Held, Pushed, and 22918 (3 Complete Novels)

by Kimberly A Bettes

  “I see you have no hair down there. I was just curious as to whether you shave it or wax it.”

  “Wax.”

  Ron nodded, trying to imagine the feeling of having hot wax poured onto his genitals and then ripped off, pulling the hairs out by their roots. It didn’t seem a pleasant thing to do, but the results sure looked nice. The site of her, bare and hairless, excited him.

  With his erection struggling against the cotton fabric of his underwear, Ron decided that Bethany would do nicely. Physically, at least. There was still the matter of whether or not she was someone whom he could tolerate being around for extended periods of time. Would he be able to sit across the table from her and eat his meals? Would he be able to have stimulating conversations with her? Would she make him laugh as Nicole had? After all, it was Nicole’s personality that had first attracted him to her once he had her in his home. Her quick wit was why he’d kept her around, why he fell in love with her.

  In love with her. Such odd words to think, to feel. But it was true. He’d fallen in love with Nicole in his kitchen and had never fallen out of it. He missed her. He needed her. At night, lying awake in the darkness of his bedroom, he longed for her. Sometimes in the shower, he cried, his heart aching for her.

  He had to fill the hole left by Nicole. At least until he could find her and bring her back to him, back home where she belonged.

  The fact that he was lonely, that his heart was heavy in his longing for Nicole, didn’t mean he wasn’t horny. He’d have to be a blind and oblivious fool to not be turned on at the site of what lay before him. She may not be Nicole. She may not even be a worthy replacement for Nicole. But she was there now, and she was easily accessible.

  Most people didn’t know themselves. Not really. They thought themselves to be far better people than they really were, always describing themselves in a positive light while ignoring their many flaws and unflattering characteristics. Ron wasn’t one of those people. He knew himself well. Certainly well enough to know that he’d never be able to focus on the sex with Bethany as long as that ridiculous metal ring was hooked through her navel. So before he even removed his clothes, he stepped over to the table, locked the pliers onto the belly button ring, and jerked it out, ignoring Bethany’s pleas.

  “There. Now isn’t that much better?”

  “You bastard,” she shouted through tears.

  Ron removed his clothes and climbed up onto the table, positioning himself between her legs.

  When Bethany realized what was about to happen, her bleeding navel was the least of her worries.

  6

  I knew before I even opened my eyes that Ron was in the room with me. His voice filled the tiny motel room, bouncing from wall to wall, though in my groggy state I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  To avoid his wrath and buy a little time to think of what I was going to do, I kept my eyes closed and listened, pretending to still be asleep while forcing myself to become more aware of his words. With a frantically pounding heart, blood whooshing through my ears, I started to make out words and clips of phrases.

  “…torture...”

  Oh god.

  “…a hard lesson learned…”

  I had to get out of this room.

  “…I’d do it all again.”

  Then, a woman’s voice.

  “You can watch the interview in its entirety coming up at ten o’clock.”

  I opened my eyes and let them dart rapidly around the room, happy to find that I was alone. The voices had come from the television.

  Sitting up, I rubbed my hands over my face and decided I must’ve imagined Ron’s voice. He certainly wasn’t in the room with me, so it must’ve been part of whatever nightmare I’d been having just before I woke. The dream voices had mingled with those on the television, and in my waking state, I’d grown confused.

  Happy to find myself alone, I got out of bed, wobbled on my feet, and made my way to the bathroom, tripping over vodka bottles and empty food containers as I went. Perhaps I should’ve let the motel clean the room more than once a week, but I didn’t like the thought of a stranger rummaging through the room in which I lived. The only other option was to clean the mess myself, which I would’ve done had I given one ounce of a shit about it. But I didn’t, so by the end of each week, room 8 looked like hell. The cleaning lady earned her paycheck every Sunday.

  As I sat on the toilet, pissing out the vodka I’d consumed earlier, I rubbed my temples in an effort to ease the pounding of my head. It didn’t work.

  I wiped, pulled up my jeans, and flushed the toilet. At the sink, I turned on the faucet and considered washing my hands. Then I said screw it. What was the point?

  Turning off the water, I caught a glimpse of myself in the small mirror that hung above the sink. The first word that came to mind was death. I looked like death. Which was perfect because that’s exactly how I felt.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I looked to the nightstand and surveyed the bottles, some standing, others lying on their side. I had a bottle and a half of vodka left, which might last me until the next morning if I conserved it. And honestly, I already knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  My head continued to pound as I turned the half-empty bottle up and took a gulp. As I swallowed, a plan came to mind that would hopefully solve all my problems.

  All I had to do was drink all the vodka, both bottles. Quickly. That would cure the headache and hopefully put me into a sleep so deep that it would hopefully last until morning. The old alarm clock on the nightstand read 9:58, so it was possible to sleep through the night. Other people did it all the time.

  Of course other people hadn’t been through what I’d been through. Other people’s nightmares weren’t haunted by the memories of a serial killer, and their days weren’t filled the terror of knowing he was still out there.

