Flypaper: Dark Psychological Thriller - Book 1

by C. K. Vile

  Plus side, she was smart, beautiful, funny, and had a lot of the same interests as him, but at the same time she moved way too fast, and he wasn’t comfortable with it.

  She’d already said she loved him. Red Flag Number One.

  Red Flag Number Two: ramming him in the chest because he’d critiqued her shitty story.

  Then there were the little things; the constant texts, the complete disregard for personal space. He could write them off as the harmless traits of an off-beat personality, but by that same token, they could also be the hallmarks of a person with deep emotional problems.

  Whichever category Danielle fell into, he grew warier as the day wore on. He stopped responding to the texts in the hopes they’d stop and focused his energies on the task at hand; writing an actual book.

  The Inn was a great exercise to get the juices flowing again, but a full-on novel was the goal and so far he’d fallen woefully short. At best, he had a vague idea regarding sleep paralysis.

  He clung to the hope that having a conversation about personal boundaries would alleviate the situation, but he might have screwed the pooch on that one. The horses may be out of the barn, the toothpaste already squeezed from the tube.

  Once the sun had fallen, Nick meandered onto the balcony, plopped into his chair, and lit a cigarette. To hell with it, he’d make a fresh start the next morning. He relaxed, and let the stress of the day fall away and onto the wooden deck below.

  His phone rang. He didn’t look, but sighed. It had to be Danielle. She was probably calling to ask him why he hadn’t responded to her endless string of texts. He held the phone up to his face.

  It was Blaire Coutrice.

  He slid his finger onto the green phone icon and grimaced.

  “Yeah.”

  “Nick. Nick darling.”

  Blaire’s chipperness annoyed the crap out of him most of the time—it was disingenuous, more of that smoke and mirrors bullshit that drove him up the wall—but that night he was happy to hear it.

  “Howdy howdy.” He sank heavily into his chair. “What’s up?”

  “I wondered if you’d given any consideration to what we’d talked about before. The rights to The Inn. The studio’s chomping at the bit.”

  The stress of the day picked itself up off the deck, crawled up his legs and settled on his face.

  “Did you tell them what I said yesterday? Seriously, get the Soskas on it. Get them on it and they can do whatever the hell they want. Put aliens in the damn thing for all I care.”

  “The studio thinks Trumble is the best choice.”

  Nick slapped himself on the forehead and mouthed curse words.

  “That can’t possibly be true. They think Trumble is good for box office, and that has nothing to do with whether the movie is worth a damn.”

  The doorbell rang.

  He sat up in his chair and twisted around. The clock showed 9:30.

  “Blaire? I gotta go.”

  The doorbell rang again.

  There was no way. Danielle couldn’t be that…

  He searched for words that wouldn’t destroy the image of her he wanted to keep; words that weren’t synonyms for ‘insane’.

  Intense. Intense was better.

  Blaire muttered about points and profit margins. On another day, Nick might have counted the ka-chings and gone about his business.

  He got up and approached his front door.

  “Wait, one second, hear me out.” Blaire was in full agent mode. She scrambled for a way to make all parties happy. “What if you could be on-set? We’d get you a consulting credit along with the story credit.”

  The bell rang again.

  “I’ll call you back. Promise.”

  He hung up the phone and slunk to the door.

  Maybe it was Plain Jane. That would actually be a pleasant change. He shook his head. Twenty-four hours earlier he’d hoped to never see her again.

  Nick checked through the peephole.

  Danielle stood there, her dark make-up streaked down her cheeks.

  Red Flag Number Three.

  Cognitive dissonance kicked in. He could still be wrong about her. She could be in real trouble. Maybe he was paranoid; there were a hundred explanations that would put her outside his door late at night, uninvited. He couldn’t think of many.

  Nick took a breath and opened the door.

  Danielle sobbed and wrapped her arms around him.

  This was not good.

  “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

  He silently prayed her grandmother had died. It was a deplorable thought, but from where he stood, it would be better than the alternative.

