by C. K. Vile
Nick leaned over his balcony. He didn’t seem terribly certain he’d seen anything.
“Hello?” Danielle bit her lip to keep from replying and the tang of copper spread through her mouth. The pain was pleasure, but the need for speech almost overwhelmed her. She dug her nails into the tree and kept it in check.
Nick called out again. “Someone there?”
The sound of Nick’s balcony door sliding closed signaled the all clear. She stepped out into the open as he turned out his lights one by one.
The music cut off.
“Good night, Nick.” She blew a kiss and moved in the direction of her car, dancing to music only she could hear.
***
“No, I’m not sure.”
Nick had been hesitant to call the Forest Down Police Department two days in a row. This was a new record, one he wasn’t proud of. Officer Roberts didn’t sound thrilled about it either.
“So you’re calling to report you may have seen someone around your property at about five this morning? But you’re not sure.”
When Roberts phrased it like that, it made Nick sound kind of crazy. He ran his fingers through the hair on the back of his head.
“Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m doing, isn’t it?”
“And why didn’t you call us then?”
“I didn’t have a phone. This one just arrived, the first thing I did was call you.”
That was true, despite the fact that when he’d transferred his number to the new device, it spat out half-a-dozen text messages and a voice-mail.
Nick yawned. Late nights weren’t as easy on him as they used to be.
“Look, I wondered if it could have been whats-her-name. From yesterday.”
“Couldn’t be. She’s still here in lock-up. Waiting to post bail.”
Had his mind played tricks on him? It’d been a long and strange day. It was super-late or super-early, depending on your point of view. It was dark, he’d had a drink. It might’ve been a trick of the light or a trick of I-finished-a-fucking-book-euphoria.
“All right. Thanks, I guess. I may still be jumpy from—”
The click on the other end of the line told Nick the conversation had ended.
Below his balcony, there were only trees. If anyone had been there the night before, he or she hadn’t set up camp or anything.
He scrolled through his phone’s notifications. Text after text from Blaire Coutrice.
Blaire was the one of the best, but also one of the most annoying, literary agents Nick had ever encountered. Her tenacity had been a huge selling point when he’d signed with her. The woman didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and that was an invaluable asset in a client’s corner.
It was also a trait that cut both ways.
Just checking in.
That was innocuous. The first text usually was.
Are you around?
And so it began.
Really need to hear from you today.
Let me at least know you’re getting these.
Going to bed now, hope to hear from you tomorrow.
The voicemail was from Blaire too. Nick deleted it without listening.
The final text on his phone was, thankfully, not from Blaire. It was from Danielle. The excitement from the night before returned. Holy cow, human interaction with a person close to his own age. And a girl no less. A supremely attractive girl. It was almost more than he could bear.
Had so much fun with you. Hit me when you get a chance. A smiley face was tacked to the end. Hey now, that was sweet.
There was plenty of time left in the day to call Blaire so Nick skipped right to the fun stuff. First, however, a response to Danielle.
I had fun too!
God that sounded cheesy. He furiously tapped the backspace.
Had the time of my life.
That was a little too Flashdance. Deleted.
Yes, much fun was had.
Fuck. Nope.
I had fun too.
Sent, if only to end the torment.
Next on the agenda was contact with his true pipeline to the outside world: CorpseFlower.
As Nick understood it, only a handful of people in the world knew CorpseFlower by anything other than that alias. They’d been working together for years, and he still wasn’t one of them.
The phone rang, and like every other time he called her, he half-expected her to let it go to voicemail. There would come a day when she wouldn’t pick up because she’d be in jail for stealing the internet or some shit.
“Nick. Oh snap! You scared me for real, el-oh-el.”
He couldn’t help but ask.
“Scared you? What scared you? And why are you laughing-out-loud about it?”
“Dude, you don’t have a clue. I’ve been trolling these neckbeards on this men’s rights activist site all week. They’re raging like a pack of badgers on steroids and have been trying to dox me. So fail. Good luck, fuckos.”
Nick understood half of those words.
“Is this a bad time?”
“Nah, always a few minutes on the clock for you.”
Nick hit send on an e-mail he’d prepared on his laptop.
“Awesome, I sent you a small story.”
CorpseFlower went quiet. Nick thought the call had dropped.
“Corpse? Hello?”
He was about to end the call and redial when she finally spoke.
“Bullshit.”
He felt a pang of shame. It had been quite a while since he’d written anything. She could be forgiven for sounding incredulous.
“No bullshit.”
“Bullshit,” Corpse repeated as though Nick had said nothing. “Bullshit. Bullshit. No way. No effing way.”
The webgirl, whose face he’d never seen, continued to spout profanities in disbelief. Nick could hear clicking and clacking over the phone as she checked her e-mail.
A text arrived on Nick’s phone. It was from Danielle.
Want to get together again tonight?
Corpse shouted into the phone.
“Ohhhhhh fuck! Whaaaaaaat?”
That was the response Nick had been waiting for.
“It’s only a short story. Will you have time to get it up on the site today?”
“Oh my god. Holy shit. New Nick Dawkins. Fuck me running!”
Nick held the phone away from his ear. Corpse was excessively loud when enthused.
