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By the time I get out of the shower, and get redressed (in the spare guestroom), in a clean pair of jeans, a button-down work shirt, and my worn pair of brown Nacona cowboy boots, it’s going on five in the early evening. Happy hour time. Glancing at my phone, I see that I’ve received a multi-media text. It’s from Jennifer. My heart rate ticks up a beat or two as I open it. The text is a simple one, but disturbing all the same:
XOX
It also shows a still photo of me blowing her a kiss.
“Crazy bitch is always watching me,” I whisper.
I drink down what’s left of my beer and head back downstairs. Grabbing another beer and the bottle of whiskey, I take them both with me out the kitchen door and head across the lawn to my studio. I need to find a book or two I can sign and give to the young millionaires as a gift.
Unlocking the door (with an old-fashioned key), I head inside and set the beer and whiskey on my desk. I go to the wood stove and add a couple of logs so that the studio will be warm when I get back from the young millionaire’s house.
“Fucking million-dollar deal,” I mumble to myself. “Who gets a million-dollar deal these days?” In my head, I picture Fredo, the semi-retarded brother from The Godfather. “I was passed over. I’m smart,” I bark inside the studio.
The words bring a wry smile to my face. I guess you have to look on the bright side when it comes to these matters. Let’s face it, no matter how good you are, there’s always somebody in the writing business who’s going to get all the breaks and there are going to be others who will be complete failures. I guess you could say I fall somewhere in between.
I crack open the beer, take a deep swig, and then pour myself two fingers of whiskey into the toothbrush glass. I sip the whiskey. It’s important that I feel good before I head to Jenny and Matthew’s place. I don’t know them very well. What if they have other things in mind. Like swinging for instance. How would I feel about that? Maybe they’re into cuckolding. Who the hell knows. Anything goes nowadays. Everything is permissible and what’s immoral and illegal is all the rage. The devil has taken over the country.
Shifting myself in front of the bookshelf, I go to the section that contains some of my trade paperbacks. There’s one called The Big Grift in my Frank Nash PI series. I pull it down and set it on the desk. Going around to my chair, I sit down and pick up the pen that’s set beside my computer.
Opening the book to the title page, I think about what I should write. I could use this as an opportunity to congratulate Jenny on her success, but I can’t do that. I’m supposed to act surprised when they tell me all about it. I’m drawing a blank. If there’s one thing that writers, even prolific writers find difficult to pen, it’s dedications to their own books. In the end, I settle on, “To my new friends, and good Samaritans, Jenny and Matthew.”
Closing the book, I then pull up the new novel I’m working on. I’ve still got twenty minutes to put in a writing sprint before I’m expected at their house. In just a few days, I’ve written more than 20,000 words. That’s got to be some kind of record for me. At that rate, I can have the novel finished in just a week’s time. Don’t think it’s possible? Think again. I know novelists who, under contract, have waited till the last minute and penned a full novel in a weekend, and still had time to party at night and maybe fish or ski during the day. It’s all a matter of sitting your ass in your chair for hours at a time and making up lies.
I read the last page I wrote, and I am immediately back into my story. It’s easy to be back in the story since I’m living it in real time. I can write about punching out the wall in my master bedroom as easily and naturally as I can inhale the studio’s oxygen because it all happened to me and is still happening to me.
By the time I’ve added ten more pages to the story, I’m wondering how the whole thing is going to end. For certain, it will end one way or another on Sunday when Jennifer comes for dinner. I drink one more shot of whiskey, not because I need it, but because it’s a proper reward for having written another ten pages in record time. Rather, the pages wrote themselves. The voice speaks to me, and I’m just the conduit that puts them down on digital paper. But then, you’ve heard this song and dance before.
I grab the signed novel, The Big Grift and, standing, go around my desk and head for the studio door. I’m already wearing my leather coat, and I’m also carrying my gun. Hopefully, the sight of my weapon won’t frighten the young millionaires. Maybe they will understand how personal protection is of paramount importance in these times of defunding the police and murderous criminals who can shoot a store proprietor in the head and get out on bail the same day. Because after all, it’s our repressive society that made the killer an asshole.
Exiting the studio and locking the door from the outside, I make my way across the lawn with the signed book in hand, I pull out my cell phone with my free hand, and remotely lock all the doors to the house. At the same time, the exterior lighting is triggered. If Jennifer decides to sneak around tonight, maybe she’ll think twice when she sees the house is locked up tighter than a drum.
Or maybe not.