Best Friend’s Sister

by Banks, R. R.

  Felicity

  I stare at the blinking cursor on my screen, growing frustrated by its perpetual taunting. It just sits there going blink-blink-blink – mocking me for my inability to form coherent thoughts, let alone sentences, today. With a growl, I pick up the small bean bag I keep on my desk for such occasions and hurl it across the room.

  It hits the wall with a dull thud and falls to the floor. My cat, a beautiful black and white longhaired girl named Agatha, or Ags for short – named for Agatha Christie, one of my biggest early literary influences – appears as if out of nowhere and pounces on it. Ags rolls around with it on the floor, trapping it with her front paws while kicking it with her rear paws.

  “Score one for the mighty hunter. Give it hell, Ags.”

  I lean back in my seat and look out the window, trying to clear my mind. I’m mentally constipated at the moment and no matter what I do, I can’t seem to force the words out right now. Maybe a walk down on the Sound will help.

  After getting my first royalty check from Obsidian Fields, the first thing I did – aside from adopting Ags from the local shelter – was put a down payment on a condo in a community right on the edge of Puget Sound. It’s a quiet place that has a fantastic view of Sound and of Mt. Rainier and the Cascades in the distance.

  I have a two-room condo – the second room of which offers the best view and of course, is the one I turned into my writing room. My desk is large and made of a beautiful polished cherry wood that’s hand-crafted and carved with intricate scrollwork. It belonged to my grandmother and I fell in love with it the moment I saw it. To me, it’s what a writer’s desk should look like.

  The walls are lined with tall bookshelves crammed with hundreds of books. In the corner stands Agatha’s six-foot-tall, five-platform cat tree – she usually sits up there staring down at my imperiously. At least, she does when she’s not sitting on my desk swatting at my mouse, walking across the keyboard, or a hundred other things she does to get my attention.

  My furry girl can be a pain in the butt, but I love her to death.

  Usually I can draw inspiration from this room, this desk, and the view. But for some reason, I’m having a really difficult time pulling words out of my head today. They just aren’t coming. I’ve never had a case of writer’s block before – I don’t really subscribe to the idea. The words are always there and sometimes, you just need to find a way to push through whatever you’re mired in. Being blocked is all mental, and as a writer, it’s my job to find a way to get myself unstuck and produce.

  Done abusing my bean bag, Ags jumps up on my desk and sits on the corner, staring at me with her wide green eyes.

  “Stop judging me,” I tell her.

  Ags yawns wide and starts to fastidiously groom herself when my phone rings. Saved by the bell. I check the caller ID and see that it’s Maura.

  “Hey Maura,” I greet her. “What’s up?”

  “Good morning,” she replies. “Just calling to check in with you.”

  “You mean check up on me, don’t you?”

  Maura’s laughter is rich and melodic. She’s a wonderful woman – educated, classy, and cultured. She’s been all over the world and back again and has such an interesting and refined worldview. She seems to know a little bit about everything. I can sit and talk to her for hours about anything from literature, to religion, to politics.

  “Well, it’s my job to check up on you,” she tells me. “Somebody has to keep you on track.”

  “And you are the right woman for the job.”

  “Damn straight I am.”

  Over the time she’s been a part of my life, we’ve grown close, and I’ve shared things with her I didn’t usually share with anybody but my best friend Dani. I guess I kind of see Maura as a mother-type figure. Or maybe just a big sister. I don’t know which. All I know is that I feel close to and completely comfortable opening up to her.

  But as comfortable as I feel around her, at her core she’s a taskmaster. Demanding. She pushes me harder and farther than I ever thought I could go. It’s frustrating at times, but it has also showed me that there is more to me than I thought. She makes me see that my limits don’t exist anywhere but in my mind, and they don’t have to define me.

  “And speaking of keeping you on track…”

  I laugh as she lets her voice trail off – her meaning is more than clear. Subtlety has never been one of Maura’s greatest gifts.

