Wicked Little Words

by Stevie J. Cole

  He stops cutting the meat and glances back at me, his empty eyes boring into me.

  "Just, uh…" I stall. My breathing grows ragged. Uneven. Think, Miranda. Fucking think. "I just need some stuff from the market. I'm out of, um… out of toiletries and stuff like that. Want me to pick you up anything?"

  One side of his mouth kicks up. "No, dear." His eyes slowly drag down my body, and chill bumps sweep across my skin. "Don't need anything from the market." And he goes back to hacking away at the meat, singing along to the song.

  Nodding, I scoot behind him, my nerves on edge. I take the receiver from the wall and quickly jab Janine's number into the keypad. Adrenaline is pumping through my body, and my senses are heightened. I guess that's why I can literally hear the shredding sound of that knife tearing through the meat. For a fleeting moment, while the phone is ringing, my mind gets away from me. All I can see is Edwin in his damn apron, going at me with that knife as his dead eyes stare into mine. I imagine he'd be shouting for me to look at him. Angry. Filled with rage—

  "Hello?" Janine's voice is a welcome distraction from my thoughts.

  "Hey, Janine. Would you be able to take me into town for a few? I, uh, I need some stuff from the market and maybe some Starbucks or dinner or something." That feeling that someone is staring at you washes over me, and I cut my eyes to the side to find Edwin watching me, twirling that damn carving knife.

  "Absolutely, honey. Give me half an hour to get washed up, and I’ll head that way."

  "Okay. Thanks."

  I hang up the phone and turn around just as Edwin tosses his head back and holds up a piece of raw meat, dangling it between his thick fingers. He opens his mouth. The chunk of meat falls inside, and a satisfied groan rumbles from his throat. Dropping his chin, his eyes lock with mine as he chews then makes an exaggerated swallow. One brow arches as he sticks his fingers in his mouth—one by one—to lick the blood from them.

  "Jesus… Jesus…" he sings along with the song, and the blood drains from my head down to my toes, that weightless feeling nearly knocking me to the floor.

  "So I'll be back later. We may have dinner in town, and I'll just, uh…" I skirt around him, and he turns, following my every move like a fucking predator stalking prey. "I just need to decompress. Can we pick up on writing tomorrow? I mean, if that's okay with you?"

  I'm to the doorway by the time he answers. "Anything you want, my dear Miranda, is more than fine with me."

  "Thanks," I blurt as I make my way through the living room and down the hall.

  I gently close the door to my room, locking it before I take a deep breath. Anything can seem creepy as fuck if you make it. Anything can seem like a scene out of a book if you want it to. But that—that little encounter—was too much like the stories I've fallen in love with.

  I grab my purse from the dresser, stopping to stare at my reflection. All the color has washed from my face. My eyes are wide with fear, my chest rising in uneven swells. It's only fiction. Just words. Only words…

  I stare at the bottles of shampoo in a daze, replaying the sight of Edwin and that piece of raw meat in my head. A woman in an oversized T-shirt reaches in front of me for some shampoo, and that snaps me back to reality for the moment.

  "Honey, it's not that hard of a decision." Janine grabs a pink bottle, pops the top, and inhales, her eyes fluttering back in her head. "I go by smell and smell alone. With my shampoo and my men." She laughs and places the shampoo back on the shelf then grabs another bottle. "Oh, or you can go by the name. 'Big Sexy Hair.'" She smiles. "Anything with sex in the name sells me." She tosses the bottle into the shopping cart. "There you go. All done. We can leave now."

  Using her hip, Janine nudges her way between the cart and me and starts down the aisle toward the checkout. I grab the buggy, pushing it beside her, watching men eye us as we pass by. Janine pulls off the professional workingwoman thing when she wants to, but she does so with a touch of sexuality. Her blouse is always undone one button too low. Her pencil skirts are tight, clinging to curves most women would die for. And she has that fuck-me glance down.

