by R. L. Stine
One of the three guys is a murderer. One of them plans to murder me.
I’ll find this out really soon. And then, here’s the punch line: The only way I’ll stay alive is to keep going out with all three of them.
A nightmare? Yes, and it’s only beginning. How did I get myself into this mess? I’ll tell you. I guess it started the night Ben was killed.
3
When Tommy Foster called to tell me Ben was killed in a car chase, shot like in the movies, his squad car spinning into a wall, I didn’t react at all. I held the phone to my ear, pressed it there with all my might, listening for more. Listening for something real.
Things like that only happen to other people, right?
Ben had this car-chase PlayStation game. He was so into it, playing it endlessly, almost as if his life depended on it. I’m not looking for irony or anything. It’s just when Lieutenant Foster, Ben’s partner, called with the news—long pauses between each word, his voice trembling, a sob escaping his throat—the first thing I thought about was that game.
The game was real. But Ben dead? That couldn’t be real.
Ben and I were a golden couple. It may sound immodest, but I’m being honest. People gasped when Ben and I walked into a room. He was tall and blond like me, and had a rolling walk and a trim, athletic body, and those blue eyes that reflected the sunlight.
Golden.
We had nearly a year. I met him at my gym, and we started goofing on each other and kidding around. One day we had a treadmill race, an intense competition until my heart pounded and my legs ached, and finally, we both collapsed into each other’s arms, laughing and sweating on each other, gasping for breath.
We stayed in each other’s arms from then on.
You could have cast us in a movie. A love story. I was the savvy New Yorker, spent my whole life in middle-class luxury in Manhattan, even college at NYU. He was a New Jersey guy, from a big Italian family, a family of cops for generations.
But don’t get me wrong. There weren’t any clichés here. He was shrewd and funny, taught courses at John Jay, liked movies and plays, even the opera when we could scrounge up two tickets.
No matter how long the line, dance club bouncers always held the rope aside when Ben and I appeared. Because we were golden.
When Ben died, the light in my life went out. I lived in blues and grays, the colors of that dark video game where the cars squealed after each other, crashed and disintegrated.
And now, nearly a year later, spring approaching, another lonely summer staring me in the face—another summer with the girls—and I was pacing back and forth in front of my roommates in the narrow livingroom of our apartment.
Ann-Marie sat cross-legged on the carpet, punching in numbers on her new cell phone. She’d left the old one on the subway, and now it was like she had to start her life all over again.
Luisa sprawled on the brown leather couch, balancing a Diet Coke on her stomach, reading a James Patterson paperback. Ann-Marie and I call Luisa Goth Girl. Not because of her personality (which is a little dark, actually), but because of her raven black hair, straight and thick, almost like a helmet framing her slender, pale face.
“I haven’t had a decent date in a year.”
The words tumbled from my mouth in a harsh voice I didn’t recognize. I had my arms tightly crossed in front of me. I plopped down in the big La-Z-Boy to keep from pacing.
Ann-Marie clicked her phone shut and looked up at me. Luisa kept reading. She raised a finger. “Let me just finish this page.”
“Finish the whole book,” I snapped. “I’m just babbling.”
“Go ahead and babble,” Ann-Marie said. “We like it when Miss Universe is a little stressed.”
I glared at Ann-Marie. “Don’t call me that. That’s my whole problem, don’t you see? Guys think I’m . . .”
“Too beautiful?” Luisa helped out from the couch.
“I didn’t say that. It’s just that I’ve been told I . . . intimidate guys. So they don’t ask me out.”
Ann-Marie laughed. “What a terrible problem, Lindy. Too gorgeous. That one goes right up there with world hunger.”
Luisa and I laughed. Ann-Marie always knew how to put things in perspective.
Ann-Marie has short, wavy auburn hair, which I keep urging her to lighten, at least with a few streaks. She has beautiful, olive-colored eyes, but her face is very round and her front teeth poke out a bit, giving her a kind of chipmunky look.
And though I hate to say it, she could probably lose a few pounds. She’s a fanatic about the gym, but I think the problem is all the big Italian dinners she’s been cooking for her new boyfriend, Lou D’Amici.
