Creative Process

by Jodi Payne

  No one that he could see was reading his books. Thank God. No one accosted him in line while they were ordering either. Miracle of miracles.

  “Let’s sit, shall we?” Reese suggested, picking up his latte and handing Chad his black coffee with four sugars.

  Chad raised an eyebrow. “Got something on your mind?”

  “Maybe.” Reese found a café table in a quiet corner and pulled out a chair.

  “Uh-oh. Don’t tell me you’re quitting again, because you can’t.”

  “I’m quitting again.”

  Chad sat hard in his chair. “Dammit, Reese. Every time you do this to me, I start to wonder if I should worry where my next meal is coming from.”

  “I’m not quitting writing, I’m just… I want to write something else.”

  “You owe the publisher another—”

  “After that.”

  “Oh, well, fine then. After that. Sure.” Chad’s tone suggested that he was humoring Reese.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I’m sure you think you are. But you do have a big bump on your head.”

  Reese frowned and took a sip of his coffee, hoping it would help his headache. “You don’t believe me.”

  “With you I’ve learned to believe it when I see it. So far, the only thing I’ve seen are your fingers tippy-tappy-typing on your keyboard and the sound of happy little thriller fangirls.”

  “How come I never get any hot little thriller fanboys?” Reese pouted.

  “I tried, Reese. You told me I was too girly.”

  He laughed. “Chad, darling, you’re beautiful. You’re just not my type.”

  “You have a type?” Chad looked interested. “I mean, other than the type that doesn’t mind being forgotten about for days at a time while you chain yourself to your desk?”

  Reese leaned back in his seat and tapped his fingers on the tabletop. The truth really did hurt sometimes. “Funny.”

  “Hm.” Chad reached out and touched his fingers briefly. “No, I guess not. I apologize, honey.”

  Reese struggled through an awkward, uncomfortable silence. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve just forgotten how to laugh at myself. You’re completely right, of course. I do make it pretty difficult to be my type.”

  Chad shook his head. “Reese.”

  He cleared his throat and sat up. After a long sip of his latte, he changed the subject. “Okay. So. Pity party over. I want to write something else. Something that doesn’t involve blood and gore and psychopathic sadists. Something, I don’t know….” Reese waved his hand in a circle.

  “Fluffier?”

  “Oh God.” Reese laughed. “No. Not fluff. I can’t write fluff. I can’t even read fluff.”

  “See, that’s your problem.”

  “What is?” He sipped his latte thoughtfully.

  Chad smiled. “You need to lighten up.”

  “I do not. I’m plenty light.”

  “Sure you are.” Chad laughed softly.

  “I am!”

  “Hm.” Chad nodded. “The cement-filled galoshes at the bottom of the harbor kind of light, you mean?”

  “Shut up. I have a great sense of humor.”

  “Right. For a stone pillar, maybe.” Chad drank his coffee.

  “Wait. Call someone over and I’ll tell them a joke.” Reese sat forward in his chair. “You’ll see. I can be very light.”

  “Um, maybe another time? Right now you look like a freak show, honey.”

  Shit, he’d forgotten. His forehead ached dully, but it didn’t really sting unless he touched it. “I see your point. I better get home and clean up, huh?”

  “Well, I did try to suggest that,” Chad said haughtily. “But you wanted to talk, remember?”

  “Jesus, Chad. Now I know why you’re single too.”

  “I keep telling you, we’re made for each other!” Chad winked. “Now come on, love. Let’s get you home.”

  Chapter III

  JENNIFER LEFT the convenience store at exactly 9:38 p.m. according to the surveillance video. The clerk remembered her, he said, because she’d asked for a strange brand of cigarettes that they didn’t carry and she’d ended up settling instead on something else. She’d asked for matches and had given him a pretty smile when she thanked him.

  A dark sedan, possibly a late-model Honda Accord, left the parking lot immediately after she did, and turned right, following Jennifer’s bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle out of the gas station. They couldn’t make out the plates.

  That was the last time Jennifer Connolly had been seen alive.

