| |
I feel the goodness of the Jameson whiskey shot as it kisses my insides with its tender lips. I follow up with a sip of beer. My pulse has normalized by now and I’m as ready as I ever will be to hear all about the impossible million-dollar deal my host was just handed on a silver platter that would make John the Baptist jealous.
“News?” I say, acting baffled. “I’m sorry, I’ve been isolated inside my studio all day. What news would that be, kids?”
Jenny and Matthew give one another a look like this is the moment they’ve been waiting for all day. I can tell that they are the kind of couple who don’t need to speak actual words to communicate precisely what one another is thinking. Together, as if on cue, they turn to me.
“Jenny got herself one hell of a book deal,” Matthew says. “A fucking out of this fucking world fucking book deal. Please pardon my French, Martin.”
“No apologies necessary,” I say feigning total glee and over-the-top excitement, when in fact I’m feeling a slow burn beginning at the tips of my toes and working its way up my legs, spine, and head.
“A one-million-dollar advance,” Jenny goes on. “For hard and soft cover, plus audio. My agent says the movie rights are about to be scooped up too. I can’t believe my luck, Martin. In some ways, I feel like I have you to thank for it.”
“Me,” I say, pouring my own shot of whiskey and another for Matthew. “What in the world did I have to do with it?”
“Oh, well, one day maybe you’ll find out,” Jenny says, while offering not me, but her husband a wink.
Strange. They’re keeping something secret from me. That much is obvious. But perhaps the secret is entirely benign. Maybe what she means is, that if she hadn’t been a fan of mine, she would not have been inspired to write a million-dollar opus.
I ask who her agent is and her new publisher. She tells me. I’ve heard of the publishing company of course because it’s one of the last ones standing in New York City. But I’m a little vague on the agent. He sounds young. Rather, I’m guessing he’s a young go-getter who will make his fortune, invest it all in crypto, and flee the New York City sinking ship when the getting’s good. To say agents come and go in the publishing business is like saying there’s some salt water in the Pacific.
I must not be showing my happy face anymore because Jenny looks into my eyes and says, “Is something wrong, Martin?”
Her words take me by total surprise. My chest goes tight and the slight dizziness returns. I drink some beer and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Why do you say that, Jenny?” I say.
“Because of your facial expression,” she says. “It just made a nosedive.”
Note to self: put on your big boy pants, Martin, and don’t ruin this girl’s day in the shining sun, even if you are finding yourself so jealous you fully expect your head to explode all over their back deck—blood, flesh, bones, and brains galore.
I once more smile.
“I’m sorry, Jen,” I say. “Been a long, long day. By this hour of the evening, I start feeling the exhaustion coming on. I show it in my face. I’m very happy for you in fact.”
She drinks a swig of her beer and looks at me not with a happy face, but a stern face.
“You certainly don’t seem it,” she says.
My chest grows tighter. What exactly the hell is going on here? Shouldn’t she be treating her dinner guest better than this? Instead, she’s berating me over a facial expression I didn’t even realize I was making.
“No, you’re wrong,” I insist. “I’m very, very, very happy for you.”
Just then, Matthew returns. Almost like a professional waiter, he’s carrying a plate of cheese and crackers in one hand, and a plate of steaks in the other for grilling. He sets them down on the table. More specifically, he sets the cheese and crackers between him and Jenny as though the hor d’oeuvres are intended for her and him only.
I notice something else too. There are only two steaks on the platter. Two filet mignons. Shouldn’t there be three?
Matthew gazes at his wife.
“What’s the matter, babe?” he says.
“Martin’s a little jeally over my success,” she says. “Aren’t you, Martin?”
Matthew drinks some beer and pours himself another shot. He also sets the bottle next to the cheese and crackers like he’s made up his mind about not sharing any more of his booze with me.
“I fucking called it, didn’t I, Jen?” he says. “Martin is a washed-up old-timer who’s been forced to come face to face with the new generation of talent. Must really suck for him.”
