Wicked Little Words

by Stevie J. Cole

"You need to record yourself sometime when you get like that. It's frightening to—"

  "Okay, okay, I get your point." I'm not one to be lectured. "Just bring her back. Now. I want to write."

  "Are you not hearing me? She doesn't know if she wants to come back. She's thinking about going home. And I'll tell you the truth, I don't blame her. I've experienced you like that many times myself and—"

  "Enough," I say with a bite. I’m overcome with the intense desire to hurl the phone against the fucking wall, and if Janine were here, I’d bash her damn skull in with it. "I don't need to hear this shit. Just do what you must to get her back. Money, a massage, a fucking dildo for all I care. Just get her ass back here. I want to write."

  "I've already talked to her a little bit tonight, and I will again first thing in the morning, but it's gonna take more than just me doing something here…" She takes a deep breath before continuing. "Just show her your good side. I've seen it. I know it's deep down there somewhere underneath all the arrogance and ego."

  She snickers, and it makes me want to rip out her vocal chords, but… she's right. If I'm ever going to make something out of this book, if I'm ever going to get the weight of critics' bullshit off my shoulders, I need her.

  "She's irreplaceable, Edwin. I'm the one that read every story. Countless hours. Page after page after page. She's the one. She's the only one," she says with sincerity, and an awkward silence follows.

  "Okay," I whisper, resigned in what I must do.

  "She'll be just fine here with me tonight. I'll give you a call in the morning. Okay?"

  "Okay," I repeat and hear a click on the other end of the line followed by a dial tone.

  I keep the receiver against my ear for a moment longer, peering at nothing in particular, my thoughts wandering to places they shouldn't go. I finally hang up, grab my coat from the butcher block, and make my way to the front door.

  It’s time to relieve a little stress.

  Janine's Camaro pulls up to the cabin at a quarter past noon, her convertible top down and some shitty Top 40 single blaring. To be a professional woman of forty years of age and listening to some Justin Bieber bullshit is just a travesty. What can I do? I hate the woman. I'd hack her to death if she weren't so damn good at her job. She’s certainly dug her roots in nice and deep. Right about now though, I couldn’t care less about her musical tastes. I'm just happy she's bringing Miranda back. My Miranda.

  I didn't sleep well last night, tossing and turning and thinking about how I may have overreacted.

  I open the door and step onto the porch just as Janine hits the top step with Miranda's luggage. Miranda is a few steps behind her, and she's not looking at me, her eyes instead running loops across the gravel drive.

  "Janine…" I barely look at her. My eyes are locked on Miranda, waiting for her to look up. "Miranda… good to see you both."

  Miranda scoffs, and when she finally does look up, she smiles weakly. "You too."

  It's barely audible. Her gaze once again falls to the ground, and she makes her way in after Janine. I take a moment on the porch, my eyes flitting over the rough edges of the mountains on the horizon as I give them time to get her stuff situated. My gaze trails down to my pine-tree-riddled property, thick aging pines that stand as a border to everything… and everyone.

  Taking one last deep breath of the rich country air, I head inside to meet them. They're talking in hushed tones in the office. Of course, the conversation quickly changes to normal volumes when I approach. As if I don’t know they were discussing me.

  "Janine, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to speak with Miranda. If that's okay with you."

  Janine glances at Miranda, a look of concern on her face that makes my fucking blood boil, and Miranda just nods.

  "Okay, well, Miranda, it was so nice getting to know you a little better." She takes Miranda in a hug and holds her for a few moments before pulling back, her hands still holding each of her fragile little arms. "If you need anything, anything at all, I'm a phone call away." She lets go and walks right past me to the front door, her finger up and curling for me to follow.

  I reluctantly do and meet her just outside the front door. She shuts it just as a cold breeze sweeps around the corner of the house.

  "Edwin…" she starts. I fight the urge to head back in and slam the door in her face. "You gotta take it a little easier on her. She hasn't written seven best sellers—"

  "Eight," I interrupt.

  She rolls her eyes, and I envision her head clamped in a vice as I turn the handle ever so slowly, watching her eyes bulge out from their sockets.