  “I had to come see you, I had to,” she cried into his shirt, and the tears seeped through. He barely made out what she said. “You didn’t respond to my texts. I was worried. I couldn’t stand the idea of you being out here alone.”

  Nick tried to imagine a way to have the conversation without inviting her in. None sprang to mind. Maybe one would present itself.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

  That was a lie. He was concerned.

  Danielle lifted her head from his chest.

  Her eyes did a crazy dance, darting back and forth. It looked like she was watching a ping-pong match play out in front of her.

  Her wild-eyed gaze read, “Aren’t you going to let me in?” Nick anxiously broke eye-contact, eager to look at anything else.

  He glanced down. There was a deep cut, underlined by streaks of dried blood, which ran the length of her arm.

  “Holy fuck, Dani, what happened?” He grabbed her and inspected it. “Did you do this?”

  Her eyes lit up. “You called me ‘Dani’. I love you too!”

  This was Red Flag Numbers Four through Sixty-Three rolled into one heart-breaking moment. His hopes of a human connection leading to a long-lasting relationship crumbled to dust and blew away on a gust of super-creepy wind.

  He couldn’t deny it any longer; there was something seriously wrong with this girl.

  She thought she was in love with him. And apparently he was in love with her too. If he invited her in, he could play along until he figured out what to do with her. All he had to do was be the boyfriend she wanted until she left. After that, he could work out how to proceed moving forward. Solid plan, if by ‘solid’ he meant ‘making-it-up-as-he-went-along’.

  Maybe Bonnie and Chuck would have an idea; they knew her better.

  “Come on in,” he said.

  Danielle followed him to the bathroom, and he pulled out a small first-aid kit. He cleaned and bandaged the wound on her arm while she regaled him with tales of her day on the front lines of avant-garde art.

  “I feel like I captured how we feel about each other,” she said of spilling her bodily fluids on canvas. How she had any idea of how he felt about her was beyond him. He hadn’t led her on, and yet there they were. She mentioned their future children and winged creatures tap-danced in his stomach.

  “I like to think they’ll have your nose and my eyes,” she said. “And your dick, if we have a boy.” Danielle grabbed him between his legs and showed her teeth. It wasn’t a welcome gesture. He jumped up and tried to calmly move her to the living room.

  “Hey, how about we go away together? You and me.” She batted her eyes at him like a Venus flytrap undergoing electro-shock.

  He held out his hand, thinking he could gently pull her from the bathroom. She wouldn’t budge.

  “I don’t know. I have a lot going on right now. I’m trying to get a novel started; my agent is up my ass.” None of these things specifically prohibited his participation in whatever relationship she had in store for him, but they created plenty of excuses. “It’s a busy time for me.”

  Danielle clawed at her scalp. “That’s okay sweetie.” She clawed again. This time she flinched as though her scratching caused her pain, but played it off as though nothing were wrong. “I know you have work.”

  They both stood in Nick’s bathroom.
He waited for her to excuse herself, to come to her senses and realize she’d intruded upon his personal space, but instead she asked if she could have some privacy while she got ready for bed.

  He shut the door to his own bathroom, leaned against the wall, and weighed his options. There weren’t many.

  Holy shit.

  He could call the FDPD, but what was the point? The girl had committed no crime. The only thing he could say was she was a danger to herself, and only if the police determined she’d been cutting on purpose. That’d be a stretch. On the record, she could say she got that injury from anywhere.

  Danielle emerged from the bathroom and leaned against Nick, exhausted. “Come to bed with me? I don’t want to sleep alone.” He told her he’d be along in a moment and went to the kitchen. He poured himself a finger of whiskey and gulped it down. It didn’t help. He probably didn’t have enough in the house to help.

  A lunatic had crawled into his bed and made herself at home; a lunatic he’d had genuine feelings for.

  If only he had a personal number for the Sheriff. She was a hardass, but he’d bet his last dollar she’d know what to do. She’d recommend a course of action or maybe a good shrink.