  Wait. Jennifer Connolly was an actress. She’d been in that movie with David Bowie a million years ago. What was it? Labyrinth. Right. She’d been in newer stuff, he knew, but that was the only film that came to mind. Reese navigated up to the word Connolly and deleted it, replacing it with Hudson and then laughing at himself before deleting that too. He frowned finally, trying to come up with a name, but now it was hopeless, his brain supplying nothing but well-known women: Jennifer Garner, Jennifer Beals, Jennifer Aniston—every fucking female celebrity was suddenly named Jennifer.

  Growling, Reese deleted Jennifer and typed in Kate, which he quickly changed to Kathryn, then to Katie, and then gave up for the day.

  “Maybe I need a drink,” he muttered. It was almost time to get ready for his dinner party anyway. He’d been looking forward to it before the Great Bookstore Massacre, but now he was at war with himself, part of him just as happy to stay in and try to find Labyrinth on one of his nine hundred cable channels. It was bound to be there, after all.

  He saved his work once on the hard drive, again to the cloud, and once more for good measure to a flash drive. He closed his laptop and made his way to the living room, where he poured himself a couple of fingers of scotch and contemplated what one might wear to compliment an ugly purple lump. Perhaps he’d try to find a matching tie.

  In the end he put on gray slacks, a black T-shirt, and a black jacket. He stomped his feet into his favorite shiny black loafers and combed his hair neatly. He was reminded, as his doorman reached for the door of his Uber car in the rain, that his financial guy had told him he could afford to keep a car and driver at his disposal. It would certainly come in handy on nights like this one, when the rain came down so hard it splashed up on the sidewalk and flooded the city street corners. But Reese didn’t want a driver. Truth be told he really didn’t want to be a celebrity at all. He just wanted to be a regular guy mostly: a guy who took a taxi in the rain, walked outside to buy his coffee at the shop across the street, and bought his newspapers at the corner bodega. He’d conceded long ago that the subway was a poor choice, but he could still keep in touch with the flow of the city and the character of its people. He needed to be in the thick of it, needed to watch people, hear them talk, smell the air. He couldn’t work without it.

  “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Kelsey.” The doorman held open the back door of the car, rainwater pouring off the brim of his hat. Reese thanked him and slipped a tip into the man’s pocket before sliding into the car.

  From the back seat, the city looked like an impressionist painting. It was dark out, and light reflected in the rivulets of rain running down the windshield, and the water on the rear passenger windows distorted storefronts and intersections. The trip across town seemed to take longer than it ought to have, but Reese decided that since he arrived in one piece, he’d just give an extra tip to his driver and count it a win.

  He dashed from the car and hurried into the building but managed to get soaked anyway. He shivered a little as he knocked on William’s door. William opened it, smiling broadly, and laughter spilled out of the apartment behind him. He tried to smile and look relaxed as William’s smile faded.

  “Jesus Christ, Reese. Did you get mugged?” William pulled him into the foyer.

  “No, I—”

  “Oh my God.” Sammy, William’s husband, came hurrying over from the kitchen doorway. He was drying his hands on a dishtowel.

&n
bsp; “It’s not as bad as it…. I’m fine.”

  William and Sammy fussed over him. William removed his wet coat, and Sammy lifted a damp lock of hair off Reese’s forehead to examine the bruise.

  “Seriously. I just had an accident at a book signing today.”

  William stared at him. “Since when are book signings a contact sport?”

  Reese chuckled. “Yeah, well.”

  “Did you put some ice on it? Does it hurt? Can I get you some ibuprofen? Let me get you some ibuprofen.” Sammy, bless his heart, disappeared down the hall without waiting for an answer to any of his questions.

  “Come on in, Reese.” William was starting to smile again and led him down the hall to the living room. “I’m sure this is a good story.”

  “It’s more of an embarrassing debacle, actually.”

  William laughed. “Then I’ll get you some wine.”

  Wine and ibuprofen. Maybe he did need a driver after all.

  “Reese, what the hell happened to you?”

