Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) Page 3

“You should tell ’em and get someone else then.”

  “Yo, check this out, Mike.” He put his hand up as though vying to catch a basketball. “They’ve got some dimwit who’s afraid of bugs working for an extermination company!”

  “What?!” Mike burst out laughing.

  “Yeah! Who tha fuck does that? Who hires a guy to do a job when he is scared of the damn job? That’s like hirin’ someone to fix your roof but they’re afraid of heights, or me havin’ bibliophobia but trying to write.”

  “What the hell is bibliophobia?”

  “What do you mean? It’s the fear of books!”

  “Fear of books?” Mike looked Sloan up and down as if his hairy butt was suddenly exposed and the crack was farting out the alphabet in Chinese. “You say that shit like it’s a given that I should know what it is.”

  “But cha know all the major beer brands, categorized according to average price for a six pack.”

  “That’s important information! Anyway, who tha fuck is afraid of books? What’s tha big deal? A paper cut from turnin’ the pages? One of ’em fallin’ on your head and giving you amnesia?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s a real phobia. Seriously, look it up. It’s in the psych magazines and everything.” He took a hard chug from his bottle, which compressed as he sucked in air while downing the water.

  “What kind of whack job psychology is that? Anything goes now, ya know? And they want to slap on a label and call it mental illness. Before ya know it, someone will be on trial for murder and blame it on bibliophobia…”

  “Oh, come on now.” Sloan smirked. “You gotta broaden your horizons, Mike.”

  “No, seriously! The world has gone crazy. They’d try sayin’ they felt their life was in danger because the teacher was wavin’ a goddamn book around! Nerve of that teacher! How dare she!” Sloan cracked up laughing and shook his head at his silly friend. “ ’Fraid of books? Get tha fuck outta here! Ahhhh!” Mike waved his hands in faux frenzy as he spun around in a circle. “Everybody run ’nd hide! There’s a goddamn library less than a hundred feet away! Save yourselves!”

  Sloan’s gut revolved in merriment, though the recently sprung joy soon soured as he heard another clattering crash in the kitchen.

  “Sorry!” came the same shaky voice from before.

  “Mr. Steele, where’d you like this? It’s not labeled,” one of the movers asked, holding up a large evergreen plastic bin. His heart beat a bit faster as his eyes locked on the thing.

  “You can uh, just put it right here.” The burly man obliged before heading back out the propped open front doors to retrieve more of his items. Sloan knelt before it, ran his hand across the lid, and took a hearty breath. He could hear Mike polishing off his drink before the man noisily crushed the thing in his big palm.

  “I’m goin’ back out to the moving truck to make sure they’re not breaking any more of your shit. You should have paid for good movers. These fuckers are like the Three Stooges times two.” He tossed the thing into a heap of discarded newspapers and bubble wrap, and marched past him.

  “Everyone else cost too much,” Sloan mumbled, his gaze still affixed to the bin. He gently lifted one corner up.

  “Ya get what cha pay for, Mista Famous! Quit being cheap—that’s why you’ve got broken shit now and have no exterminator. Ratatouille with his 369 rabid rat kids will remain in your humble abode, rent-free, I might add.”

  “He’s a great cook, right? Hell, if I become his landlord, it’s all good. He can afford it.”

  “That’s all an act. He’s a mafia boss by night. Tomorrow you may wake up wit’ one of these stinkin’ creatures sitting on your chest, its beady little black eyes staring you down and asking if you wanna piece of him!”

  “I still have my gun, Mike. I’ll ask him if he wants to meet my little friend!”

  “You’re too cheap to have actually bought bullets…” The bastard cackled as he disappeared out the open double stained glass front doors.

  Sloan grabbed the other corner and lifted, then let the cover slide off to the floor. He coughed into a closed fist when a cloud of dust formed from the impact. Waving the fog away, he took note of the carefully wrapped photos of his children, Michelle and Joel, as well as his grandson, Jacob.