“So, I’ll take that as a yes, or—?”
“What? Oh, you don’t even have to ask. Two seconds.”
“You’re going to put it up right now?”
Keystrokes responded through the phone’s speakers, followed by Corpse. “Should I title the post ‘New motherfucking Nick Dawkins, bitches’? I think I should.”
Nick couldn’t help but laugh. That was why she was one of his favorite people in the whole of humanity. He absolutely loved the girl’s spirit.
“Please don’t.”
Corpse spoke slowly as though she read what she typed out loud.
“New… motherfucking… Nick Dawkins… bitches. Okay, it’s up.”
Nick pulled up the website Corpse maintained for him. A brand new post hugged the top of the page, the first of its kind in months. It was titled ‘The Inn: A New Short Story from the Sultan of Scares, Nick Dawkins’.
“That is so perfect. I appreciate it.”
Nick could hear Corpse eating as she talked. That was typical. She never seemed to stop doing three or more things at once.
“No thanks needed. I shouldn’t even get paid. This takes almost no time.”
Nick looked around his house. Was it company-ready, in case he wanted to invite Danielle over? Who was he kidding? His house was always company-ready. He never did anything to mess it up.
“You always say that, but I’m never going to stop paying you.”
CorpseFlower munched into the phone. A few words sneaked out between chewing sounds.
“Man, you were supporting my cheeto-munching ass back when I was
modding Xboxes for food. You think because a girl gets a rep she’s gonna ditch her oldest client? Bitch, please.”
Nick beat the dust off a pillow in his living room.
“I appreciate that. Will you keep an eye on the response? If I do it, I’ll be refreshing the page all day.”
Another text appeared on Nick’s phone. Danielle again.
Poke poke poke.
He certainly didn’t need to question her level of interest. He was glad of that. The ‘does she like me’ aspect of dating had always driven him batty.
“Hey Corpse, let me ask you a question. If you go out with a girl, is it too soon to see her again the next day?”
“Shit man, I go out with a girl, she’s still here the next day, know-what-I’m-saying? Yeah, you do. Wait. Wait wait.”
Nick did indeed wait. Corpse took her sweet time wrapping her head around what he’d asked.
“Wait, Nick, are you seeing someone?”
“It was one date.”
Screeches erupted from the phone. Nick held it away from his ear again. He put it back, and the screeches calmed into a minor torrent of profanities. He held his tongue until he could get a word in.
“So I should see her again tonight?”
Corpse was so excited she could hardly speak. Her words came out slowly, like she had to be contrite to get them out coherently.
“Nick, listen, you need to get up in that. Hear me? You need to make yourself at home all up in that shit. Yes. Fucking idiot, yes. See her again tonight.”
Nick’s face was warm. Holy hell, was he blushing?
“I’ll do that. I’ll let you know how it goes. Talk to you soon.”
Nick stared at his phone. The Spicy Meatball and The Shady Thicket Inn were the only two interesting things to do in Forest Down. Anything else would involve a lengthy car trip, but asking her over… was that too forward? He didn’t want to come off as expectant of anything but company and a few laughs. He wasn’t opposed to more than that either. It had been a long, dry couple of years.
He cast caution to the wind. What would CorpseFlower do?
The response he sent was simple and open-ended.
My place?
He hoped she’d be able to find it okay.
Chapter 6
“Nick, dear, what are you doing to me?”
Blaire spoke with her usual chipper timber, but she did it through gritted teeth over the phone. Nick was as apologetic as he could be, given that his delayed response had been out of his hands.
“Yeah, sorry I didn't get back to you, I had a break-in yesterday. Friggin’ psycho smashed my phone.”
“Oh goodness, Nick, I don't care about you not calling me back. I wanted to know how the writing was coming. But now I’m more concerned with the short story you posted to your site. What are you trying to do? You and I don't make anything if you give it away on the internet.”
Nick tapped at the railing of his balcony. Blaire didn't always hear the words that came out of his mouth. It was probably an agent thing.
“Did you read it already? What'd you think?”
“I haven't had a chance to read it yet, but someone has. I got an offer for the film rights five minutes ago.”
Nick checked the clock on the wall.
“You're shitting me. It's barely been up two hours.”
“I shit you not. And get this, they're offering you points. You know how rare that is?”
He expanded his house in his mind. The region was too far north for a pool. But a hot tub? He could live with that.
“Wait, what's the catch?”
Nick swore he could hear the whir of the spin machine coming to life in Blaire's head.
“No catch. It's the same producers who brought Rat King to the screen.”
He collapsed into a chair. “They want Trumble to do it, don't they?”
“What's wrong? Did you not like Trumble?”
Victor Trumble was a walking monument to Hollywood hackery. All flash, no substance. He was the Michael Bay of horror. And Blaire knew Nick thought so.
“Come on, Blaire. Tell them I want it to go to someone with balls. Eli Roth, or those Soska twins from Canada. Trumble can have my Facebook statuses.”
“I thought you weren't on Facebook.”
Nick waited for Blaire to get it. Three… Two… One…
“Oh, cute. Look Nick, the points are a big deal, especially since they're thinking a bigger gross than Rat King. They want to go PG-13 with this one, widen the audience.”