Luisa closed her book and turned to me. “Can’t you meet any guys at your office?”
“Are you kidding?” I cried. “I work in children’s publishing. There are no guys in children’s publishing!”
I thought about my office, all women except for Saralynn’s assistant, Brill, who is gay.
Luisa casually ran a hand through her dark bangs. “Lindy, you could hang out at any bar. Slap on a short skirt and a tube top, show off your legs and let your tits hang out, and you’ll meet a dozen guys a night.”
I sighed. “No offense, but I don’t want to meet guys in bars.”
She sneered at me. “Snob.”
Luisa waitresses at The Spring Street Bar in SoHo, and she’s always bringing guys home after work. I see them creeping out of her room in the morning, smiles on their faces.
“I’m not a snob,” I said. “I don’t want to meet guys who like me for my body. Guys looking for another dumb blonde. You know I’m right, Luisa. I want someone I can talk to.”
“Well, why don’t you do what I did?” Ann-Marie asked, repeatedly flipping her cell phone open and shut.
I frowned at her. “Write a personals ad?”
She grinned. “Worked for me.”
“She’s right. Lou is a great guy,” Luisa said, opening her book again. “You should do it, Lindy. Meet-Market.com.”
“Yeah, I got so many replies,” Ann-Marie said, climbing to her feet. “You remember. We picked Lou out because he crossed his eyes in his photo. We figured he had to have a sense of humor.”
“Or else he was cross-eyed,” I said.
“He’s funny,” Luisa said. “He always cracks me up.”
“He’s sweet, too,” Ann-Marie said, her cheeks turning pink. “Did you see those earrings he bought me? He said they were undiamonds for my unbirthday.”
“I think they were real zircons,” I joked.
Ann-Marie didn’t laugh. She doesn’t like jokes about Lou. Maybe I’m a little jealous of her. She’s so crazy about him.
“Anyone want an apple or something?” Ann-Marie disappeared into the kitchen.
“I couldn’t write an ad about myself,” I said. “It would be too embarrassing. What would I say? ‘I like long walks in the moonlight on winding country roads? I want someone who’s honest and sincere and likes me just for me?’ Puke.”
Ann-Marie returned carrying a slice of cheesecake on a plate. “Left over from dinner with Lou last night,” she explained, swallowing a mouthful.
“Ann-Marie will write the ad for you,” Luisa said. “She’s batting a thousand.”
“Yeah, sure. No problem,” Ann-Marie said. “I’ll write the ad. I know just what to say.”
The next day, she showed me the ad she had placed on the Web site, and I was horrified.
4
Eye Candy?” I screamed. “Ann-Marie—how could you call me Eye Candy?”
I blinked at the laptop screen, hoping the ad would magically change. But there I still was, smiling out at myself above the boldfaced headline: EYE CANDY.
Ann-Marie sat in the desk chair, eyes on the laptop. I stood behind her. I wrapped my hands around her neck and pretended to strangle her. “Aaaaagh! How could you do this to me?”
“Give me a break, Lindy.” She pried my hands from her neck. “Everyone puts in a f
unny name to describe themselves.”
“But Eye Candy?”
“Take a breath, okay. Let’s face it, you’re beautiful, right? You’re drop-dead gorgeous, no kidding. It’s a perfect name for you.”
“But . . . yuck. It sounds like bragging. Who’s going to want to go out with a girl who calls herself Eye Candy?”
Ann-Marie shrugged. “You’ll see . . .”
Lou appeared in the doorway. He lumbered into the bedroom, followed by Luisa.
Lou is very tall. He ducks his head under every doorway. He’s big, too, not fat, just what they call big-boned, I guess. He wears size 13 shoes. He can’t enter a room quietly. The floorboards creak under him. Sometimes when he gives Ann-Marie a big hug, I expect to hear her ribs crack.
“Hey, what’s up?” He leaned down and kissed Ann-Marie on the cheek.
“We have a little problem,” I said. “Check this out.” I pointed to the laptop.
Lou bumped Ann-Marie off the chair and sat down. He leaned toward the screen, his thick, black eyebrows moving up and down as he read my ad.
I stepped up beside him. “It’s terrible, right?”