  “Don’t worry, the book is on track, Maura.”

  “Is it?”

  I’ve never known anybody who can infuse two words with more skepticism than Maura. She never fails to make me feel like a teenager getting busted sneaking in after curfew when she knows I’m lying to her – even when I’m not exactly lying. I’m just stretching the truth a little bit.

  “I may have hit a small snag,” I admit.

  “A snag?”

  “The words just aren’t flowing well today,” I explain. “The last couple of days, to be honest.”

  The sigh on the other end of the line is audible and dramatic. Maura obviously wants me to know she’s disappointed in me.

  “You know you have a deadline coming up, don’t you?” she intones.

  “Kind of hard to forget with you reminding me every other day,” I laugh.

  Maura laughs. “It’s been at least three days since I last reminded you.”

  I grumble under my breath. “I’m just stuck right now.”

  “Well you need to get yourself unstuck, missy.”

  “I know, I know,” I let out a long breath.

  “My suggestion is to get out of where you are right now – where you’ve presumably been the last couple of days –”

  “My writing room inspires me.”

  “Yeah, I can tell by your case of writer’s block.”

  I snort. “I don’t believe in writer’s block.”

  “I don’t believe in paying taxes. And yet, I have to do it year after year,” Maura shoots back. “Get out of your office. Get your mojo going elsewhere. You never know, a change of scenery can do you a world of good.”

  I tug on the end of my hair then twirl the end around my finger. I’ve never been stuck like I am now. Frankly, it’s kind of freaking me out.

  “You’ve got to follow up Obsidian Fields strong,” Maura twists the screws a little more. “Do that, knock the socks off the publisher, and you’re going to be set, kiddo.”

  Yeah, no pressure or anything. I’ve always thought I thrived under pressure, but this is showing me that I’m not as immune to it as I thought I was. Which sucks on a whole bunch of levels.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I finally concede. “Maybe I need to get out of here for a little bit.”

  “Of course I’m right,” Maura preens. “Now get out of there and go knock out a best seller for me. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll get out of here.”

  “Good girl.”

  The aroma of coffee is thick in the air, as is the combination of music and the buzz of conversation. When I first started writing, I normally sat my butt down in a chair in this same coffee house and would spend most of the day there, knocking words out. I always enjoyed the atmosphere and thought I did some good work here. It was in this coffee house that I wrote ninety-nine percent of Obsidian Fields.

  Once Maura started shepherding me along this path and I got more ‘serious’ about my work, I felt like I needed to have a more ‘serious’ working environment. I love my office and do good work in there, but as I’m finding out, sometimes it’s good to get back to your roots. Like they say, don’t ever forget where you came from.

  So here I am, back in my usual seat at the table in front of the large picture windows that allow all of the natural light to flood in. It’s almost like coming home after being away for a long time.

  “One white chocolate mocha with a cherry drizzle.”

  Scratch that, it’s exactly like coming home after a long time away. I look up and see Taryn – one
of the baristas who’s been here for a long time, who I got to know while I was working on Obsidian – standing there with my usual drink. Given how long it’s been since I’ve been in, I’m surprised she still remembers.

  “You are a godsend,” I tell her.

  Taryn smiles. “It’s nice to see you again, Ms. Big Time.”

  “I’m hardly big time,” I laugh.

  “Sure you are,” Taryn says. “You’ve got speaking engagements, you’re doing interviews –”

  “That’s all because of my agent. She’s very good at what she does.”

  Taryn smiles. “And you’re very good at what you do. I read your book. It was good.”

  “Thank you,” I look away, feeling the heat flaring in my cheeks. “I appreciate that, Taryn.”

  She sets my drink down on the table in front of me and looks at my computer screen. “Working on the follow up?”

  “I am indeed,” I confirm.

  “Ooh, any way I can get a little preview?”

  I laugh. “Sorry. My publisher would murder me,” I explain. “Besides, this is total garbage anyway.”