  We stop at checkout line nine. Janine snaps her fingers. The bag boy runs around the counter, immediately unloading the items from the buggy onto the conveyor belt, a huge smile plastered over his face as he stares at me. Why me instead of Janine, I have no idea…

  "So you just wanted out of that cabin, didn't you, honey?" A knowing smile crosses her face, and she shrugs. "Has he been an asshole again?"

  "Uh, no. Actually, he's been nice, like overly nice."

  Her brows knit together. "Nice? EA… nice?"

  I nod, my gaze drifting off to the rack of tabloids. There's a moment of silence, with the exception of the constant beep from the cashier scanning the groceries.

  "Huh," Janine says, placing her hand on her hip and turning around to face me. I glance at her, and she's giving me a once-over, a slight grin creeping over her red lips. "Well, EA, maybe you aren't asexual after all." She chuckles before spinning back around.

  I push the cart to the end of the line. "What?" I take my wallet from my purse and hand the cashier my debit card.

  "I thought he was one of those guys who just didn't have sex or, you know, maybe just was happy using his hand, a bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care, and a sock."

  "Oh, God, Janine…"

  The cashier's eyes widen. She glances between Janine and me as she hands me the receipt.

  "Wonder what kind of porn that one's into."

  "I don't want to know. I don't need to know." I shake my head.

  The bag boy takes charge of the shopping cart. Janine and I follow him out of the automatic doors to the parking lot. The sun is just beginning to lower in the gray autumn sky, and the chill in the air makes my skin prickle.

  "Look at you." Janine elbows me in the side just before we stop behind the trunk of her car. "Catching the eye of Mr. Happy himself." She giggles so hard she snorts. "I mean, he may be an asshole, but he is a good-looking man. Can't deny that. And the quiet ones are always the ones that'll pull your hair and give you a good choking."

  "There's no way in hell—"

  "Oh, come on."

  "Shit, Janine. Have you slept him or something?"

  "I mean, I won't say it didn't cross my mind a time or two after a bottle of vodka." A snarl slowly forms over her lips. "Debated it heavily one time. I blame tequila for that one, but I don't shit where I eat, you know? That causes way too much of a mess." She shrugs. "You? You write this book with him, and you don't have to ever see him again. You could fuck him the last night you're there. Tell me if it's any good then go on your merry way knowing you got piped down by a New York Times best seller. I mean, it's just sex, you know? And if it's good sex…"

  "Yeah, I'll pass," I mumble, staring at her. I'm amazed at how blunt she is, but I’m more confused by the fact that she's trying to talk me into sleeping with the creeper.

  The bag boy finishes unloading the groceries then slams the trunk. “You okay, ma’am? Need any more help?”

  I shake my head, hand him a ten, and he leaves with a smile.

  “I don’t feel like driving. I’ve got a headache from hell that only alcohol can cure.” Janine moans and tosses me her keys. “Do you mind?”

  Shaking my head, I climb into the car and crank the engine.

  Janine slams the passenger side door and gently squeezes my thigh, a deadpan look on her face. "Tell me, are you asexual, honey?"

  "What?"

  "I mean, you've been up here for a few weeks. EA's got a hard-on for you, and you aren't interested. Then that sex-on-legs in the bar—Pax, Jax, whatever the hell his name was—was it Jax?"

  I nod.

  "Well," she says with a snort, "you couldn't have seemed more disinterested."

  I shake my head. "What? I don't know how I could've been more obvious." I think back to the blatant way I was staring at him, and my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment.

  "Really? Oh, honey." She pats my
face. "Going all googly-eyed at a man? Is that the best you got?" She sighs as I put the car in reverse. "You authors are such a weird breed. You'd think with overactive imaginations like you people have to have that you'd be able to woo the robe off a Tibetan monk." She sighs. "Jesus, I could only imagine how awkward an actual relationship between two socially challenged authors like you and EA would be." She shudders a little.

  "You know, I feel like I should be offended by that."

  "Probably," she laughs. "You said EA had been nice. Why don't you tell me what EA has done that qualifies as 'nice,' because I am really intrigued to see what his wooing abilities are like."

  "He's not trying to woo me." I swallow.