  "Yeah, okay, eight. Eight best sellers. She's not in her thirties. She's a young woman still figuring herself out. I've been married to three different cheating assholes. I ate shit for five years with each of them so that I could take them for everything they were worth when it was all said and done. And I did just that. Me"—she points at her chest—"I can handle your shit. But give her a break, okay? She's… I don't know… fragile."

  "I will do that. I've already planned on it. Just know, Janine, you've been with me a long time now, and I like your work, I do, but if you ever talk to me like that again, I'll fire your ass." I glare at her, maintaining eye contact for a moment before turning to open the door.

  "Edwin, my dear, if I had a dollar for every time you said you'd fire me or did in fact 'fire me,' I wouldn't even have to work for you anymore." She laughs, making her way to the Camaro, and before I can respond, she hops in and starts it up. Bieber's preteen vocals once again tarnish the beautiful country silence.

  I shake my head, flicking her off before closing the door to three long honks of her horn.

  Miranda is standing in the office when I come in the house, her gaze fixated out the bay window. She turns her head just slightly when the floorboards creak beneath my feet, and the light hits her face just right. So right that it stops me dead in my tracks. I take her in. The soft, delicate look of her skin, pale—not in a sickly way, but like porcelain, rich and alluring. A living muse. She turns completely now, a wrinkle of confusion in her brow.

  "Sorry, I don't mean to stare. It's just… in that light… you truly inspire."

  She smiles politely but instinctively looks at her feet.

  I take a few steps forward, drawing her eyes again. "Though I will stow the urge to write away for a bit. I have something for you."

  I walk past her, my arm brushing hers, and a sudden, smoldering desire takes hold deep in my gut. I fight the urge to take her into my arms and destroy her—with my lips and my cock—and proceed to the desk as planned instead. I pull a small duffel bag from beneath it and place it on top, smiling at her as I do. She raises an eyebrow in confusion but with a look of intrigue at least.

  "I have a present for you…" I motion to the duffel bag then walk to the closet across the room. After opening it, I pull out a long, bulky bag housing a folded up tent and set it against the wall.

  This draws even more confusion from Miranda, her brow furrowing and eyes narrowing. I can't help but smile at the thought of knowing something she doesn't. I like having secrets… big ones and small.

  "Two presents, I guess," I say, making my way back to her.

  "I'm so confused," she mutters, her eyes shifting from the duffel bag to the tent.

  "You won't be for long, but before I go into your first gift, I, um…" My eyes drift from hers. I fucking hate apologies. Janine's annoying, Jersey-tainted voice rings in my ears, and that alone makes me cringe. But I have a job to do and a book to write. If I'm to ensure that happens, this is where it starts. "I just want to tell you how sorry I am. My actions… I… I was out of line. I know you're new to this industry and all, but I can't tell you what these deadlines can do to a person. They loom over you, breathing down your neck, suffocating you…" My voice trails involuntarily as my gaze fixes out the window, across the pines. "She's a ruthless, daunting little bitch. And she's waiting for your ass whether you like it or not."

 
Looking back over, I see that I have all of her attention now. Her eyes are full of understanding, and she nods slowly.

  "I get it." She puts a hand to her mouth and shakes her head. So cute, my little Miranda. "I mean, I don't necessarily get it, not yet, but I can see how it could be horrible."

  "It is. And I don't know what Janine told you—I'm sure it was more than I could even stomach knowing—but I have the tendency to act on impulse. At times, to a fault." I look her in the eyes and impulsively take her hand in both of mine. She looks startled, but I continue holding it regardless as I paint the perfect look of sincerity onto my face. "I just want you to know it'll never happen again. You're a very talented writer, truly."

  I give her hand a good squeeze then release it, turning my attention to the duffel bag. I unzip it and begin pulling out its contents: noise-canceling headphones, a mini stop sign, and a laptop still in its box. I toss the bag aside, and my eyes meet hers, a mischievous little smile on my face. A look of total bewilderment on hers.

  "I feel like shit about how I treated you, and I want to take the appropriate measures to see that it doesn't happen again. So I'd like to make a deal. How's that sound?" Another timid smile. Soft, unassuming eyes.

