by Lotta Smith
“Technically, they’re working. My dad and some of his friends are paying them to protest across the town, so they’re not a bunch of spoiled brats. Okay, Mia. So we’re in a messed up world. But then again, just because the world is whacked up doesn’t mean the next most eligible bachelor should go insane. Oh my—God!” Kayla inserted a very bad word between Oh my and God! “Can you believe Rick Rowling, the heir of the lovely multi-billion dollar empire USCAB, is marrying that little peasant girl—whatshername? Mindy? Landy? Or Lindy?—whatever crap her is! She’s so out of our league, you know. I really liked him! They should ban people in our league marrying outsiders!”
I half-expected Mia to mention if Kayla’s idea got actually enforced, people in their league would be congested by extra-disabled individuals due to too much incest resulting in the dominance of recessive genes, but she didn’t.
Perhaps the term incest or inbreeding weren’t listed in her vocabulary. Also, I had a hunch that genetics wasn’t something they cared about.
I knitted my eyebrows, feeling awkward. Indeed, the girls seemed to be talking about me. In my knowledge, I knew only one Rick Rowling who happened to be the heir of USCAB—short for United States Cover All Bases, a security-based conglomerate—and if I recalled it right, he was going to marry me pretty soon.
Hiding in the stall, I felt my blood boiling. I was so uncomfortable being trapped in that particular bathroom stall. First of all, people usually called me Mandy, instead of Mindy, or Lindy, or Landy. Isn’t it rude to mistake someone’s name over and over? I thought. Besides that, I wasn’t a peasant. Okay, so I wasn’t made of money, or my family came with a ton of money. Then again, Mom and Dad always reminded me that they should have been filthy rich if only they’d managed to keep me from heading for med-school in North Carolina, which I never got to graduate from.
As I thought defiantly, the mean girls went on dissing me—mutilating me into bits and pieces.
“Have you seen her hideous dress? What kind of a hillbilly matches a Dior dress with a Fendi purse? So lame. Maria Grazia Chiuri should have herself, just to get the hell out of the misery to look at her work ruined.” Mia let out an evil cackle.
“So true! Or else, she’d stabbed her eyes.” Kayla agreed. “Rick must have gone insane. Yeah, right. I think I’ve finally found the answer. He might be filthy rich, good-looking, and sexy, but he’s insane. Okay, I don’t want him anymore. After Max Spencer tied the knot with that slanty-eyed bitch from Hong Kong, my attention was focused on Rick, but that doesn’t mean I’m obsessed with him. I so don’t want to spend a few years with a lunatic.”
“Yeah, he’s a lunatic. Or else, he’d suddenly developed some issues with his eyes. I’ve heard about so many icky, nasty diseases that could permanently screw your vision, and eventually kills your brain,” Mia said breathlessly. “That’s so gross.”
“I know!” Kayla chortled. “Oh, don’t forget she’s fat. I’m sure their kids would never inherit the Rowlings’ side of good looks.”
I was contemplating between yelling, “Hello? I might be a tad bit on the chubby side, but I’m not deaf!” and kicking the door out and bitch-slapping the mean girls with unwashed hands.
Okay, so, before my engagement to Rick became official, I did my homework by reading books like The Right Address. When I read them, I kept on rolling my eyes but I used to believe that mean girls only existed in Upper East Side. Rick’s condo on Fifth Avenue was in Midtown, so I wasn’t that much concerned about people being very mean to me.
Apparently, just because I didn’t live in Upper East Side didn’t mean I was free from being the topic—no, target was more like the word—of mean gossips. Holy hell, they should really ban people gossiping at the powder room. Every mayhem and tragedy has roots in gossiping, and I had a hunch anyone who managed to keep the world free of gossip should be entitled to win Nobel Peace Prize.
Not that I didn’t think the Peace Prize was overrated. Not to mention the gossip ban didn’t seem to bode well with the freedom of speech.