  There were photographs of him at various literature award shows and a large snapshot of him and his ex-wife. On a gulp, he reached for the thing and delicately peeled back the clear protective layers. He scanned the worn, years-old image of the once happy couple floating along the Hudson River on a boating trip. His breath hitched, and he parted his dry lips, hoping to let in a bit of air, but it was no use.

  The air in the house was rigid, unyielding… like invisible bricks stacked around an emotional prison-like enclosure. He paused, feeling as if the space he suddenly dwelled in was choking him, stealing his life force and leaving him for dead. There was no reprieve here for a broken heart; still, he was drawn to the place.

  Then, just as soon as the strange feeling commenced, it ceased, and he was free to exhale once more. On a sigh, he placed the print back inside the box and cautiously shoved the container towards a corner before peering over his shoulder at the French doors that stood ajar, leading into an expansive, vintage styled office. The room was pitch black, like thick tar wrapped around layers of soot, and that, too, was enfolded around a kind of cold death. Despite it being daytime, not a sliver of light passed through. He froze as he caught a chill, then moved an inch closer to the area.

  What was that?

  It seemed as if someone had walked within all of that murky obscurity, a human form of sorts. The silhouette was tall, slow, sluggish, but at the same time, missing parts of the whole, as if arms were nipped, part of the head missing… Before he could process what he thought he’d seen, make any sense of it, Mike burst inside, laughing loud while gripping a magazine.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “What?”

  “You never told me you were covered in Epoch!”

  “I am?” He shuffled towards his friend who thrust the thing against his chest. Opening the magazine, he looked it over with a fast eye.

  “Page 27…”

  He quickly flipped to it and, sure enough, there was his photo.

  Did they Photoshop this? I look pretty good here…

  He was clad in his black leather jacket and matching gloves, leaning against his car while the silver streaks in his beard almost glowed under the setting sun. His dark hair was brushed back from his forehead, somber eyes and knitted forehead showcasing a stern expression. Borderline intensity filled his gaze through piercing green eyes that caught the light ever so gently, and if he didn’t know himself, he’d swear the guy in that photo was some successful son of a bitch who knew about all things important, drank only expensive liquor, and was the main glittery, golden, shiny thing supreme fantasies were made of.

  “Mike, I did this interview about two months ago. I completely forgot about it.”

  “How do you forget about something like this?!” Mike looked at him through steely gray eyes. Uneven, messy brows danced above them, condemnation became stark clear in his gaze. “Never mind, you’ve been workin’ too hard; too much has happened too soon. Anyway…” The guy sighed as he looked around. “This place is nice, Sloan. You got it for a good deal, too.” He placed his hand on his hip, turning from left to right as if he were some important appraiser.

  “I basically stole it. The price was too good to pass up and I even talked it down. A little elbow grease never killed anyone and besides, I like to haggle sometimes.” He rocked back on his heels, damn proud of himself.

  “Your negotiation skills must be top notch.” He squinted at the arched ceilings. “You got a damn good deal. Too bad I can’t say the same for you and baseball.”

  “I’m not that bad!” Sloan weakly protested behind a watered down grin.

  “You suck and I’m never allowing you on my team again.”

  Sloan chuckled as he too looked up at
the arched ceilings. He scowled upon taking notice of the grandiose antique chandelier hanging above their heads, with the crystals caked in dirt.

  “As soon as I stepped inside I knew I had to have it. Love at first sight.”

  “Don’t give me that song ’nd dance. We both know it was because it was once Peter Jones’.” Mike grinned in an all-knowing way. “Who in your shoes wouldn’t want to live with the master?”

  Sloan shrugged, closed the magazine, and leaned against the wall once again. His agitation was being fed, but he wasn’t certain as to why. Ranges of raw emotions seemed to pop up at the strangest of times as of late. Everything was happening at once; after all, he hadn’t slept in days and too many things were going completely wrong. Priding himself on keeping his cool during times of stress, he suddenly no longer felt like himself as he yelled at people for the slightest indiscretion, stewed in cynicism, and occasionally refused to communicate with people he held dear. Shoving the grittiness of his sentiments deep within him, he felt them scrape his throat on their jagged journey down to his gut. And then he forced a grin; he’d keep on that mask, whether he liked it or not.