  Taryn laughs. “I somehow doubt that,” she nudges me. “But hey, if there’s any way you can sneak me a preview copy, I’ll give you some honest feedback. Just throwing it out there.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I give her a smile as she turns and heads back for the counter. That’s the one thing I miss about doing my work down here – the sense of community. Family in a way. But, between the music, the buzz of conversation, and the people who interrupt me, I can’t do it. It took me twice as long to write Obsidian as it should have, simply because I was spending more time chatting it up than working. Now that I have deadlines and a publisher – not to mention my agent – breathing down my neck, I can’t afford the distractions anymore.

  But, as a change of pace and scenery, it’s nice being back. Maybe this will kickstart my creative juices again.

  I take a sip of my coffee and stare at my computer screen, reading over the last chapter I’d written. What had seemed like complete trash before I left my condo suddenly doesn’t seem entirely terrible in a different setting. Sure, it needs some tweaks here and there – maybe a paragraph here or there needs a rewrite – but overall, the whole thing doesn’t need to be set on fire like I originally thought.

  It’s not much but it’s something. It’s a start.

  I take another sip of my drink to fortify myself and put my head down, then get to work. I don’t know what it is – maybe my coffee is actually magic juice, or the coffee house itself is some sort of magical realm – but the words just start flying.

  Whatever blockage had been stuck in my head earlier is suddenly dislodged and I find myself on a big writing tear. The words are just flying out of my head almost faster than my fingers can keep up with. Being in this kind of a zone feels so damn good. It’s almost like being in a Zen-like state. Almost a trance.

  When I finally look up, three hours and four cups of coffee have passed. I was in such a groove, I don’t even recall Taryn stopping by to drop off fresh drinks for me. I scroll back through what I wrote during my session and give myself a mental high five. What I wrote is pretty damn good and puts me almost back on the track I need to be on to hit my deadline.

  “You looked lost in thought there for a while.”

  I smile up at Taryn. “Thanks for keeping the coffee coming.”

  “Hey, I’m happy to be the one who fuels the great artiste,” she beams. “I expect to see the next book dedicated to me, though.”

  She makes me laugh. “Count on it.”

  Taryn is smiling as she turns away and heads back to the counter to service a pair of giggling schoolgirls. I rub my eyes and look at my laptop screen again, just taking another look at the work and noting what needs to be touched up later.

  As I sit there poring over my words, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. An icy finger trails its way down my spine that makes me shudder. Turning, I scan the coffee house, positive I’m being watched. But the place is less than half full, and nobody seems to be paying the slightest bit of attention to me. And yet, that feeling of being observed persists.

  I clear my throat and try to refocus myself on the work in front of me. But no matter how hard I try to concentrate, I can’t stop feeling the eerie sensation of having eyes on me. I look around again, but there isn’t anybody in the coffee house looking my way. Everybody either has their face buried in a phone or laptop or is engaged in a conversation.

  “Get you another?”

  A squeal erupts from my throat as I spin around to find Taryn standing there, my outburst having obviously startled her. She laughs nervously and gives me a strange expression.

  “You okay, Felicity?”

  Feeling like a total moron, I put on my best smile. “Yeah, sorry. Just really into the work and I’m at a tense part of the piece that has me a little on edge, I suppose.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s decaf for you then,” she teases.

  “Actually, I think I’m going to knock off,” I respond. “I made some good progress today.”

  “Good, then I’ll expect to see your butt in that seat more often.”

  “Thanks for everything today.”

  “Anytime,” Taryn says, then dances off.

  I pack up my things quickly. I hate breaking that flow of words and know I should probably stay for another hour or so, just to put me ahead of schedule. Or at least, make sure I stay on schedule. But the feeling of being watched is so strong, so disconcerting, and so downright creepy, I just want to get out of here. As freaked out as I am, I don’t know that I’m going to be very productive anyway.