  With one hand gripping the neck of the bottle, I slid back on the bed, resting my head against the headboard. I took another swig of the clear alcohol and watched as the ten o’clock news came on the television.

  The breaking news at the top of the hour was a four-car pile-up on I-55 which had traffic backed up for miles. The following story was about a series of break-ins in East St. Louis. That story was followed by one of a house fire in Kirkwood that killed an elderly couple. But it was the story after that which caught my attention.

  During the story about the break-ins, I’d closed my eyes and taken to only listening to the news anchors report the grim headlines of the day. I didn’t need to see her caramel complexioned face to grasp the horror of it all. However, my eyes snapped open and my heart began to race when the next story began.

  “You may recognize his name from the cover of one of his best-selling books. Tonight, I sit down with R.D. Redwine in his first ever television appearance to talk about his latest book tour, which wraps up this month with two final stops in St. Louis.”

  At the mention of his name, I drew my legs up to my chest.

  Suddenly, there he was, his face filling the screen of the television. A cutaway shot back to the female reporter, who sat face-to-face with Ron, smiling at him as if he hadn’t killed a bunch of people and dismembered their battered corpses.

  “It’s great to finally meet you,” the reporter said with bright eyes and an even brighter smile.

  “It’s great to be here.”

  His voice. I wanted to stick my fingers into my ears far enough to puncture the ear drums just so I never had to hear his voice again. I raised my arms, intent on slapping my hands over my ears, but then I stopped.

  Confrontational therapy.

  Dr. Loyd had talked about different types of therapy during my first session with him at Alpine Grove. If someone was afraid of spiders, it was often times therapeutic for them to be around spiders, to see that there was nothing to fear. If someone was afraid of water, it was best for them to be around water, to wade in a creek or swim in a pool, in order to overcome that fear. If you had a fear of heights, you
should climb a ladder. A fear of open spaces, stand in a field. Fear of crowds, go to the mall.

  “Confront your fear, conquer your fear,” he’d said.

  But in my case, he didn’t recommend that at all. This wasn’t some spider or a puddle of water I was afraid of. It was a homicidal psychopath on a killing spree.

  We’d taken a different course of therapy for me, but I couldn’t help but think maybe a little of the confrontational therapy was necessary here. Maybe in order for me to be able to move on, I had to look at his face and hear his voice to realize that no matter how crazy he was, he was still just a man.

  And men could be defeated.

  I wrapped my arms around my legs and stared at the television, determined to watch the interview to the end.

  “Your latest book is currently at the top of the best-seller list. How does that make you feel?”

  “I’m ecstatic about it. I mean, this is what it was all for. This is what I spent so much time and energy trying to achieve, and now that I have, I couldn’t be happier.”

  “Was it an easy to book to write?”

  “Oh, it was torture.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well I started writing the thing, only to realize about halfway through that I needed to change the point of view. So I had to fix it, which not only took quite a bit of time, but it also took me out of the moment. I lost some steam. It took a while for me to find the right voice, the right perspective, but I finally did and it seems to have all worked out for the best. It was a hard lesson learned, that’s for sure.”

  “You’ve come a long way in a short amount of time. Do you have any advice for aspiring authors out there? A trick of the trade, perhaps?”

  He flashed a smile that may have seemed friendly to the reporter, but it made my blood run cold.

  “Just keep at it. Never give up. My first book was a miserable failure, but I didn’t let that stop me. I changed the way I went about writing and became even more determined to succeed. And look at me now.”

  The reporter laughed. “Yes. Look at you now. A very successful author with several books on the best-seller list. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re at the end of a book tour that has spanned twelve states. How has that been?”

  “It’s been fantastic. I’ve met some great people and made many new fans. Plus I was able to travel and see some of the beautiful places that I’ve never seen before. It’s been ideal, and I’d do it all again.”

  “Where do you get your inspiration? What compels you to write?”

  “Inspiration is all around us. It’s everywhere you look. I get the idea for a story in my head, and I simply have to get it out. I’ve had to recruit some folks to help me along the way with research and the like, but in the end I always get the job done. It’s a tried and true method that seems to work. At least for me. Everyone will have their own experiences of course.”

  Another sickening smile.

  Recruit some folks to help him with research? He was flaunting his dirty deeds right in front of her, and the reporter had no idea. She was oblivious to the fact that she was talking to a serial killer.

  “You’ve been rather secretive up until this point, especially about your personal life. What made you decide to make a television appearance now?”

  “I just felt it was time. I figured it was safe to show myself.”

  He flashed a smile, and only I was aware of the arrogance behind it. I knew what he’d meant by it being safe to show himself. He meant that since he hadn’t been arrested by now, he figured he never would be. He was sure that he’d gotten away with everything he’d done.

  And sadly, he was right.

  “Well I’m sure your fans will appreciate it.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Do you have a new book in the works right now that you can tell us about?”

  He chuckled. “I always have something in the works. But I can’t tell you about it. You’ll just have to wait.”

  “You can’t tell us anything?”