  “The man was definitely a ruler in the writing world. I just hope whatever magic he had rubs off on me a bit.” He met eyes with Mike, and a chill eddied through the air. “I’ve been in a writing slump and that deadline is not slowing down even for a second.”

  “You’ll get your mojo back; you always do.”

  Sloan nodded and turned away, not truly convinced of the encouraging words, but trying to buy them for their low, low price, all the same.

  “Well, I better get goin’, but I’ll be back over the weekend.”

  Sloan grabbed the guy and gave him a big bear hug. Mike was his college friend, his best buddy in the whole damn world. They’d been through everything together: marriages, birth of children, divorces, unemployment, the 9/11 tragedy when both of them lost close pals. They’d endured the grief together and celebrated important job promotions, supported one another at funerals of mutual friends…the whole nine. In life’s twisted ride, it was such a relief to have someone who gave a damn, travelling shotgun.

  “Thanks for helping me out.” Sloan released the sweaty beast of a man as Mike dug his hand inside the half ripped pocket of his jeans to pull out a set of keys to his big gray truck parked out in the long driveway.

  “You never have to thank me. That’s what friends do. You can repay me though.” A rascally smile lined the man’s face.

  “I’m afraid to ask how…” Sloan crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the guy, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “I wanna go out this weekend. No more avoiding the crowd shit, Sloan. It’s time you start living again, just like you promised.”

  “Start living again? I’ve got a pulse.” He smirked as he put two fingers up to the side of his throat.

  “Did you know that Maxim has fantastic nightlife?”

  “Who are you? The president of the Maxim tourist society? You got a bunch of brochures shoved in your pocket there showin’ fly fishing photos and a list of museums? Fantastic nightlife!” He rolled his eyes. “How in the hell would you know? You haven’t been here in over ten years, said it yourself, and that was you just driving through.”

  “Don’t you writers ever read?” The man quipped. “Maybe you’ve got that biblephobia shit, too.”

  “Bibliophobia! I’m not afraid of Bibles! Geesh! I’m not going to melt if you start quoting the Book of Exodus.”

  “Anyway, I looked it up online.” Mike crossed his arms over his gut and threw him a smug look.

  “You looked it up online? I thought you said the only thing the Internet was good for was free porn, sending emails, and illegal online gambling.”

  “Stop interrupting me. Let’s get back to the topic you tried to steer off of.”

  “What topic? Hey, you want some cake?”

  “Nice try, I happen to know you don’t have any cake. Look, you need to go out and play, Sloan… have some fun. Maybe you can run into something pretty, tell ’em you’re famous and finally start getting laid again.”

  “How do you know I haven’t been getting laid? You the ‘Give ’er the Bone Police, too?”

  “You ain’t been getting laid, Mack!” Mike cracked up so hard, his face turned beet red as a tiny vein bulged in the center of his forehead. “You wouldn’t be so grumpy if you were, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Ha!” Sloan vehemently shook his head. “And stop callin’ me Mack, you know I hate that. Sex though, huh? I get plenty of loving, thank you very much.”

  “Really? What’s her name?”

  “Palmetta.”

  “Your right hand does look much larger than your left,” Mike teased.

  “Yeah, and she’s a real beaut!” He waved his fingers about as if warming them up before playing the piano. “Palmetta is the palm that gives me no qualms! No nagging. No lying. Quick, what rhymes with qualms?” He snapped his fingers.

  “Vietnam.”

  “No, that doesn’t work. Anyway, she doesn’t want alimony, and that’s no bologna. This hand brings me money and my days are sunny. She’s a dream come true, got lotion for two!”

  “Bunch of excuses. Look, all jokes aside.” The man’s smile slowly melted from his expression, causing Sloan to do the same. “When ya get done jollyin’ yourself, you still aren’t happy.”

  “Now you’re the happiness police, too! Wow! I never knew you wore so many hats on that big ass head of yours, Mike. President and chief of police of smiles and giggles… Boy, I sure am lucky to have a friend like you. It’s good to have hook ups with all of these high connections. How does it feel to be such an expert, sought after by intellectuals from all over the world petitioning for your knowledge?”

