Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) (8 page)

Mama didn’t come to the funeral. No one even knew if she realized her youngest baby was dead.
We found out later she didn’t…
and I hated her even more for that…

“Sugar, I gotta finish these up.” Emerald sighed as she laid out her escape from the conversation, unable to take one more draining moment.

“All right, baby. Call me later, here?”

“I will.”

“I love you, understand? Always will.”

“I love you too, Sugar… Now please don’t forget to take your medicine and I’ll call you later tonight and check in on you.” And then she reached over and disconnected the call. But Emerald’s brain was far from finished. It didn’t shut off or disconnect from the conversation. No, it just kept on churning and burning and yearning for a closure her heart would never fully receive…

I Hate People

The fastest way to get over old pussy is to get some new pussy…

R
etro-style buttercream chairs
with dark chestnut leather binding lined the crystallized amber and gold bar table that seemed to go on for miles. A live jazz band stood in the not so far distance doing a catchy rendition of ‘Woman’ by John Lennon. Mike’s shoulder bumped into his a time or two as he and four of his friends chatted it up after a long day of sightseeing and visiting the ‘Dead Flowers’ shop for kicks and giggles. Sloan slid his fingers along the Guinness pint mug, latched hold to the handle and chugged back, soon feeling a light layer of froth tickle his upper lip as tiny bubbles burst against his skin.

“Now they’re cookin’!” Mike slurred, half drunk, as an interesting interpretation of Toto’s ‘Africa’ began to play. “Yeah! Takes me back to my college days.” His full, plump cheeks pushed upward, almost swallowing his tiny, glimmering eyes. “Remember?”

A tinge of pain gripped Sloan’s heart upon recalling those untroubled days. He missed them… the freedom, being completely careless and carefree, a time when life was still simple. A time before he’d become embroiled in the aftermath of loss and consequences. Before he’d gotten a big nasty dose of reality, the one that woke him up and never let him slumber in peace again.

“Yeah.” He nodded, raising the glass to his lips again, knowing damn well the well had run dry. “I remember those days. Good times.”

“A Sloan,” his old work friend David chimed in from the other side of Mike. “There’s some nice looking ladies here.” He winked at the man in a silly sort of way. “If I were single, I’d mingle.”

“What?” Sloan shrugged. “You’re taking lessons from Mike here on tormenting me? Look, guys, I just moved here, all right? I’m tryna work.” He tossed up his hands. “My publisher is waiting for my book, breathing down my damn neck. I got only half the electricity running in the house, and only one of the johns flushes without backing up. I have barely gotten any sleep from all the unpacking, stripping the walls, cleaning, tossin’ shit out and painting, and my son, the forever child, keeps asking me for money.” He smiled lightly. “The last thing on my mind is getting a broad.”

“But you need it.” Mike grinned.

This conversation seemed to have no end in sight.

“What I
need
is a good night’s rest.” He chuckled. “My new bed finally arrives tomorrow. Sleeping on that air mattress Michelle let me borrow just isn’t cutting it.” He ran his hand over his sore shoulder, still feeling the sting from the restless snooze.

“I’m trying to imagine your tall ass on a little air mattress, Sloan!” David chuckled so hard, he could hardly get the words out. “Didn’t your daughter buy that for her kid? I bet it looks like a damn horse tryna get settled on one of those twisty balloons the clowns roll up into all sorts of shapes!” Sloan casually threw up his middle finger in the bastard’s direction, but this only caused more guffawing.

“Have you tried any dating services? eHarmony isn’t half bad!” Owen chimed in, shaking his shoulder length salt and ginger hair as if he’d been caught in the rain.

“Nah.” Sloan turned and gave a lazy glance to the band that now played a depressing tune he could have done without: ‘If You Leave Me Now’ by Chicago. “It would be awkward. It’s not really my thing. I mean…” He shrugged. “What would I say in a personals ad, anyway?”

“What do you mean what would you say? You’re a fucking writer.” Owen laughed dismally, as if this were a no-brainer. “I’m sure you could write a woman’s panties right off her body. Your pen is your new penis.” At this, the other guys got to laughing as well, causing a wave of silly warmth to hold him close. He laughed at the words, too… Thoughts of his picture in that magazine Mike had thrust in his face hit him, as well as the things he’d expressed in the interview. That man that had stared back at him from the page looked confident; his librettos were crisp, concise. It seemed like the Sloan Steele of that interview knew what he was doing…

I sure know how to play a role now, don’t I? I was so good at pretending in that interview, I almost convinced MYSELF it was true…

…And why do they keep trying to get me to date? Yeah, I know how long it’s been, but time is relative, right? My marriage has actually been over for a long time; to be exact, over two years, divorce finalized six months and two weeks ago. Will I ever forget the timeline? Doesn’t seem like it. I can barely recall how old I am, but I know the exact date of when everything fell apart…

This is bullshit. The whole dating scene is bullshit.

I don’t have time for that… Besides, I have bags under my eyes and I am exhausted. This renovation is killing me, but I’m determined to finish it as soon as possible. I’m full of excuses. Fuck this, fuck it all…

Excuses… just what Mike accused him of time and time again, but it was true; he was fatigued and the rest he did get was often disturbed. He hadn’t told a soul, but sometimes, while asleep in his new home, he’d hear a peculiar racket, as if someone were shuffling about, walking along the floorboards. Every time he’d get to his feet with his gun in tow, the noises would stop. Occasionally, a door would open all on its own, or at least sound as if it were… slow and creaky, then close just as sluggishly, as if whatever had unlocked the thing and took a glance had seen enough to fulfill its curiosity.