  He spent the next ten or fifteen minutes entertaining his friends and colleagues with the tale of the Great Bookstore Massacre, all the while wondering if he should have stayed home. But their genuine reactions relaxed him, and his story ended soon enough. Everyone had a good laugh at his expense, he allowed Sammy to mother him a little, and then it was all over. William turned the music back up, and the wine started to flow again.

  At the prompting of his growling stomach, Reese leaned over the coffee table and cut himself a hunk of Brie, which he placed on top of some kind of sesame cracker.

  “Reese!” a familiar voice sang out just as he shoved the cracker into his mouth. He straightened up and did his best to smile and chew at the same time. “You know, a lot of men would love to have women falling all over them.”

  He pointed to his full mouth and shook his head no.

  Joe laughed and interpreted for him. “And for others, it’s their worst nightmare.”

  He nodded and touched his nose with his index finger. Someone laughed. Reese turned his head and, quite unexpectedly, locked eyes with the hottest man on earth.

  He swallowed hard, nearly choking on the dry cracker, and took a huge sip of wine to avoid coughing. “Hi,” he croaked.

  “Hello.” The young man took a few steps and threaded his arm through Joe’s.

  Oh crap. The hottest man on earth was Joe’s dinner date. Reese cleared his throat, took another sip of wine as a cover while he composed himself, and then tried a smile. “Sorry,” he said, keeping his eyes on Joe’s date. He pointed at his throat. “Thing. Stuck.”

  “Happens.”

  “Reese,” Joe began smoothly, apparently not noticing the awkward moment and the way Reese was mentally undressing his man. Or maybe he was just accustomed to it. How could he not be? Damn. “This is Benjamin.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Benjamin.” He stuck out his hand, and Benjamin shook it firmly.

  “Likewise.” Benjamin’s smile was genuine, and his eyes were a brilliant blue.

  “Joe, sugar, can you come help me carve the roast?” Sammy called from the kitchen and then stuck his head into the hall. “Will says you’re good at it.”

  “Oh, no problem, Sam. Be right there.” Joe looked at Benjamin and then at Reese. “I’m leaving Benjamin in good hands, right Reese?” Joe patted his arm. “Excuse me.”

  He watched Joe disappear into the kitchen and then looked at Benjamin. He tried to be mindful; he didn’t want Benjamin to catch on that he was half in lust after barely exchanging two words. The two of them stood there a moment in silence, and Reese smiled awkwardly as he realized he knew nothing about Joe’s boyfriend with which he might start a conversation. He was about to say something inane about the torrential rain when Benjamin spoke up.

  “Joe tells me you’re a writer?”

  “Uh. Yeah.” He nodded, then realized how stupid he sounded. “Yes, I am.” He looked at Benjamin, not wanting to give his full name.

  “Do you have a lot of books out? What name do you write under?”

  Oh, well. “Kelsey. I’m Reese Kelsey.”

  “Wait, you’re Reese Kelsey? The horror writer?”

  Reese cringed inwardly. “Actually, I write more, uh….” He hated when people called his books horror novels. Sure, they had horrific elements, but really they were thrillers. Puzzles. Really gory, bloody, mysterious forensic mind twisters. He gave up. “Yep. That’s me.”

  “Oh my God. Why didn’t Joe tell me we were having dinner with a best-selling author?” Benjamin hooked an arm through Reese’s and looked him in the eyes, which was just fine by him, actually. He’d deal with being famous for a few more minutes if it meant the hottest man on earth would keep touching him. “Do you love it?”

  “Most of the time. Except—” He took a breath and launched into his usual complaints about writing even though some part of him was dimly aware that it made absolutely no one feel sorry for him. “Except when you can’t get an idea out of your mind, you know? And you’ve got this psychotic murderer talking to you in your head, and it’s two o’clock in the morning when the rest of the sane world is asleep, and then you have to research something like blood splatter patterns or fingerprint recreation to pin something on the bad guy… and….”

  Benjamin was blinking at him though he appeared to be listening politely. A lock of soft, wavy blond hair had fallen over one of his eyes. Reese stopped talking.