  "Uh-huh, because men aren't always thinking about sex? Let's see… EA… I'd imagine maybe he'd give you a little wax figurine of a woman in a coffin or a book made out of his own skin or perhaps just something simple like a notebook full of criticisms."

  I force a laugh. "No, he's just… I don't know. He took me to dinner, and he's been pulling out chairs and giving me these little touches—like brushing his hand over my arm when he likes a line I write. He's just touchy and stares at me with this really weird look…" The traffic light turns red, and I brake, staring out at the strip mall busy with people spending their money.

  "Aw, EA's in love." She tosses her head back, laughing as she slams her palm on the dashboard. "Bless him."

  Obviously this seems funny to her, but the more I replay the way his dead eyes will lock on me from across the room, the more my stomach knots. I panic a little. "Janine, I'm serious. There's something weird about him."

  "Oh, there surely is."

  "It makes me uncomfortable."

  She glances at me, her smile fading. "He can do that. When I first started working with him, every once in a while, he'd give me the heebie-jeebies. He's just… difficult—complicated. Antisocial and awkward. But it's not like he'd ever force himself on you or anything. He's a good guy deep down inside. Just a bit of a weirdo, you know?"

  "He ate raw deer meat today while staring at me."

  A scowl forms on her face. "Yeah, well, that's just gross."

  "I don't know if I can finish this book with him if I'm honest. I can't explain it. You'd just have to be there to understand how weird all this is." The light turns green, and I gently press down the accelerator.

  She shakes her head. "You gotta finish it. Please, for the love of God and my sanity, finish this book with him. How far in are you guys?"

  "About forty thousand."

  "Okay, so what, two more weeks if you guys get after it? I'll come stay up there and snuggle you if I need to. I promise, honey, he's odd, but he's harmless. I've worked for him for five years. I mean, hell, I've cussed him out a time or two, and I'm still here."

  My phone rings. Janine keeps talking as I dig around in my purse, attempting to keep my eyes on the road.

  "Let's just go grab some food. I swear that cabin is enough to creep out Alfred Hitchcock, you know? Out in the middle of God's country and all those damn animal heads staring at you. And then throw in EA and his antics…"

  “Sure.”

  She points out of the window. "Applebee's okay with you? They have the best raspberry cosmo—"

  "Yeah, it's fine." I stop at another traffic light and grab my phone from my purse, staring at the number flashing on the screen. I press Ignore, but she calls right back.

  “You can turn,” Janine says.

  I glance away from the phone and floor the gas, nearly fishtailing as I turn into the parking lot. There’s a spot right to the side of the entrance. I pull in and put the car into park, my phone still ringing.

  Janine glances from me to my phone and back at me. "You gonna answer it?"

  "No." I hit Ignore again. And immediately, my mother is calling again.

  Janine raises a brow. "Someone really wants to talk to you…" She opens the door and steps out of the car. "If you need a minute, I'll just be at the bar."

  The door slams shut, and I watch Janine sashay to the front of the building. The phone vibrates again, Bush’s “Comedown” playing from the small speaker. Listening to the song, to the beautiful lyrics, I stare at the number, wondering what the hell she wants. Mother's never been persistent with anything in her life, being a parent included.

  My pulse picks up, that angry heat flooding my face when I press Answer and raise the phone to my ear. "What?" I can't control the hate in my voice. I really can't.

  "Baby," she slurs, "I'm so proud of my baby."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Your writing." A hacking cough comes across the line. "Momma's so proud of you."

  My skin crawls like I imagine it would if I were covered in a pile of writhing maggots. She must have heard about me getting that job with Edwin. Fucking bitch.

  "I bet you are," I scoff.

  "And what's that supposed to mean?"

  "I guess now you want to try to be the supportive mother you should have always been, huh? If you think I will ever forget the shit you did to me, the shit you put me through—"

  “I did the best I could," she says.

  "Well, could've fooled me. Telling your daughter she's worthless and pathetic and will never amount to anything. Stupid. Ignorant…" I can still hear the disdain in her voice when she'd shout those words at me. "A mistake. A pain in your ass. That's the best you could do, Mother, really?"