  Nick stood at the door to his bedroom and watched Danielle breathe deeply beneath his covers. He’d work it out in the morning. That was fine.

  But there was no way in hell he’d sleep next to her in the meantime.

  It would be a long night.

  Chapter 12

  Danielle slept peacefully, once she cried herself to sleep in Nick’s bed.

  The sheets draped across her moved rhythmically up and down. The inhalation and exhalation of a normal person. She looked so normal, peaceful even, with her fist tucked under her chin. But she had problems; there was no doubt about it anymore. He moved to his balcony and lit a cigarette.

  In all of Forest Down, he’d finally met someone his age, or close to it, who didn’t hate him outright. She was an outsider, like him. She shared his bizarre and morbid tastes in movies, books and culture.

  It would’ve been nice to have someone to talk to about this sort of thing. Isolation had its benefits, but so did friends and family. He had some experience with the mentally unstable—from urethra-probers to pumpkin-pumpers—but he had no idea what to do with Danielle.

  She was a cutter. That put this well outside of his wheelhouse.

  He drilled the butt of his cigarette into the mouth-tray and moved back inside. It was cold out, made worse by the icy dread sitting in his chest cavity.

  Nick was wiped. He stood in the doorway of his bedroom and glanced back at the couch.

  Danielle snorted and shifted onto her back. She slung her arm across his pillow. He walked over to her and covered her better. It wasn’t necessary. There was no reason for her to catch a chill. He’d been looking for a reason to be close to her again.

  Damn, he liked her, the sane side at least. He could get her some help. After all, she’d had a tough childhood too. He knew how that was. Who knew what else she had going on?

  Then again, maybe this was all a series of misunderstandings. He’d have given anything for that to be the case.

  His name jumped out at him.

  ‘Nick’.

  He did a double-take and honed in on the tattoo on her wrist. Did it say his name or had he lost it?

  He’d seen the tattoo before. She’d shown it to him. It said ‘Love’ before, he was certain. He saw it with his own two eyes, inches in front of him.

  He read the tattoo again. It did say his name. He lightly stepped over to the front of his bed and tilted his head to get a different angle.

  The tattoo said ‘Love’.

  He stepped back and tilted his head the other direction.

  The tattoo said ‘Nick’.

  His heart stopped. It was an ambigram; lettering that spelled out one word and, upside-down, spelled out a different word.

  It was clever. Danielle’s elaborate tattoo morphed from one reality to another, much like the girl wearing it.

  No, no, no. Please no.

  It was Plain Jane all over again. It was worse than Plain Jane. At least Jane had been outwardly disturbed from the beginning. Danielle was different. He liked her. She was funny and sharp and… an illusion.

  She wasn’t real. She was smoke and mirrors. She had been since the beginning.

  Nick’s stomach flipped. He thought for certain he’d be sick.

  He looked at Danielle’s face. She looked back, eyes wide open. Nick jumped back, startled. Damn near lost his balance.

  “Sweetie?”

  He had no response. The girl he’d grown fond of over the past few days had disappeared, replaced by a stranger. She’d filled a hole in him that he’d never even known was there. Now the hole was a gaping pit, a bleeding chasm.

  He was alone again.

  No. Not alone. There was a woman in his bed with his name tattooed on her arm. A woman he’d slept with. Cared for.

  Don’t vomit, stupid. Don’t do it.

  “Nick, darling?”

  The bile in his throat pushed back the words he wanted to say. He backed out of the room and considered his options while his gut settled down. Talk to her. Call the police. Both?

  How had he let this happen?

  Danielle followed him. It was déjà vu. She wore one of his t-shirts. A black one with the state of Texas on it. Inside the state’s outline was the image of Leatherface.

  Leatherface, a maniacal slasher who chased teenagers across Texas with a roaring chainsaw. Leatherface scared him far less than Danielle at the moment.