In my head, I was seriously plotting a scheme to ambush the mean girls. I could sneak out of the stall with a wad of shredded toilet roll, then I’d shower the pieces of paper that was previously torn with unwashed hands, and then I’d tell them I forgot to mention that I had a case of really nasty infection which was going to make whoever touched my germs turn purple and bloat like a marshmallow man.
In the spur of fury, I was almost completely focused on my project, but as I kept on shredding the toilet roll, then I wondered if Rick would be upset in case I was involved in a trouble. I thought for a while, and then reached a conclusion that probably my fiancé was going to love to have a little piece of havoc. When he was with the FBI, I was assigned him as an assistant, and most of my mission was to keep him from wrecking a havoc. He wasn’t a lover of social luncheons and charity meetings, but no thanks to being the heir of USCAB, he had some obligations to follow.
As I kept on shredding toilet paper, I caught new footsteps, most likely coming in high heels.
“Oh, no. It’s so pathetic that eligible men nowadays are totally lacking the eye for beauty.” Kayla was still cackling when that person came in, and Mia was agreeing, “So true!”
“Hello, ladies,” said the newcomer at the powder room. “Gossiping?” She sounded older than other women.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Rosenberg. We’ve been talking about Rick Rowling.” Mia filled her in.
“Can you believe he’s marrying that Mindy the chubby hillbilly?” Kayla snarled. Not that I was able to see her facial expressions but I could easily picture her lips curling.
“You mean, Mandy?” Mrs. Rosenberg said. “Actually, I heard nice things about her. There’s this rumor that she saved that girl—Julie, the little princess of Dr. Greys—when she was kidnapped.”
“Are you sure?” Mia asked skeptically.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Hmm… maybe that makes her a good employee at the Rowlings’ firm. Then again, that doesn’t make her a suitable wife, does it?”
“Kayla’s so right,” Mia said. “Anything doesn’t change Mindy’s status being an outsider. Also, I heard she used to be Rick’s assistant.”
“Okay then, she’s probably good at things like domestic help does. Perhaps Rick is smart. Marry a former maid who does all the chores and save money to hire help.”
Mrs. Rosenberg cleared her throat. “I can see you’re not fond of her, but I don’t recommend judging people without knowing them. Just like you can’t judge books by the covers.”
“Still, people do judge books by the covers,” Kayla snorted.
“Unfortunately, I have to agree with you,” Mrs. Rosenberg said. “Anyway, now I can see why Rick chose Mandy as his mate. She doesn’t look like an anorexic model, but at least, I’ve never heard her bad-mouthing about people she doesn’t even know. Also, I heard she went to medical school which makes her a very intelligent young lady.”
“Oh…” mumbled the mean girls, and I didn’t need to peek from the door slit to see them rolling their eyes.
“Anyway, jealousy is an evil monster which makes you ugly, lets your good fortune slip between your fingers. I can imagine you ladies had huge crushes on Rick, but it’s healthier to just congratulate the young couple and move on. As they say there are a million of fishes in the pond, there are a gazillion of eligible bachelors out there.”
As I heard Mrs. Rosenberg’s words, I started to feel embarrassed about scheming a nasty retaliation. So I tossed the shredded toilet paper into the water.
“Well…” Mia mumbled something incomprehensible. “It was lovely talking to you, Mrs. Rosenberg. See you later, ciao!”
Then I heard two pairs of over $1000 heels clicking the marble floor and out of the place.
* * *
To be released at somewhere between mid-October to early November, 2017.
Books by Lotta Smith
Paranormal in Manhattan Mysteries: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B074P9
7GY9
Book 1: Wicked for Hire: http://amzn.to/25IHH6X
Sometimes, the opportunity of a lifetime busts your door instead of gently knocking at it...
FREE on Kindle Unlimited!
Medical student Amanda Meyer thought she had her life all planned out until people started dying the moment they touched her. Being cleared of any wrongdoing didn't stop the medical school from expelling her, and it didn't rid her of the unfortunate nickname Grim Reaper.
Luckily, having a rep as the harbinger of death isn't a total resume killer. Rick Rowling, Special Agent for the FBI's Paranormal Cases Division recruits her to work for the Bureau. But the sexy, brilliant, outrageous loose cannon proves to be just as untouchable as the mysterious creature or creatures that may be responsible for the seemingly unsolvable murder that becomes their first case together.