  “You’re a miserable bastard, you know that?” Mike chuckled. “Anyways, my comment still stands. Ya hand can’t bring you peace of mind.” He waved his own around as if it were some catcher’s mitt.

  “Dozing off brings me peace of mind, and since I’m asleep right afterward, that’s plenty damn happy to me.”

  Mike looked at him a while, and his smile slowly faded. “You know what, Sloan? I’m on my third marriage, and you’re still stuck on your first.”

  “You say that like you deserve some sort of medal, like it’s something to puff your chest out about.”

  “It is.” Mike chuckled, though it didn’t sound sincere. “Means I don’t give up. I keep trying until I get it right. Anyway, it’s been a long time for you, buddy. Get back on the saddle, Sloan. It’s high noon. I’ll call you tonight.”

  Sloan had no desire to formulate a witty comeback or argue with the man. At that point, he just wanted Mike out of his damn house so the discussion would end.

  “Alright, take it easy and thanks again, buddy!” He put extra effort into the words and waved his friend goodbye.

  Mike took leave without another word. On a deep sigh, Sloan looked about the dwelling before leaning back against the wall. The muted voices of the movers, their heavy footsteps, and the static from the radio lulled him into a strange, albeit welcome, state of peace.

  He’d been so amped up as of late, it felt good just to sit and be still, rest his bones. The divorce from Katie, his ex-wife, had finally gone through, although they’d been living apart for over a year. Their children were grown, and life went on. He’d won several awards, hit the New York Times Bestsellers list multiple times, and received prestigious recognition for his latest published novel, “I Like Long Crawls in the Dark.”

  He had no idea the suspenseful tale of a twisted, deranged stalker—who ironically was blind and wheelchair bound after a workplace injury—would garner that sort of attention, especially since he’d poured a bit of his soul into it while he’d struggled with a curiously insane, months long bout of writing frenzy fueled by a broken heart. This was exacerbated by plentiful alcohol driven rages and a depression so horrid, it caused him to lock himself away in his home un
til the task was complete. He promised himself he’d never let that happen again… bestseller or not.

  He hadn’t been feeling like himself, and in an effort to reclaim his life and look at all the progress he’d made during such a trying time, he wanted a clean slate. So, he moved out of his prestigious Manhattan apartment with glass walls and ultra modern minimalist décor, and told himself he had one week to find a new residence and become the writer he knew he was, deep within. Such a place, he decided, would have to be located away from the city, but close enough to his kids, colleagues, and friends where all he had to do was jump in the car and make the trek.

  Besides, he was a bit tired of the city, which was all he’d known his entire life. Since his childhood growing up with his father, sister, and two brothers, they’d been crammed in tiny brick apartments with loud neighbors who woke him up with their belligerent cursing, bloody physical altercations, and overzealous reconciliation fucking. Even when he’d made it out on his own, no matter how modern, expensive, and incredible his pad was, he’d once again be faced with hearing the sounds of the city.

  The roar of the trains clanked over the tracks, the hustle and bustle of frantic energy oozing out of every nook and cranny as people’s feet pounded the pavement and their voices carried. The honking, zooming taxis and delivery trucks blocked left and right turns on his busy commute. He loved and hated those sounds, just like he loved and hated so many prickly, painful commemorations that threatened to resurface and fill his brain with repeating regrets… because sometimes, though aching and sensitive to the touch, they had soft edges…

  But now, he craved soft edges all over, like cool, fresh pillows atop a fluffy set of expensive bed sheets. He needed something a tad quieter, something with charm, but not too remote, and altogether different. He didn’t want to live in Jersey or Maine. He wasn’t interested in setting up residence in Pennsylvania or New Hampshire, either. But lo and behold, in a tiny sash of land right at the top western edge of New York State sat Maxim. It fit the bill. Although sandwiched between two states, each of them claiming it as its own, it technically belonged to New York. It was just one of those hard to describe places, but once you entered the area, you suddenly felt different, as if surprises awaited you, and strange, perhaps forbidden pleasures and unearthed secrets would be at your disposal too.