  For a second or so.

  “Well. You know how all that is, I’m sure.”

  “Not really.” Benjamin grinned and sipped his wine.

  “No. I guess not.” He shook his head and laughed at himself, embarrassed. “So… enough about me then. What do you do?”

  Benjamin inclined his head and smiled, shifting to stand a little straighter. “Oh, I’m a sales associate at Off the Cuff, downtown.”

  “Oh, nice. I bought my tux there a couple of years ago.”

  Benjamin nodded. “I’ve been there about a year.”

  “They had the most gorgeous cashmere sweaters.”

  “I think I could get hard just folding some of those sweaters.”

  Reese nodded. “Christ, yes. I bought one, but I’ve only worn it once. I think I’m too much of a klutz for a five-hundred-dollar sweater.” He didn’t stop himself from envisioning Benjamin fondling his cashmere sweater. The visual distracted him for a moment, and he sipped his wine to cover for himself.

  “Those books treat you well,” Joe said, joining them again. Reese clammed up and tried not to look guilty, but Joe gave him an incredulous look. “Reese.”

  He knew when he’d been caught, but he grinned at Joe. “Oh, I’m the one in trouble? Really? And just exactly how did the two of you meet? Getting that inseam just right?”

  Benjamin cleared his throat and smiled innocently.

  “Dinner is served!” William stood in the doorway to the dining room and gestured for everyone to enter.

  One of the voices in Reese’s head said saved by the bell, and another was disappointed not to have had time to further explore Benjamin’s profession. He watched Benjamin walk into the dining room arm in arm with Joe and reminded himself that while his type was definitely that hot, the creature likely didn’t exist otherwise.

  Chapter IV

  DETECTIVE HARRIS shined his flashlight through the foggy passenger side window, but the only thing he could make out for sure was the smeared, bloody handprint on the inside of the glass. The yellow Volkswagen Beetle wasn’t running, but its headlights were on. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and shook it open, then used it to open the passenger side door.

  Reese blinked a few times. Does that work with the timeline? Could the lights still be on that long? He hated when picky details interrupted his flow, so he made a note to check it in edits. He shifted in his chair and forced himself to keep typing.

  One would think, after so many years, he would have gotten used to the stench of death, but no, the humid, rotten air that spil
led out of the car made Harris turn his head and cover his face with one arm. The forensic photographer ducked around him and started snapping photographs. When the initial assault was over, Harris turned back toward the car and shined his flashlight inside.

  Reese sighed and pushed back from his desk. He stood and walked to the window to look out at the beautiful day. The sun was bright, the sky was blue, and people below him were walking around without jackets, boots, and the other entrapments of early spring in the city. He unlocked and opened the sliding door to his balcony, thinking maybe some fresh air would clear his mind and help him get his concentration back, but it was no use. It wasn’t the air, the chair, or the keyboard. He wasn’t hungry or tired. He was uninspired.

  But he owed his publisher one more book. This would be the fourth, and final, book in the series, following Don’t Drink the Water; Run, Elizabeth, Run; and Tuesday, Bloody Tuesday. They contracted him for the series immediately following his first week of sales when Don’t Drink the Water broke some kind of sales record. This last book was still untitled, and in the end, the lunatic that Detective Harris had been hunting on and off for most of his career would die. Not get caught. Just die. Dead. No more killing, and no more writing about death. Both Reese and his main character would be satisfied.

  “Three thousand more words before dinner, and tonight you can order sushi, watch a movie, and then sleep in and take tomorrow morning off. Deal?” Reese asked out loud to the empty room. “Deal,” he answered back. He was only slightly concerned that he was negotiating with himself. It wasn’t the first time.

  Penny—

  Penny was the name Reese had finally settled on after giving up on Jennifer and all forms of the name Katherine.

  —lay on her side. She was stretched out across the gearshift mechanism and then bent at an awkward angle onto the passenger seat. Her hands, neck, clothing, and the interior of the car were soaked with blood, and Penny herself was white as a ghost, her eyes wide open and mouth slack.