’re still bleeding. We need to apply pressure so it’ll stop.”
“No, it’s fine—”
“Don’t worry,” Kate interrupted, tugging his arm back to her as he tried to pull it away. “I won’t touch the bloody area, so I don’t need gloves. I’m actually CPR and first-aid certified. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve had to bandage up a groom who fainted. I’ve even had to start CPR on a mother of the bride once before the emergency responders arrived.”
“Chest compressions? Who knew a party planner’s work would be so fraught with danger?”
Drake meant for it to be a joke—something to distract him from his irritation over the launch event, as well as the blood still oozing from his arm. Yet even though Kate was smiling, he could tell by the hurt in her eyes that he’d said something wrong.
“Party planner? If that’s all I did, I could pin up streamers, roll out a few kegs, make sure nobody pukes on your furniture, and I’d be done,” Kate said with a short laugh.
“Right.” Drake nodded. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he asked, “But isn’t that what you do, on a larger—and less vomit-filled—scale?”
The woman’s grip on his arm got tighter as she spoke, and Drake worked to keep from wincing. “Throwing parties is like blowing a soap bubble—fun, but quickly over and forgotten. But event planning is like crafting a sphere out of iridescent glass and gifting it to someone forever. Events are momentous. Some of my clients have dreamed of their special day—be it a wedding, a quinceañera, or a bar mitzvah—their whole lives. I’m expected to succeed. To do that, I coordinate with vendors, and obtain permits. I work with caterers, decorators, stylists, DJs, and even janitors to ensure success. If I screw up—don’t triple-check every minuscule detail—I’ve shattered that delicate sphere. Yet, if I do my job right, it creates a magical memory my clients will treasure forever. Event planning is a high-stakes job. Contrary to popular opinion, it’s anything but parties and flitzing around.”
Wow.
Drake blinked, taking in all that she said, guessing only some of that monologue had been directed at him. He supposed she was used to having her career consistently misjudged and maligned.
He could relate to that.
“While I’m not quite sure of the exact definition of the word ‘flitzing,’ from the context, it sounds very frivolous,” Drake said in a mock-serious tone, trying to cajole that smile to her face again. “Although we’ve just met, even I can see that you don’t…flitz…casually.”
Her face lost some of its rigidity, and a wry smile turned up the corners of her pink lips.
“You’ve got that right.”
Then Kate lifted the edge of the towel, focusing on his arm.
“It’s still pretty bloody, and we’ll need to snip the skin that’s hanging here. But I think we can bandage it up now.”
Drake jerked his gaze up to avoid peeking at the wound and caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored doors of the medicine cabinet. His face was pasty, he had beads of sweat at his temple, and the pupils of his eyes were tiny black pinpricks suspended in pools of amber.
He looked like a guy an inch from fainting.
Drake took a deep breath, drawing on his Marine training at Parris Island. Focus. Clear your mind. Think of something else besides a ribbon of skin dangling from your arm.
Every reader, reporter, and friend would invariably ask Drake what the hardest part about being a writer was, and everyone was surprised at his answer. The hardest part of his job was the fact that his imagination never took a break. Ever. His mind was always in high gear, presenting all sorts of mental pictures of fake scenarios that were usually more drama than reality. Like now. He could see the wound in his mind as clearly as if he were staring at it. The deep gouge, the bright red blood running down his arm to spatter against the floor, turning the white tiles a garish rust color…