My chest grows tighter, and the dizziness makes me feel nauseous. I can’t believe this is happening. How quickly these once nice young people have turned on me. It’s like they planned it this way from the start. Pushing out of my chair, I stand. But I’m so dizzy, I nearly fall over. Quickly, I place both my hands flat on the table to regain my balance.
“What’s the matter, Jeally Martin?” Jenny says. “You going to pass out on us again?”
“No,” I say. “I’m...leaving.”
I feel my stomach turning over and I suddenly feel like I’m going to vomit.
“But please,” I go on, “is it okay if I use your bathroom quickly?”
“Inside, next to the front vestibule and Jenny’s office,” Matthew says. “Make it quick and don’t stink the joint up. Got it?”
“I won’t,” I mumble. “Thank you.”
“You’re very fucking welcome,” Matthew says. Then, as he stands, “Jen, my millionaire love of my life, how would you like your steak?”
“Bloody,” she says. “I like my steak, very raw and bloody. The more blood the better, don’t you think?”
I listen to her words. Where have I heard them before? Turning, I go for the slider doors that access the home’s interior. As I’m crossing over the dining room to the bathroom, it comes to me. One of Jennifer’s texts regarding Sunday night.
“...steak very raw and bloody...I like mine bloody. The more blood the better don’t you think? Flesh and blood...”
Running to the bathroom, I drop to my knees before the bowl and heave. Everything inside me empties into it. It takes no more than a few seconds. But I feel one hundred times better. Standing, I flush the toilet, rinse my mouth out at the sink, and wash my hands. Drying them, I step into the vestibule and eye the front door.
Is Jenny actually Jennifer? Is Matthew Jennifer too? All I want to do is grab my keys, open the front door, head for my truck, and get the hell out of that place as fast as I can. But my eyes gravitate to Jenny’s office. I left the sliding glass door off the back deck open wide enough to hear them chatting it up outside. It’s hard to make out what they’re saying, but for sure I make out the ridiculous bastardized word “jeally” a few times. At this point, I don’t give a rat’s ass if they’re disparaging me or if this little dinner date was a total setup to get their jollies.
All I care about is getting out of here. But first, my gut tells me to take a quick look at Jenny’s office. From the vestibule, I can easily see her desk, plus the laptop that’s set on it and the neat pile of pages set beside it. Manuscript pages.
“Inquiring minds want to know,” I whisper.
Stepping into the office, I also pull out my pistol. The tightness in my chest has suddenly turned to rage, and my pulse is beating fast. But it’s beating overheated blood. If Matthew or Jenny or both come after me, maybe I’ll put a bullet in their brains. Once that’s done, it’s just a matter of finding a place to bury them which won’t be at all difficult seeing as we’re surrounded by thick woods.
To my right is a closet. The accordion doors that access it are open. I see dozens of cheap cell phones stacked on the shelf. They are still protected in their plastic and cardboard packaging.
“Ghost phones,” I whisper. “Throw away phones.”
I swallow something bitter and dry because it’s then I realize I haven’t found Jennifer so much as she/he has found me. Going to the desk, I confirm my deduction by gazing at the title page of Jenny’s new manuscript.
It reads...
(Working title) Jennifer: A Psychological Suspense Thriller
“Of course, it does,” I say while going to the first chapter and reading the words exactly as I wrote them.
1
Writer’s Block
The writing studio is chilly this late Fall morning. No, that’s not right. It’s downright cold and uninviting like an invisible enemy is sharing the small space along with me, just waiting to pounce on me and begin cutting me into a thousand little pieces so that I suffer terrible pain, dread, and agony before the Lord finally takes me. But then, I’m not sure there is a God.
I read no further. What’s the point? The rage is so intense, that my eyes are seeing through a filter of red. With my pistol in hand, I cross the office floor, step back into the vestibule and...