  “I wanted to tell you before, sweetie.” She seemed to know. The room spun. He’d be sick or pass out or both.

  “Don’t—don’t call me that. You can’t—”

  “I didn’t want you to feel like I only loved you for who you are. Nick Dawkins, the brilliant writer.”

  Shut up. Shut up, you crazy bitch, stop talking. Nick backed into his couch.

  Danielle continued, “I’ve known you for years. You were an inspiration to me when I had no one. Do you know how special that is?”

  Nick gagged on nothing, a dry heave. It was less fear than gut-wrenching disappointment.

  “I would sit in my room and read you. You spoke to me.”

  Why? Why couldn’t he have one thing that wasn’t a demented funhouse-mirror parody of a real relationship?

  His hands were on his face. He felt like they held it on; like if they weren’t there, his face would slip off and fly away, leaving behind a puddle of a man.

  He found his voice, his words. “You moved here. You moved here because I was here.”

  Danielle reached for him. He recoiled as if from a venomous snake.

  “We are perfect for each other.” There was that word again. Perfect.

  The walls of his home threatened to crush him. Danielle wouldn’t stop.

  “I acted like I didn’t know you because I didn’t want our meeting to seem contrived. I wanted it to be natural.”

  Bonnie and Chuck’s. She moved into Bonnie and Chuck’s and waited. She’d waited for him like a damn spider.

  Three months, she’d waited.

  His heart pumped like a jackhammer. His breath was heavy; forceful. His mouth moved. Words came out, but it was like they belonged to someone else.

  “You have to leave.”

  Danielle looked crushed, but he wasn’t particularly concerned with her feelings. He was concerned with her intent.

  “Nick.”

  His head was light. A balloon that threatened to separate from his body.

  “You have to leave. Please. Please, I can’t—“

  Danielle went from hurt to agitated. He’d made a mistake; a potentially grave one.

  “You can’t tell me to leave.”

  Nick instinctively checked his pockets for his phone. Kitchen table. It was on the table.

  Danielle raised her voice. It was commanding, like the day they met. Only then it had been a play
ful sort of commanding. Now it was different. “I love you. You love me.”

  Nick’s head cleared. The world around him became sharp; focused. The difference between then and two minutes ago was like the difference between an HDTV and an old tube-screen.

  “You have to leave.”

  Danielle stomped up to him. She stood inches from him. Her face in his. He didn’t back down.

  “I love you. You love me.” Her saying it a second time didn’t make it any more true.

  He resisted the urge to punch her. That would be a line he couldn’t uncross.

  “Danielle. There’s something wrong with you. You can’t be here. You need to leave. Right now.”

  Her face, previously filled with a pleading desperation, transitioned. Her eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flared. The corners of her mouth plunged downward.

  Her silence spoke volumes, more than any words could. Nick broke the stalemate.

  “Dani, go home.”

  Danielle’s expression shifted over and over. It went from sad to angry to hopeful and back again. Finally, her mouth stretched wide and she screamed. Her breath was on his skin, its warmth a humid trespasser on his flesh. He braced himself for a blow, but it didn’t come.

  Danielle backed away and Nick’s shoulders dropped. He watched her, cautious of her next move.

  “Is this who you are?” She turned purple before him. “Is this who you are, you fucker? You fuck someone and cast them aside?”

  His heart split in two. “You lied to me.”

  “I loved you. I gave myself to you!”

  Danielle picked up the lamp on the end-table next to his couch. She launched it into the flat-screen on his wall.

  Concern and care were replaced by self-preservation. Any feelings Nick still had for the girl in front him collapsed. He glanced around the room for objects he could use as a weapon. At the top of the list was the Screaming Mimi Award for Long-Fiction 2007. He could deal damage with that if he needed to.

  Danielle shook her head as though throwing off reality.

  “I’m leaving,” she said. “But you need to get your shit together, Nick. You’ve got serious problems.” She moved toward his front door and stopped and turned around. “Fucker. Fucker. You’re sick. I hate you!”