Sometimes he could swear he’d caught the scent of a cigar, a brand he never smoked. He’d push the occurrences out of his mind until he’d awaken to a window unbolted, letting Jack Frost and all of his frozen henchmen climb through and chill him to the bone. He knew he wouldn’t have raised the damn thing; it was September and the weather was getting unpredictable. Despite all of this, he was hell-bent on convincing himself that it was all in his head.

Nothing startling had occurred; nothing he couldn’t find some way to rationalize, a plausible explanation. Besides, believing in ghosts was based on silly superstition, and he prided himself on being clearheaded and rational, only delving into fantasies when he’d sit down at his computer and type out bizarre stories where pretend astral worlds inhabited by bloodthirsty red-skinned aliens killed each other with invisible swords christened in poison; Amazon women ruled the world and used ‘normal sized’ men as sex toys; and fishermen discovered the bones of scaly deep sea monsters washed ashore but soon found they belonged to a species that wasn’t much different from man…

He wrote spine-tingling mysteries of the psychologically depraved and vivid sci-fi. These were his niches and his fan base showed their appreciation in droves. At times, they were the only thing that kept him going—self-imposed medication for a mind on the brink of depression and insanity. Receiving fan emails and requests for book signings allowed him to escape his own personal Hell. Pushing away the discouraging thoughts, he motioned the bartender who quickly served him another beer, this one even more enjoyable than the first. The guys sat around talking about the good ol’ days, and he’d give a head nod or perfectly timed chuckle to prevent from arousing their suspicions that he was there with them physically, but mentally, he was a million miles away.

He had to leave; he had to disappear inside of himself because now the band performed ‘November Rain’ by Guns N’ Roses, the song that had played over dinner in their home in Manhattan when the end came crashing down. His ex-wife leaned forward in her sheer white blouse, smelling of another man’s cologne. If he were a betting man, he’d say the inside of her mouth had traces of another man’s cum. She wore a slight smile on her face, lips glossy and blood red as if they’d been bleeding; and then, just like the rain in November, she delivered depression via a declaration. His eyes had welled with angry tears as she’d sat there calmly, a callous chill to her tone, with her fingers caressing the side of her wine glass, she uttered the silver bullet words that pierced his soul,

“Sloan, I want out. I don’t love you anymore…”

How many different types of limes can there be?

It was 1:29
in the morning. Emerald stood in the produce aisle of Whole Foods, her basket full of fragrant oranges, a pound of freshly carved corned beef—well, as fresh as one would expect at 1:29 a.m.—and a whole red onion to soon be diced into a crisp salad. She’d also picked up a bag of the sea-salted potato chips she told herself she was going to stop purchasing to no avail. She preferred to do her shopping late at night, despite her daughter’s occasional protests that she was begging to get mugged or worse. Besides, a craving had called. She had an urge to make margaritas—yes, at that late hour—so the limes were imperative but she’d never seen such an assortment before. Reaching across the carefully placed fruit and playing a silly game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe, she grabbed hold to one that looked vibrant and healthy, gave it a slight squeeze and hearty sniff, then placed it along with a few others inside her basket before strolling off to the candy aisle. She sighed with premature regret as she drew closer, hating her sweet tooth; the damn thing ruled her as of late.

They said the cravings would get easier during menopause, not be as bad as when I had my period regularly…

Whomever
they
were had lied. The cold sweats were sporadic but happened frequently enough to remind her that her womb was on strike with the rest of her body, and her eggs were standing on the picket line waving fallopian tubes as political signs in protest. She ran her hand across her forehead, feeling a moment coming on. Sighing, she practiced mind over matter as her body turned into a damn inferno.

I’m forty-nine years old craving gummy bears and sweating like a human sprinkler system. Jesus!

After another minute or two, the spell was over and she maneuvered closer to the chocolate bars. On a deep swallow, she wielded an anticipatory smile and reached for the large bag of assorted Nestle brand miniatures. Pleased with her selection, she let the big heavy bag slump to the far side, causing the weight to angle the thing in such a way that it now shoved and poked at her skinny jean clad legs.

She paused and looked down at her thighs.

She loved her legs. They were the one thing… well, two… on her body that reminded her that, no matter what happened, she was still a lady and had some great assets. Those legs took her to the places she wanted to go. They carried her into work each and every morning. Those legs would bend and dip and help a crying child who’d dropped their teddy bear in a state of panic. Those legs would run up and down the streets close to her townhouse in an effort to stay in shape, especially after taking Ben and Jerry’s to town the night before. She enjoyed threesomes of the dessert kind… Those legs still made men pause and women roll their eyes, and they were hers, all hers, and she loved every long, luscious inch of them.

Even her twenty-four year old daughter would occasionally tell her, ‘Mama, you still got it going on!’ A wave of melancholy suddenly encompassed her as she paused a few steps away from the dairy aisle. Frozen, she just stood there, like the jugs of coconut milk and low-fat yogurt a few aisles over, curdling and getting old and unwanted as they approached their expiration date.

Nikki, I miss you…