Close to Home

by Nolon King

  “He’s so fucking weird,” Kari often said, though she also liked to play along, and probably a lot more than she would ever admit to Corban.

  But Corban would take Ollie’s weird over his own father’s, every time.

  It wasn’t even the jokes that irked Corban so deeply, it was how pleased with himself he always was. Corban had never known anyone who laughed at their own jokes more, except for maybe Levi, and that was only because he was Dad’s Mini-Me.

  Levi would probably grow up and cheat on his wife, too. Then maybe his son would also have to keep it a secret. And—

  “What are you thinking?”

  But Corban couldn’t tell Kari that. “Just wondering what your dad is doing this time.”

  “Wanna play the guessing game? I’ll go first. I think he’s looking for the entrance to Narnia. Your turn.”

  But Corban was having a hard time coming up with a guess.

  Because he was wondering what his own father might be doing instead.

  Chapter Seven

  Selena drew sharp black lines across each of her last three ideas, deep and dark, over and over, as if to punish them for revealing her ineptitude.

  She had to get this right. Her career had been steady, but it was about to get explosive. She’d been lucky enough to land Sam Atkins as her agent. The man had been right about everything so far. And despite some rather lofty promises, he had yet to come up short on a single one.

  But some of Selena’s success so far had been straight-up luck and she knew it. How to Murder the Killer Inside You was a bucket of popcorn at best. Her research was based on a single case study, and one she wouldn’t publicly divulge. What the book lacked in research, she made up for with personality. How ironic that her first book to get almost universally panned by her peers was also the first to sell more than a million copies.

  Selena moved more copies of Killer Inside You in any given day than her most well-received book did in a year.

  But this next book had to be better. A perfect blend of the research and thought that gave her early body of work so much praise, infused with the personality that leveraged her worldview into what promised to be must-see TV.

  Selena was grateful for Sam, and that he’d sold the pitch on her single-sentence what if?

  But she had no idea that he could do that at the time. If she’d realized how much pull he had, she would never have let the brain fart leave her mouth.

  What if I wrote a book about how to kill the serial killer inside you?

  Selena didn’t even get a second sentence. She had one, a whole explanation ready to go. She would have admitted that she only had a single case study, and that the idea was unproven, though it was something she’d been thinking about deeply for a while. It would take time, but it could be a remarkable book if done right.

  But Sam said, “Sold!” like a hard stop at the end of a sentence.

  And now, half the time, Selena regretted ever uttering that sentence. The rest of the time she looked around at what that book had brought her and felt just enough gratitude to want even more. Full of herself, but still hungry.

  She looked down at the page and started to write, flush with an idea.

  A trio of soft knocks on her office door announced Adam’s entry — he didn’t even give her a chance to ask who was there. “Hey. Am I bothering you? I don’t want to interrupt.”

  Am I bothering you?

  He had to be kidding.

  She was in her office with the door closed. Of course he was bothering her, and of course he wanted to interrupt.

  “What is it, Adam?”

  “No one’s home. We have a couple of hours. I thought maybe we could open a bottle or something.”

  “No one’s home and I have a couple of hours. I need to get something done.”

  “You’ve gotten plenty done. You’ve been in here most of the day.”

  “I’m trying to map out the next several years of work. That takes a lot of thought.”

  “Maybe you could think better with this?”

  He smiled and produced a bottle of pinot grigio like a magic trick.

  “Adam …” And now she felt bad. “I can’t.”

  He blinked, bit his bottom lip, and took a step back. Then he looked around her office for a moment as if lost, before walking over to her desk and setting the bottle atop it.

  He wasn’t going to leave.

  “Adam, I really have work to do.”

  “You always have work to do.”

  “That’s because I have a job. Several of them, remember? And all of them require a hundred percent of me.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Exactly what?”

  “This conversation bores you just as much as it does me. You’re working too much. Again. Like always—”

  “I’m doing it for our family. Just look around—”

  “No, Selena. You do it because the spotlight is a nipple and you can’t stop sucking on it.”

  Now he was pissed, his chest heaving, his upper lip curled into a snarl.

  That was better than him biting on it.

  “You don’t have to get pissed. Why don’t you just go into your office and turn this entire conversation into shit I never said so that some other comedian can pretend to be more clever than they really are?”

  “That’s a great idea, Selena. Maybe I could write a joke about a mom in the spotlight who’s happiest when her family’s in the dark?”

  “Oh, that’s great, Adam. Why are you writing for other comedians when you should be writing for Lifetime?”

  Adam grabbed the bottle of wine and pretended like he was going to leave. They both knew he wouldn't. He made it one step before turning back.

  “It doesn't always have to be like this.”

  “You mean interrupting me when I’m trying to finish the work that pays our mortgage? Or do you mean coming in here and pouting because I don’t have time to play with you?”

  Silence. The kind she hated most. Neither one of them were about to back down now. They were either going to open that bottle, or have this out in her office. Probably both.

  “Have you heard the one about the asshole husband who couldn't be a little more patient with his doctor?” Adam smiled, thin but there.