He turned and slid his arm around my waist. “I’d go out with you!”
Ann-Marie let out a growl and gave Lou a hard shove. “You creep!” She balled up her hands and began punching him.
He laughed and ducked behind his hands to block her punches. “Give me a break, Annie! She asked for an opinion!”
Ann-Marie shoved him again.
“Eye Candy, huh?” Lou said, turning back to the screen. “Whose idea was that?”
“It wasn’t mine!” I said.
“Mine,” Ann-Marie said. “And I think it’s perfect for Lindy.”
“And look what else she wrote,” I said, as Lou scrolled down the screen. “She wrote that I’m a publishing executive. What a total lie!”
“Of course you’re a publishing executive,” Ann-Marie insisted.
“I’m an editorial assistant,” I said. “Why did you have to exaggerate?”
Ann-Marie crossed her arms in front of her. “Everyone exaggerates a little.”
“You didn’t exaggerate about the eye candy part,” Lou chimed in, grinning. He ducked as Ann-Marie began to punch him again.
“You really like getting beat up, don’t you, Lou?” Luisa said.
He grabbed Ann-Marie’s hands to stop her attack. “I’m into all kinds of kinky things,” he said. “You’d be surprised.”
I suddenly had a picture in my mind—Lou in hand-cuffs, chained to the bed, Ann-Marie straddling him, raining little punches down on him.
Whoa.
“Are you sure this is safe?” Luisa asked, gazing down at my photo on the screen. “I mean, putting yourself out on the Internet like that. Aren’t there a lot of creeps out there?”
Lou laughed. “You mean me?”
Luisa’s dark eyes flashed. “No, even worse than you.”
Ann-Marie frowned. “Lindy’s a big girl. She’ll know if a guy is okay or not.”
5
I don’t read the fucking New York Times. Too many words, and it doesn’t fit on my breakfast table. People make fun of the Post because it’s a tabloid, but it tells me everything I need to know. I sip my coffee and flip through it every morning before work, with NY1 News on the TV in the background. You know. “Weather on the Ones.” You can’t beat it.
It was a rainy morning, the third straight. My apartment windows were all spattered and streaked, and I was staring out at the soupy gray. Kinda depressing when you’re waiting for spring to start.
I was thinking about work and how I’d rather go back to bed and maybe watch one of my new porno DVDs. Then I nearly dropped my fucking coffee cup when I caught the headline on the top of page four.
WEST-SIDE WOMAN STRANGLED IN HER APT.
Tell me about it. My hands were still sore from squeezing so hard.
I pictured her eyes going big when she realized what was happening. And again I heard the startled gasp she made when my thumbs began to press on her voice box. Her head went back. And the hoarse, gurgling sounds she made at the end were pretty gross.
I set down my cup and pulled the newspaper to my face with both hands and read the article slowly and carefully. What was her name again? Alesha Morgan? I’d nearly forgotten. And yeah, yeah. I remembered she’d said she was a nurse.
I should have asked her more questions, gotten to know her a little better.
I read the article twice from beginning to end. I mean, it’s exciting being in the newspaper. It didn’t mention anything about her missing fingers.
What kind of reporting is that?
How could the guy not notice her fingers were missing?
Maybe it’s some kind of police trick. I’ve read about how they hold certain details back. Some kind of trap for suspects.
Well, I had the fingers right on the breakfast table beside the paper. I picked them up and squeezed them in my hand. They’d turned brown and gotten kinda hard and brittle. Like dried out pea pods. I slapped them against the tabletop, pounding out a rhythm. They made a nice sound.
I used to be a drummer. We had a jazz band in college. Big band stuff, very retro, and I had a nice, light touch on the snare. I liked playing brushes, not pounding the sticks. After all, I’m an easygoing kinda guy.
I put four fingers in one hand and four fingers in the other, and I began drumming the table. I guess I had a lot of pent-up energy. It’s kind of exciting being in the paper. Ba beba bebaba bada bada bam bam.
When the phone rang, I tossed the fingers into the air and shouted, “Olé.”
“Oh, hi, Mom. How’s it going? Yeah. I’m just on my way out the door.”