  "I, uh, I appreciate the apology. I'm sure it's different working with someone when you’re used to working alone." She curiously glances at the items on the desk then back at the tent. "But… um, can you explain to me what all this stuff is for?"

  I laugh, understanding how odd this all must look. I reach first for the stop sign, holding it up by its thin wood handle, waving it and smiling. "So at UNC, in my earlier creative writing classes, I had this crazy professor, Tony Harris. He was the first real writing inspiration I had. He had some rather peculiar teaching habits." I lift the stop sign once more then set it back on the desk. "One of them involved these stupid little stop signs. Any time peer-to-peer writing criticism went from productive to personal, you’d hold up the sign. So in this circumstance, if you think I'm out of line, if I'm too harsh or too critical…" I point at the sign and shrug. "Just shove that shit in my face."

  She laughs. "Okay. And"—she points back at the desk—"the headphones?"

  "See, that’s stage two. If the stop sign doesn't work, just throw on these bad boys. I have a pair I travel with, and trust me, my griping will go undetected." I set my hand against the laptop, scanning her face, trying my best to read her. I'm not used to having to do this, having to win someone over. It's unnerving and nauseating. "The laptop is for you. It's stage three. I know you already have one, but I noticed it's not in the, um, best condition…" I fight a laugh back as the thought of her dreadful laptop crosses my mind. "I had Janine load this one up with a writing program that's linked to our computers in here. Again, top of the line. If you need to get away, maybe go outside and write, or in your room or whatever, just take that with you." I scan the items on the desk, my fingers nervously picking at my arm. "I want this to work. I need this to work." I swallow hard. My stomach knots. "And I'll do what I have to to make sure that happens."

  Her eyes narrow on me, as though she's scrutinizing me for a brief moment, before she drags in a breath. "I think it will all work out, and I really do appreciate the laptop…" Her voice drifts off, and we stand in awkward silence for a moment. "So what the hell is that thing for?" She points toward the corner of the room.

  I laugh, glancing back at the tent leaning against the wall. I look back at Miranda, undeniably taken by her cute look of intrigue. "I know how I can get. I can only imagine what that's like for someone who's just met me. I've thought a lot about it…" My eyes scan the floor. Genuine remorse? What the fuck is this? "Anyways, I'm going to pitch that tent out back and go on a little three-day 'writing retreat.' I'll give you free rein of the house and won't bother you at all. I have a fire pit down there, food already set up in coolers, and an outdoor shower behind the shed. Consider it a three-day vacation from my miserable ass."

  Her brow wrinkles, and she shakes her head. "Edwin, that's really unnecessary. It's your house. The apology…” Her eyes wander to the items on the desk. “All this… it’s more than enough."

  I put up a hand, shaking my head. "I'm afraid I have to insist. I do this sort of thing all the time. It allows me to clear my head… connect with the earth. I always come out completely inspired. Trust me when I say I have more camping equipment than the fucking army. I'll be fine regardless. You just make yourself comfortable up here."

  She blankly stares at me for a moment, biting her bottom lip. "Well…" She sighs as her eyes drift from me to the tent and back. "I guess whatever helps you to feel inspired."

  I walk to the closet and grab the tent, throwing the strap over my shoulder. As I pass Miranda, I glance at her, a telling smile on my face. "By the way, be up and ready by nine tomorrow. Janine will be by to grab you." I face forward and continue out of the office. Without turning around, I continue, "I've got a full spa day scheduled for you in Asheville: massage, facial, the works. Enjoy!"

  With that, I open the front door and make my way out, hoping to hell my hooks have started to dig in.

  The fire crackles loudly in the still night air. Its warmth makes the forty-degree temperature irrelevant. Seated in a rocker just in front of the tent, I hold my hands to the fire. My eyes scan the cabin windows, waiting impatiently for the lights to turn out. I glance at my watch. Eleven o’clock. She should be asleep at any point now, knowing she has the spa in the morning. My nervous rocking creates a chorus of crunching leaves beneath my chair. The sound worms its way into my brain, but I can't stop rocking. I will the lights to turn off. But they don't.