  Maybe I should go see my brother to have my head examined. His office is only a few blocks from here. I can pop in, get my head shrunk, and see where my paranoia is coming from. Then again, maybe it’s the paranoia that makes me a good writer. I’m able to imagine all sorts of creepy, freakish scenarios to evoke that sort of reaction from my readers. And if I can’t feel it, how can I expect them to?

  By time I’m slinging my computer bag over my shoulder and waving goodbye to Taryn, I’m feeling slightly better. Clearly the combination of my imagination and excessive amounts of caffeine combined to freak me out. Which in turn, made me look like an idiot.

  I push through the doors and step out onto the street. Spring is almost here, but winter isn’t leaving without a fight. The last vestiges of it are clinging tightly to the air, and I shiver as a cold wind rushes by, chilling me to the bone. I pull my coat a little tighter around myself and head toward the parking lot.

  As I walk, that feeling of being watched not only comes roaring back but gets even stronger. I feel like somebody is standing right behind me. I can practically feel their breath, warm on the back of my neck. As hard as I try to ignore it, the feeling continues and every single warning bell in my head is going off. My brain is telling me to duck my head and run for my life.

  Stopping abruptly, I spin around and have to bite back the yelp that’s halfway out of my mouth already. Standing on the sidewalk, about thirty yards back, is the man I saw at the last book signing – the guy with the hoodie. He’s wearing a ballcap pulled low over his eyes, keeping me from getting a good look at his face, but it’s definitely him. There is no question about it in my mind.

  The scene at the bookstore was based on a feeling. Seeing him standing there in the back of the room, his hoodie pulled tight around his head, the guy gave off a creepy vibe. Seeing him standing here now takes that creepy vibe to a whole new level. This guy’s creepy factor is off the charts.

  Seeing him at the bookstore once might have just been a coincidence of timing. He very well may have just been shopping. But seeing him out here on the street is something else entirely. And I don’t buy the idea that it’s simply a coincidence. Not anymore.

  The guy just stands there, staring at me. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything – and we stand there like two o
ld west gunslingers staring off for a duel at high noon. The crowd of people on the sidewalk flows around us like a river flows around a rock in the middle of its path. The tension in the air ramps up and gets so thick, I can barely breathe. Then I see one corner of the man’s mouth pull upward as he gives me a sinister-looking grin.

  That’s it for me. My nerve breaks, and I quickly turn and rush off, no longer heading for the parking lot, but deciding to stay on the street among people. I thread my way through the crowd on the sidewalk and cast a glance over my shoulder. I can see the top of the ballcap moving through the crowd as well. He’s following me.

  At the next street, I take a quick right and head down a block or so until I come to a tall professional building – the building where my brother keeps his office. Given the fact that I’m a grown woman, it’s probably silly for me to go running to my big brother, but it feels natural. He’s always watched over me. He’s always been my protector. And right now, I feel like I can use some protecting.

  I’ve never been followed like this before or had a stalker. Ballcap guy is my first. And I can’t say I’m a big fan of it.

  As I push my way through the doors of the office building, my heart is hammering a staccato beat in my chest. The adrenaline coursing through me – along with the massive amount of caffeine I ingested – has me trembling like a junkie coming off a detox. I’m shaking so hard, I actually miss the button for the elevator – twice – before I manage to finally stab it with my finger. The button lights up, and I keep one eye on the front doors of the building as I count down the floors.

  Finally, the car arrives, the doors sliding open with a chime. As the three people inside filter out, I take one last look at the front doors of the building. Ballcap guy hasn’t come in, but he’s lingering on the sidewalk outside. He disappears from view as the crowd out there moves by him, but when there’s a break in the people, I see him still standing there. Watching me.

  I hop into the car and hit the button for my brother’s floor probably harder than necessary. I hit it again and again, willing the doors to slide shut. After what feels like a year, totally exposed in the empty elevator car, the doors close and I’m on my way up to the tenth floor.