Instead of treating patients, Amanda's life becomes a test of her patience and a wild ride into the wicked paranormal world where her new boss runs the show. Together they face a ghoulish force that could destroy the entire city and a grueling family dinner that could leave Amanda contemplating harakiri.
It's a battle of life and debt [student debt, that is] and saving the world has never been so funny.
Prologue
966 Park Avenue Tower
11:48 AM, November 10…
With a weird moan, her whole body shivering, she collapses onto the sofa.
I think she’s lucky that she’s already sitting on the sofa as she crumples. If she was standing, she might have cracked her head on the marble floor like Humpty Dumpty—which won’t be pretty.
She’s lying there, totally motionless. One elbow’s stiffly bent at a right angle, as if she’s turned into stone as the result of looking Medusa in the eye.
I gasp—fearing she’s dead.
Rick Rowling, the head of the FBI’s New York Paranormal Division and my boss for the past two days, approaches and touches her neck. Looking totally blasé, he confirms that she’s still alive.
I let out a sigh of relief.
On the other hand, Rowling announces that we leave the place because “It’s boring.”
My eyes widen with a total disbelief.
Of course, I disagree with him, but he brushes off my objection, stating that he doesn’t care about all the crap of making arrests, prosecuting, and taking cases to trial. Again, he says that it’s just a minor issue and he’s way too busy for that. “You know what? I have better things to do,” Rowling declares, turning on his heels to leave the condo.
“Excuse me, Rick,” I call to his back.
“What?” he asks, without turning around.
“We can’t just leave,” I say. Then it suddenly occurs to me that offending my boss isn’t in my best interest, so I add, “I’m afraid.”
“Why not?” He cocks his head. “Mandy, don’t be such a killjoy. The NYPD can work on the boring stuff, such as deciphering the social pathology of crimes and so on, because they have time to kill. On the other hand, I have no time to waste.”
“Okay, so we don’t need to decipher the social pathology of crimes, but we do need to figure out the whereabouts of the human-eating monster, don’t we?” I point out.
I’m not joking or exaggerating.
I’m talking about a practically imperishable ghoul which could eat up the entire population of New York State, if not the whole world.
* * *
At precisely 2:13 in the morning, John Sangenis was standing in front of a shabby five-story apartment in Washington Heights. Fortunately, he didn’t live there. He was just visiting Ivan Flynn, the insufferable asshole.
Usually, he had better things to do than visiting his worst enemy before the crack of dawn, such as sleeping like a log. Or making love with Ruth, which was even better than sleeping on his own. Ruth MacMahon was his girlfriend, who was unbelievably beautiful, dazzling, and had a truly big heart. Also, it didn’t hurt that she was rich. What was more wonderful about her was she appreciated John’s talent as an actor. It was a rare trait to come across in society, and it was why she happily provided him both moral and financial support.
If there were any shortcomings about her, it was that she was two-timing him with Ivan.
He thought about her taste in men, or lack thereof, and shrugged.
John wasn’t the sharpest knife in the kitchen, so he didn’t realize describing Ruth’s taste in men as horrible was the same as admitting that he was a total loser.
A cold, wet late-autumn breeze was blowing from the East River. A sprinkle of rain hit him in the face. The metal stairs were slippery, occasionally letting out squeaks and squawks, as if the steel structure itself were threatening to fall into pieces any minute, which made John nervous. The building’s elevator hadn’t functioned since God knows when, so he had no choice but to climb up the damned stairs. Getting smashed with the lousy staircase like a piece of garbage wasn’t high on his to-do list, so he ran up the stairs.
As an actor, he went to the gym to do occasional workouts and training, but that didn’t mean he was a big fan of vigorous exercise. On normal days, he would have shied away from walking up the rusty metal stairs of a sad-looking apartment. Actually, he wouldn’t have set a foot in this neighborhood unless he was starring in a gangster movie or TV show, hopefully as the lead role. After all, it wasn’t the area where any of the characters of Sex and the City lived. It almost felt comical that this neighborhood was still included in Manhattan.