  "We all make mistakes. I am proud of you. I always knew you'd be something great. My little girl, a New York Times best seller…"

  Closing my eyes, I shake my head in disbelief. She really thinks I’m going to hit a list with Edwin and give her something. "What are you fucked up on right now? Meth, crack, heroin, or are you just drunk?"

  "I'm—"

  "I don't care." I cut her off because I couldn't care less. "And I wouldn't go around bragging about what an accomplished daughter you have just yet, Doris." I want to squash any hope she has right now. I want to rip away any glimmer of happiness she may be experiencing from the thought that by giving birth to me, she has any right to a damned thing. "That little writing job's not working out so well. I’ll probably quit it soon."

  A raspy laugh crackles over the phone. "I should've known better. Should've known you were still that lazy piece of shit I raised. Giving up just when things are getting good." And there she is, the woman who taught me about love and humanity. There she is. "You're a disappointment. Ruined my damn life, and when you have a chance to make it a little better, you don’t. Fifty dollars here and there don’t do much. You did it on purpose, didn't you? You did this to piss me off—not giving to your poor mother. You'd let me die before you'd give me a damn thing worth a shit, huh, you—"

  I hang up and block her number, something I should have done a long time ago. The sad thing is no matter how horrible some people are to you, sometimes all you want to do is prove to yourself you are worthy of their love—even when their love is worthless. And how fucked up is that?

  Gripping the phone, I clench my jaw and fight back the tears. The thing is, I feel like a fool because I always had hoped that something would change. I thought maybe one day I could have some type of relationship with her. As much as I feign that it doesn't bother me, as many times as I've told people I don't care if she hates me, I do. Wanting love is just human. I just knew that I'd eventually do something to deserve her love, to prove to her I wasn't a mistake, but really, that's just pathetic. The only reason she would ever have a relationship with me is because I'd be able to give her something. And what kind of relationship can you have with a parasite?

  I am a product of my environment through and through. And fuck her for that. The person who should have loved me unconditionally treated me like shit, and I know that's why I am untrusting and too often only see the bad in someone. I want to see all the ugly pieces of a person and make my mind up about how and why they will let me down—why I'll never be good enough for them. Because if I already know that I'll never mean anything to
them, well, they can't hurt me, can they? Let someone get just close enough then push them away. Never believe a compliment, a promise. Hell, I hardly even believe myself half the time.

  I close my eyes and shake the tears away because she’s not worth it. I cry. She wins. I quit this job with Edwin. She fucking wins.

  Moments.

  There are moments in each person's life where everything shifts. Emotions morph. Hurt turns to rage. Love turns to hate. People change. It is the nature of life, for life is merely a metamorphosis.

  I sit in Janine’s car, watching the happy little families drift in and out of Applebee's, watching strangers carry out their lives like animals in a goddamn zoo. A woman in a too-tight black dress saunters in, some stupid man stumbling after her; she's most likely going to fuck him, and he'll never call her again.

  Jax. I could fuck Jax, and I bet he’d never call me again.

  Another couple stops at the car on the other side of me, kissing with the type of passion you usually only see in movies; in six months, she'll likely find him fucking her best friend.

  Jax wouldn’t do that.

  A young man and woman stop by the curb, arguing. His face is red, and she's fighting back tears.

  Jax wouldn’t yell at me like that.

  A mother scolds her child.

  I would never do that.

  An elderly man with an oxygen tank sits on the bench by the door and lights a cigarette.

  He’s saying “fuck you” to death.

  A hoard of teenagers race out to their parked cars—BMWs and Mercedes.

  They’ll never know what it is to struggle, which means they’ll never really appreciate a fucking thing.

  And as I watch the shit show we refer to as life, I realize it's just one big ball of fucked-upness.

  I climb out of the car, smiling at the old man puffing away on his cigarette as I reach for the door. He grins, and his entire face wrinkles. The entrance swings open, and the heat from inside sends a small buzz floating through my body.

  "Welcome to Applebee’s," the hostess mumbles, barely looking up from the stand, her unkempt hair falling in front of her eyes. "How many?"