  Just as the tension begins to threaten my sanity, the lights do go out, and the jolt of adrenaline that surges through my body is similar to jumping out of an airplane for the first time—a relentless, nerve-shattering strike of equal parts panic and pleasure.

  Standing from the rocker, I scan the windows as I back up to the tent. I make my way around the tent and to the shed directly behind it. Retrieving the key from my pocket, I unlock the bottom padlock then put in the combination to the top lock. The wind picks up, sending a shiver down my spine. There's something odd about being here and doing this with someone not a hundred yards away. I take one last glance around the tent toward the windows. The lights are still off. All is quiet and calm.

  I open the door slowly, and I'm met immediately with the sound of muffled sobbing. I step into the shed, closing the door behind me, and I flip on the lights.

  The whore's eyes bat in reaction to the flood of fluorescent light since it’s been a day since she was last exposed to it. Her naked body squirms beneath the restraints but to no real effect. Her breathing picks up, pushing and pulling the duct tape over her mouth—in, out, in, out—with each wrangled breath. When her eyes finally adjust and they fixate on me with a look of absolute terror, the strike of adrenaline hits me again, racing from limb to limb like electricity.

  It doesn't go away this time though. No, it spikes in intensity with each step I take toward her, with each time she flinches from my every movement. Inspiration will come… and it will come through pain. It will come through bloodshed.

  I run a gloved finger slowly up the length of her body, tsking as I shake my head from side to side. "No, no, no, my dear. There's no use in crying." I stop at her nipple and hover my finger there for a moment before marking a pretend X over both of them. "Your fate has been decided. It was written long ago." I settle a hand against her throat and squeeze, just enough to drive the point home. I lean in, my lips against her ear, and whisper, "I am the executioner… and tonight—tonight, your number's been drawn."

  “Dark in My Imagination” – of Verona

  I can't sleep. Every noise, every creak and pop in this house leaves me unnerved.

  Being in a stranger's house while he's camped out in his backyard—a stranger who isn't exactly that because for years you've all but worshipped him—is an odd feeling. A gust of wind howls around the corner o
f the house. The bare branches of the tree outside my window scratch against the pane. That noise makes me cringe.

  I stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows from the limbs dance across it. There is no way I’m finding sleep any time soon. I roll onto my side and turn on the lamp before grabbing the strap of my satchel and hauling it up onto the bed. I dig through, looking for my plot book, but instead, I pull out Echoes of the Fall. This is one of my favorites of Edwin's books. My fingers slowly trace over his name. EA Mercer.

  And isn't this something? Here I—little Miranda Cross—sit, snuggled down in his guest room bed, in the very house these words were written. I know what he looks like when he's pissed, when he smiles. I know what he smells like. I know things so many of his fucking readers would love to know, and something about holding this book in this very room is exhilarating.

  I turn to the first chapter, my eyes poring over his words.

  Her eyes bead with tears—worthless tears—as I wrap the duct tape around her pretty mouth. I'm not exactly sure why I cover their mouths like this. It's not like anyone would hear her pitiful screams coming from this cabin in the middle of the woods—

  And my attention darts from the book to the window, all too aware of where I am right now. Chills splinter up my spine. I don't scare easily. In fact, for the most part, I thrive on fear.

  "Don't be ridiculous," I whisper to myself. "You've written some fucked up shit before."

  And I have. I wrote about stabbing Margaret Stanley, and I loved every word I put on that paper, but I didn't actually kill her. I wouldn't kill her. My gaze veers back to the window, to the faint glow of the bonfire bouncing off the trees. He's peculiar… but aren't we all? Aren't we all quirky and strange? I know damn well my penchant for dark stories comes from the abuse, from the demons I keep hidden deep inside me. It's an outlet for my shame and anger over the fucked up hand life dealt me.

  I attempt to read some more, but for the first time in my life, I can't stomach his words. And it's not because they aren't beautiful; it's because my idol is human. I understand that he may very well have some dark, twisted past that parallels mine. And that leaves me unsettled. Why? Because his books were my escape, a haven if you will. They were fiction that let me avoid the shit that was my life, and due to my overactive imagination—because that’s what it is, my mind running wild in an effort to rob me of sleep—I fear that maybe he isn't the person I always dreamed he was.