While he mentally dissed Washington Heights, he completely forgot about his own social status as one of the least important actors in off-Broadway theater scenes. He also conveniently forgot the fact that, if it weren’t for the tiny apartment in Brooklyn, which he inherited from a late great-aunt, and financial assistance provided by Ruth, he couldn’t even keep a roof over his head.
He jumped and let out a girly yelp when a rat the size of an obese Chihuahua ran up the stairs from behind and went ahead of him.
“What kind of miserable excuse of an unknown artist lives here?” he muttered to himself after some cussing—again, completely forgetting the fact he happened to be one of those miserable excuses himself.
As he approached the third floor where Ivan lived, John remembered his last exchange of words over the phone with his enemy, and being annoyed so greatly that he almost felt like his blood flowed backward.
About thirty minutes ago, he received a strange phone call from Ivan.
Getting a phone call from him was a rare event, mostly because the feeling of hate between the two of them was mutual. Both were Ruth’s kept men, and both were trying their best to convince her that the other guy wasn’t worth her time—or money.
“Hey, John the loser, I’ve got bad news for you,” Ivan declared as soon as John picked up the call. He sounded like he was drunk, but there was something in his voice that made John nervous.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m calling to deliver a piece of special news to you. Now that I’ve acquired something to make me the El Greco of the twenty-first century, you’re so out of sight to Ruth and out of the picture. She is going to choose me, and she’ll dump you like a piece of garbage. Ha! Why don’t you curl up in the corner of your tiny apartment and cry like a little girl?” Then the line went dead.
Immediately, John rushed from his apartment and took a cab to Washington Heights. He was determined to confront the SOB and beat him till he cried like a baby.
As soon as he reached apartment 312, he banged on the door.
“Who’s there?” Ivan’s voice demanded from inside.
“It’s John. Open up.”
“No way.”
“I have something to say to you. Open up!” John banged on the door even louder.
“Stop bothering me. Just leave!”
“No, I won’t. I won’t ‘just leave’ until I get to talk to you face-to-face.”
“I have nothing to say to you. You have to leave, or else I’ll call the cops and hav
e you—”
It seemed Ivan was about to say “arrested,” but his words stopped short.
Instead of menacing words, he let out an agonizing moan. It became louder and escalated to a high-pitched shriek.
Then came silence.
“Hey, Ivan, what’s going on?” John asked as he switched from banging to knocking on the door.
No reply.
“Come on, Ivan. Open up. You can’t fool me!” John yelled at the door, but again, no reply.
“Guess what, Ivan? You’re all words and no action. You’re just running away from me because I’m stronger than you. Ha!” John yelled at the door and turned on his heels to leave. After taking a couple of steps, he went back to his love opponent’s door.
“Loser!” Yelling, he jumped and kicked at the door. He was just trying to make his point, but the worn-out door made of a thin veneer wood panel broke easily.
John lost his balance and fell onto the cold concrete corridor.
“Crap,” he groaned.
Lying on the hard, cold floor, John was half expecting Ivan to come out of hiding, yelling at him, but no one came from inside. Instead, a twentyish Asian guy stormed out from next door.
“What is the matter with you?” he demanded.
John mumbled an apology and the guy went back to his room.
Something wasn’t right.
He got up and reached for the now-broken door. It was locked, but he could put his hand inside to unlock the door.
Getting inside was a piece of cake.
“Hello?” John said. “Ivan? Um… Sorry about the door.”
As he opened it, dim light came into his eyes.
“Ivan…?”
There was no one in the room.
“What the hell…?” he muttered.
It was a tiny, one-bedroom, matchbox-sized apartment. In the living room / dining room / workroom was a 30” x 40” painting sitting on an easel. It was nothing fancy. The whole background was painted in an assortment of dark, boring, and depressing colors. The only part that caught his attention was the large blank area in the canvas. It looked as if whatever was portrayed had run out of the canvas and vanished.