She calls any hour of the day or night. She thinks I have no life. She means well, but she still thinks she has to take care of me. She didn’t take care of me much when I was a kid, so I guess she’s trying to make up for things.
“You tried me last night? When did you call, Ma?”
Around nine.
“I had a date. I was out with a very beautiful, young woman. A nurse. Yeah. You shouldn’t try me at night, Ma. I go out almost every night of the week.”
Am I overdoing it? Wearing myself out?
“What can I do, Ma? The women don’t leave me alone. Hey, don’t worry about me. I’m enjoying life, you know. You’re only old once, right? Isn’t that what you always said? So I might as well have a good time before I get old and decrepit like you. Ha ha. Only joking. I know, I know. You’re forty-nine and you don’t have a wrinkle. Yeah, you told me that a few times.”
What else is new?
“Well, I’m thinking of getting a tattoo. A big blue-and-red-winged demon on my chest. Ha ha. No. Only kidding, Ma. Just wanted to hear you scream.”
Work?
“Work is great. I’m making enough money to keep up my glam lifestyle. No, seriously. People are starting to take notice. Listen, I’ll tell you something great. There was a story about me in the paper this morning. No. Really. In the New York Post. A really nice piece. Maybe I’ll send it to you.”
A few more blah-blah-blahs, and I said goodbye to her and clicked off the phone. I stuck my fingers in my ears for some silence. She has a shrill, scratchy voice. It always takes me a few minutes to get it out of my head.
After a moment or so, I stood up and crossed to the front window. It was a short walk. My condo isn’t very big. I’m kinda cramped. But at least the place is easy to take care of.
I squinted through the spattered window. The rain had stopped. The clouds were lifting. Things were looking up.
I’ll go back online tonight, I told myself. Something to look forward to all day. Yes, I’ll go back to that personals site tonight, maybe find a hot new girlfriend.
6
Check out this guy,” Ann-Marie said, poking her finger at the laptop screen. “Oh, wow. A snake tattoo on his cheek. This guy’s your type, Lindy.”
“Look at his eyes,” Luisa leaned over me,
one hand on my shoulder, the other hand holding a can of Budweiser. “He is totally trashed. I’ll bet he hasn’t been sober since junior high school.”
Ann-Marie grinned. “I dare you to go out with him, Lindy. How about it?”
“No way.” I scrolled down to the next one.
A few days after the Eye Candy ad went online, I had dozens of answers. Now I sat in front of the laptop, my roommates huddled around me, reading the replies, the three of us hooting with laughter, sometimes shaking our heads in disbelief.
I scrolled past a boy who looked about fourteen but claimed to be twenty-five and bragged that he drove a red Hummer.
Luisa sipped her beer. “Maybe he has a red Hummer tricycle.” She and Ann-Marie burst out laughing.
“You two are enjoying this too much,” I grumbled. “You think it’s some kind of game. But it’s my life!”
“We’re only trying to help you,” Ann-Marie insisted. “Whoa. Stop. You’re going too fast. Look at this one.”
“Celebrity I Most Look Like: ‘Tobey Maguire.’ ”
Luisa leaned closer to the screen. “Ohmigod. Poor guy. He does look like Tobey Maguire. Hey, what if it is Tobey Maguire and he replied to your ad and said the celeb he resembles most is Tobey Maguire. Wouldn’t that be pitiful?”
I laughed. “Lu, we know you’re from another planet, but you should try to hide it sometimes.”
She pressed the cold beer can against the back of my neck, and I let out a squeal.
Ann-Marie was gazing at “Tobey.” “Here’s your chance to go out with a movie star—or a movie star lookalike,” Ann-Marie said.
“Pass,” I said. “Too short. I’d have to lift him over big puddles.”
Ann-Marie put on her serious face. “Okay, okay. We’re looking for tall here. Stop. Check out this guy.”
R U HOT ENUF?
“And look. He has it right on his T-shirt.” I jabbed my finger at the screen. “R U HOT ENUF?”
“Bet he had that done special for him at the mall,” Luisa said. “I like the spiked-up hair. Where’s his skateboard?”
“And read this,” Ann-Marie added. “Reason to Get to Know Me: ‘9 inches.’ ”