  “I find that if I talk about my work, I tend to lose interest in it. It’s best to keep it to myself until it’s finished.”

  “Well I want to thank you for being here today. I’m looking forward to your next book, Mr. Redwine. I’ve been a fan of yours since your novel Held. It was fantastic.”

  I shuddered at the mention of that horrific book. It was that book that triggered my downward spiral. I was handling everything well, at least I thought I was, and then the son of a bitch mailed me a copy of the book. Like the proverbial curious cat, I read it, thinking I was doing something beneficial, something therapeutic. Instead of helping, it made everything a thousand times worse. Just like the cat, curiosity had been the death of me. It turned my life upside-down and landed me in a mental hospital.

  “Thank you.”

  There was a close-up of Ron, brief but telling. He looked directly into the camera, seemingly into my soul, and smiled. Behind the reflection of the lights, his eyes were dead, containing no emotion, no empathy, and certainly no compassion.

  Then there was a close-up of the reporter who spoke to the camera. It was almost as if she was speaking directly to me.

  “Ron’s tour is winding down, but don’t worry if you haven’t had a chance to get your books signed. There are two stops left on the tour, both right here in St. Louis. The location and time of each signing is at the bottom of the screen. Make sure you stop by to support our local author, and meet R.D. Redwine in person.”

  I stopped listening to her when she began to sing his praises.

  Unsure of why I was doing it, I jotted down the times and locations of Ron’s book signings, using the pen from my purse to write the information on the back of a fast food receipt. When finished, I shoved the pen and the receipt back into my purse and sat on the bed, pressing my back against the headboard.

  Rubbing my hands up and down my face, digging my fingertips into the recesses of my eyes, I asked myself why. Why did I write that down? Why did I care when and where he was going to be?

  Then I thought of the police. I could alert them that he was going to be there so they could arrest him or bring him into the station for questioning, which would be a fine idea if the police cared. But they didn’t. I’d already tried and failed to get the authorities to take legal action.

  No. I was on my own. If I wanted justice—and I certainly did—then I’d have to do it myself.

  With a noticeable tremor in my hand, I grabbed the remote and turned the channel, switching from the news to a Seinfeld rerun in which Jerry and friends had once again found themselves in a social pickle. I envied them, wishing the only problems I had in my life were those of the opposite sex or the results of a verbal faux pas, both easily fixed. Instead, my problems were far greater than any ever encountered by the likes of Seinfeld, Costanza, Kramer, or Benes.

  From the nightstand, I grabbed the half-empty bottle of vodka and took a swig, felt the burn as the alcohol made its way down my throat and into my stomach, where it slowly began to unwind the knot of nerves that lay coiled at the bottom.

  It wasn’t until I drained the last of the vodka from the bottle that I began to feel better. The warm, fuzzy comfort came and covered me like a soft blanket.

  I twisted the top off the last bottle I had in the room and put it to my lips. Two large gulps went down easily, adding to the warmth in my belly. With the back of my hand, I wiped my mouth.

  My head was difficult to control by this time, and it fell back quicker than I intended it to, thumping loudly against the headboard. It didn’t hurt. In fact I didn’t even feel it, but I heard it.

  I tried to focus on the television, to pay attention to the storyline, but it was next to impossible. The movement on the screen was enough to make my inebriated stomach churn.

  With my eyes closed, I listened to the show instead of watching it, but the nausea didn’t subside. Fortunately, it wasn’t long until the sound of th
e laughing audience faded away as I drifted to sleep.

  Just before falling into the pit of darkness known as sleep, a place that had become so unfamiliar to me, I thought of attending one of those book signings.

  Confrontational therapy and all that.

  7

  Naked, with hair still damp from the shower, Ron sat on his bed with pillows stacked up behind him. When his interview on the ten o’clock news was over, he clicked off the TV and placed the remote control on his nightstand.

  He smiled broadly, enjoying his victory. He’d never planned to do television interviews. He had no author photo on the back of his books or any of his websites. While he did podcasts and radio interviews, he’d intended to remain a man of mystery, never showing his face to the public. He wanted the best of both worlds; fame and wealth gained through his writing, and the anonymity to go about his day-to-day life without hindrance, whether it be from fans or police officers nipping at his heels. But after so much time had passed and no connection had ever been made between him and any of the murders, he figured he was safe.

  Besides, no one would ever suspect that a best-selling author was a murderer.

  The interview had put him in a good mood. So good in fact, he considered going back down to the basement and having another run at Bethany, who was probably still crying from what he’d done to her earlier in the evening. And he might have done it if it wasn’t for the fact that he had a book signing tomorrow. After the interview on the news, more people would show up than normally would, which meant more questions and more interactions. He would need to be clear-headed and well-rested to deal with them.

  Instead of going to the basement, he went to the kitchen, still naked, where there was a red velvet cake, fresh from his favorite bakery, waiting for him on the counter. It was a treat he felt he deserved after all the work that had went into erasing that whore Candy from his house and breaking Bethany in as his new companion.