Nick paced a groove in the floor. He was appalled. Beyond appalled. He thought his head might explode.
“My dead fucking body. PG-13? Are you shitting me?”
Blaire put on her best consolatory agent-voice. “Nick, calm down, it’s not that bad. It’s great actually.”
Nick hated this sort of thing. He hated the idea that he was that guy. The creative diva who stamped his foot and had to have things a certain way. But PG-13? Come on.
“PG-13 would be the kiddie version of what I wrote. The face-stabbing alone is an R-rating.”
“Oh, they’ll probably cut around the face-stabbing.”
Nick stamped his foot and silently screamed. It seemed like he was that guy after all.
“No. No, Blaire. R-rated; I get director approval. That's the deal. They can take it or I swear to God, I’ll wait for the next one.”
“Nick, the studio responds favorably to loyalty.” The doorbell rang and drowned out whatever else Blaire had to say.
Nick vacated his balcony.
“Oh, sorry, going through a tunnel, call you back.”
“I thought you were at home.”
Nick hung up the phone. Blaire would get it in three… Two… One…
A text appeared on his phone.
Ha ha. Think it over and call me back.
Nick trotted to the front door and did a check of himself and his surroundings. Clothes? Check. Immaculate house? Check. Hair? No frame of reference. Why didn't he have a mirror by the front door? Better question, why would he need a mirror by the front door? Still better question, why did it matter right now? Answer: It didn’t.
He opened the door. Danielle quickly dropped her hand from her hair to her side.
“Hey!”
“Hey, you found it. Come on in.”
Danielle slipped off her jacket and handed it to Nick.
“Wow, this place is nice.”
“Thanks, I like it.”
“It’s ostentatious.”
Nick raised an eyebrow. “Ooh, good word.”
Danielle made jazz-hands. “I aim to please.”
Nick waved her through the living room and to the balcony door. “Check this out.”
Danielle stepped onto the balcony and absorbed the view. “This is amazing. How did you end up out here?”
“Ah, well, they may have fucked up Rat King’s ending, but they paid well for the privilege. After that, I moved out here. Figured that’s what writers did. Move to small mountain towns, write and get old. Nice fantasy.”
The two wandered into the kitchen, and Nick presented various implements of cookware. Danielle picked up the crate of eggs from the countertop.
“You said there’d be scrambled eggs? I love scrambled eggs. I mean, breakfast-for-dinner? Sign me up.”
“Right? Breakfast-for-dinner is the best. I don’t know how to make much, but I can make some serious scramby eggs.” He cracked an egg and dropped the egg juice into a pan. One day he would learn the proper terms for food stuff. Today wasn’t that day.
“What, your mom never taught you how to cook?”
The excitement of having Danielle in his home came to a grinding halt. Nick’s stomach sank, but he plowed through like a champ. “Nah. She uh—I had kind of a weird childhood.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I know how that is.”
Nick looked her over. Her sincerity was evident. “Yeah? You mind me asking?”
“Course not. Once upon a time, my parents were drunks
. The End.”
Nick laughed, but cut it off short. “Jeebus, I’m so sorry, that was not something to laugh at.”
Danielle touched his arm. “It’s okay, sweetie, I was trying to make you laugh.”
Whoa. ‘Sweetie’ came fast. That was good though, wasn’t it? This chick was eight kinds of awesome. The point was to get closer to her.
“Still, I’m sorry about your parents. That’s terrible.”
“It is what it is. But we were in a small town. House you could fit in your kitchen. Between that and being into weird shit no one else got, I kind of grew up alone in my room.”
“Boy, does that ever sound familiar.”
“Yeah, you said you were sick a lot?”
A swell of nausea washed over Nick. The room spun. He focused on the eggs in the pan. Keep stirring. Don’t be sick.
“Yeah.”
Everything inside Nick attempted to leap out of his throat at once. Don’t vomit in front of the girl, stupid.
Nick sprinted out of the kitchen and slid across the hardwood flooring. He thought about Plain Jane. His stomach donkey-punched his lungs. Vomit on deck.
He slammed elbow-first into the bathroom door and dropped to his knees. The toilet lid flew up so hard the hinge cracked.
It all came out. Every last damn thing.
When had he eaten corn?
Danielle was behind him, he caught a whiff of her perfume. It was too familiar a situation. Nick’s stomach protested. It hadn’t forgotten, and it certainly hadn’t forgiven.
As it turned out, not everything had come out the first time. Round two produced mostly bile. Nick fell onto his back, exhausted. Danielle stood over him, horrified. Not with disgust, but with worry.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m sorry you had to see that. You can leave. The bathroom, I mean.” Spit dribbled off his jaw. “Or the house too, if you want.”
Danielle reached for him. “Why would I leave?”
Her hand was soft in his. She helped pull him up off the floor. The room tried to throw him back down, but he had none of it.
“You can’t possibly still be hungry.”
It dawned on him. And it dawned on her.
“Eggs.”
Danielle threw up her hands. Threw up her hands. Nice word-choice, inner monologue.
“You wait here.”