  And now she felt guilty.

  Why was it always like this?

  Why was he the one who couldn’t understand the simple things, and yet she ended up feeling guilty?

  Adam wanted to enjoy all the benefits of her success. But still he interrupted. Still tried to make light of every situation. Still made her feel like she had three children instead of two.

  It was the same fight on repeat, and she was finished with it.

  She wasn’t obsessed with her work; Selena was determined to get things right. Do the best possible job. Reach for every rung above her so that she could climb, climb, climb, while carrying her family on her back.

  She wasn’t choosing career over family, she was using the first to improve the second.

  Why should she have to feel guilty?

  “I’m sorry,” Adam continued. “Take your time. The bottle should breathe anyway. We’ll toast when you’re done.”

  She could’ve taken the victory. But it didn’t feel like one. It felt like kicking a puppy who’d already rolled over and shown her its throat.

  Selena sighed. “It’s fine. My flow is already broken.”

  Adam smiled again, timid this time, not really sure if what Selena had said was good or bad.

  He crossed her office to a small liquor cart in the corner, one of her favorite pieces, bought two days after her thirtieth birthday at an estate sale three doors down from their starter home. Adam opened the bottle and poured them each a glass.

  Neither spoke until several sips had been taken. Then, finally, “What is it, Adam?”

  “What’s what?”

  “If you want to talk about something, just tell me. You don’t have to interrupt me while I’m working.”


  “You used to thank me for interrupting your work. Sometimes on top of the desk.”

  Adam glanced at the uncluttered surface. Did he really think …?

  “Things change. People grow up. Neither of us is in our twenties anymore.”

  “I’m not asking you to fuck me on the desk, Selena. I’m asking you to share a bottle of wine, on a very rare Friday night when our house is empty.”

  “And I’m asking you to understand when I’m working, and to not bother me before I’m finished. It’s easy to tell when I’m working versus when I’m not, because when I’m working the door is always closed. I shouldn't have to lock it, nor should I have to explain that to you. Yet again.”

  Her words were still measured, and her tone perfectly even. Adam’s too. But it wasn’t going to stay this way much longer.

  “You know what I’ve been wondering about a lot lately?” No pause, it wasn’t like he wanted her answer or was willing to wait for it. Or like she wanted to guess. “I’ve been wondering why you always seem to have time for the things that are important to you, regardless of how important they might be to the rest of your family.”

  “What are you trying to say, Adam?”

  “Do you really not understand? I’m asking for a little attention from my wife, once or twice a month. That’s too hard? You still have work to do? Okay, fine. I get it. But you sure do seem to be frivolous with your affections if they aren’t directed at me.”

  “Is this about Levi and Corban? Again? Jesus Christ, Adam. You favor Levi over Corban, and I coddle Corban too much. Agreed. Not much we can do about it now, since they’re both out of the house in a year. Damage done.”

  “Damage done? I doubt you would say that about a client.”

  “I have before.” Selena narrowed her eyes. Now she was pissed.

  Him too. Something horrible flashed across his face. He exhaled through his nose. Gripped the wine bottle by its neck as if it were a weapon. Then he stepped toward her.

  “Don’t push me, Selena.”

  She took a step toward him. “Or what?”

  They faced each other for a moment, their chests heaving, sweat beading both of their brows.

  Selena blinked. If he was going to derail her anyway, she might as well get something out of it. She licked her lips and fell three steps back toward the desk, lifting her skirt and spreading her legs as she sat on it, black panties now showing.

  “Is this what you want? You wanna fuck me before the boys get home?” She watched his eyes dilate, then closed her legs and gave him an evil little smile. “Or should I turn on The Thick Red Line and you can beat off to that?”

  Adam was already at the desk, grabbing her by the arm and squeezing.

  And then he was turning her around.

  Her cheek flattened against the desk as he pushed her forward.

  Her fingers bit into the wood.

  Selena’s panties flew down from her waist to her ankles in a violent swish.

  Adam’s hand was flat on her back, and then he was inside her.

  He grunted and she screamed.

  He pulled her hair and she growled back at him to imagine the blood.

  He moaned and Selena moaned harder, louder and louder until each of them finished.

  Then she gathered her panties and gave them to Adam, bunching them into his hands. “Your trophy.”

  He smiled, and she took that moment to nudge him toward the door.

  “You need a shower. And I need to finish what I was doing.”

  This time, he took the hint. Hallelujah.

  Chapter Eight

  Adam finished rinsing his hair, then stood under the scalding water for another minute or so.

  The heat was both almost too much to take and a salve.

  He wasn’t even sure why he was so bothered. His agitation usually faded after sex, but here he was still, standing in the shower, trying to figure out why the itch in the back of his head wouldn’t go away.

  Selena had gone back to work almost immediately, and her office door remained closed.

  He’d been hoping for a little post-coital conversation, but she wasn’t in the mood. The sex was great, like it usually was, but the aftermath was empty. As alluring as she’d been with Adam inside her, Selena was all business once done.

  “Your trophy,” she’d said, like a teacher handing out participation awards.

  And sure, he got it. Selena had work to do. But really, what couldn’t wait until tomorrow? It wasn’t like Sam had given her a deadline. She made a big deal about needing thinking time, expecting the world to revolve around the axis of her mind.

  He worked to deadlines, and didn’t get a choice. If Anna Lies got booked on The Tonight Show, he didn’t get the luxury of twiddling his pen for days. Those jokes had to be on the page, punched up, and over to Anna’s inbox hours after he got the text. No matter the comic, the message was usually the same:

  Hey second place. It’s a good thing you can write shit, since you sure as hell can’t deliver it. I’ve got some gig where I need to look funnier than I am, and preferably smarter. Can you drop everything you’re doing and let me take credit for your work? I’ll pay you a shit ton per word, but it’s still pennies compared to what I make for existing. The sooner the better. I’d like time to practice. It has to sound natural.

  At least his name meant something. If a script wasn’t funny, studios might send Adam a pass. But that work wasn’t consistent, and living outside of Hollywood kept him out of the game, and away from his dream job. Almond Park was Selena’s idea. She’s the one who insisted writers can write anywhere.

  Not every kind of writer.

  If Adam lived in Hollywood, he might be Judd Apatow. In Almond Park, he could only be Mr. Selena Nash.

  He got out of the shower, drying off as he glanced at the mirror. His eyes were tired and he needed a haircut. Still, he looked good for his age. Despite the seven extra pounds. But maybe his age was the problem.

  Adam thought about Dane, and the agitation was back.

  He had never really liked Dane much, but the boy had really started to bother Adam in the last few months. He was always a needy little shit, hanging around in the kitchen too long, and spending way too much time at their house. Levi and Corban both liked him a lot. Selena doted on him in her way. So Adam eventually got used to him.

  But something about the way Selena treated Dane lately had been different, and Adam just couldn’t ignore it.

  He wished he’d had the balls to bring it up in their almost-argument back in her office. That eventual blowup was a matter of when, not if. He could feel it brewing. Or maybe something else just as ugly.

  He imagined what would have happened if he had done more than fish, if he had actually said what was on his mind: Are you thinking about fucking that kid?

  He was probably being paranoid. The boy had lost his mother at a very young age. His father was kind of a dick. It was natural for him to gravitate toward a real family.

  Adam put on his boxers and a black tee with bright white lettering:

  I’m a writer so that the voices in my head have something productive to do.

  Selena thought the T-shirt was funny. She wouldn’t laugh, but maybe she’d smile.

  Adam grabbed his tablet and digital pencil, then started to write.

  Loose bits, as he didn’t have a current commission. Not that it mattered, funny was funny, and while he liked to have plenty in the bank, right now the coffers were mostly empty.

  Because Adam wasn’t feeling especially funny.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Selena, and what she might be thinking about him.

  She always asked, What are you writing? even when she didn’t really want to know.

  If she didn’t think the joke was funny, he would see it all over her face.

  And if you’re trying to be funny, the last thing you want to do is care what people think of the joke. Because humor is born in the black and the blue, and you mustn’t rob it of color.
There was a freedom in ghosting the punchlines. If Wayne Hanger said something offensive, he got the glory and the shit. No one wondered if Adam Nash really thought something so awful.

  But Selena did. Right now, that kept Adam from writing.

  The pencil was moving, but the wrong words had darkened his page.

  Dangerous words that needed to be erased.

  The pencil kept moving as Adam thought about Dane, wondering if the kid was an issue or if he was growing old and paranoid. What if the problem he was sensing with Selena was really about him? Maybe he was fucking up in some way. Maybe she knew about the girl with the blood-red lipstick before he’d been ready to tell her.

  Adam looked down at his work, sickened and aroused.

  He couldn’t delete the words without reading them first.

  She’s lying naked, face down in a pool of her own blood. It’s beautiful, the way the crimson kisses her body. The pool continues to spread. The blood is fresh enough to leave its taste in the air. I lick my lips and swallow. Then I kiss her flesh, everywhere. My face is covered in her blood.

  I turn her around to stare at the front of her body. The woman in blood-red lipstick. My obsession. The perfect eyes in the perfect face on the perfect head and body. Oh, the body. I am inside it, and inside you. I live for those final few moments together, when our pulses will be pounding as one.

  Then, like always, Adam deleted the first paragraph and added the second to his archive, protecting the worst of his thoughts.

  He’d been following the woman in blood-red lipstick for a while now, and writing about her for nearly as long. His usual pattern had yet to fail him. But this was the longest it had ever been. Selena usually noticed by now. But she had never been this preoccupied.

  Or so … unavailable.

  The woman in lipstick was there whenever Adam wanted to see her. Or at least on Tuesdays and Thursdays, though only in the afternoons, and on one weekend day until closing, usually Sunday. Those seven extra pounds, all dairy, and every one of them gained after he’d started going to see her. Selena hadn’t noticed that either.

  For a moment, while he’d been fucking his wife on her desk, he’d pretended she was the woman with the blood-red lipstick.