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With that, she disappeared into the sea of people, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I was never very good at picking up on signs or signals from girls. Maybe she was just happy to have someone normal around. Or perhaps she was just being polite. I wouldn't lie, though. The thought of running into her again sent a familiar flutter through my groin. But she was far too young and my sister's best friend.
I knew if I wanted to keep my testicles attached to my body, I should probably not cross my sister. I was living on the edge already with my stalker. I didn't need to put myself in any more danger with my roaming eyes.
Chapter Two
Ariel
The café down the street from my apartment had become my unofficial office over the last month. With renovations outside the apartment building, concentrating was almost impossible. I was lulled to a state of sleepy consciousness by clacking jackhammers. So, to get any work done, I set up my office at the coffee shop. They had come to expect me there, and I didn't even have to wait in line most days. The barista would bring my coffee to me wherever I found a spot.
That day, I got lucky, finding a big comfy chair with its own coffee table. Considering I was writing and researching at the same time, I needed the space to spread out my notes. The only thing I decided not to bring was the crime scene photos I had been analyzing. I didn't think having graphic murder scenes all over the table would make the space friendly for the other patrons. I was tired of looking at them anyway. I hadn't quite reached the desensitized stage yet, and they gave me nightmares.
My phone buzzed on the arm of the chair, and my editor's name came up on the screen. The feeling of dread was starting to be a regular occurrence since I had been struggling for months to come up with the perfect storyline. I knew I couldn’t keep putting her off much longer.
With a deep breath, I hit the answer button and brought the phone to my ear.
"Marcie," I said with a forced peppiness to my voice. "My favorite editor."
"I'm your only editor and agent,” she replied in her thick English accent. "I was just sitting here, steeping my cup of tea, mulling over whether to have a prepackaged scone or ones from the conference room brought in by one of the staff, when I saw the headlines of the mornin' news. You know what they were?"
I lifted a brow. "You won an award for the most understanding and patient editor/agent combo?”
"Mmm, I like your brown-nosing, I do. But no. The headline reads: Third Gruesome Murder in Three Weeks: Does London Have a New Serial Killer? And immediately, you popped into my mind."
"I've been here the whole time. It's not me."
She sighed. "I know. But how is your serial killer coming along?"
I puffed out my cheeks, staring at the computer. "I've done a ton of research, and I've gotten almost all the characters on point and ready. The plots are done completely, of course. I just have this one character…."
Marcie groaned. "For the love of the Queen. Ariel, I need you to just move forward. Give the character some generic traits, whatever. Just start writing. I don't care if he's a hobo with a pet bird, just get something going. That small stuff will come to you."
I groaned, sitting back. "I know. I'm sorry. I haven't been sleeping well, my mind is all fuzzy, and I'm trying to make this perfect."
"Some of the best novels in history were far from perfect. I want you to make it good, not perfect. Perfection is my job. And all the research you're doing, and the crime scene photos…which I appreciated not one bit when I opened my email this morning…are probably the culprits in keeping you awake. I think you've seen enough dead bodies. Move on. I promise I will have your back during the editing process."
"I know," I replied. "I just know how picky murder mystery readers are and I don't want some stupid mistake to crash this series, all because I didn't know what I was talking about. I'm like inside of the killer's head."
"Maybe you should have written a children's book," she said with a chuckle.
"Or a billionaire novel," I added. "Get the mindset of a billionaire, and I won't have to be writing these things and can go back to what I love writing."
"You've always written murder/mystery."
"Yes," I agreed. "Because I'm good at it. Not because I love it. I love psychological thrillers. But I'm known for these, so that's what I'm doing right now."
"One day, you'll be able to write whatever you want, but first, kill some people, okay?"
"Yeah," I grumped. "I will get on with the murder spree."
A dude walking past paused, looking at me with fear. I put my hand over the phone and shook my head, whispering. "Not literally. I'm a writer."
He slowly looked away and hurried off. I rolled my eyes and put the phone back up, catching the tail end of what Marcie was saying.
"I'll call you soon. Have something on the pages by then. Anything. One chapter, two chapters, whatever. Just something."
"I got you," I replied before hanging up the phone. Then, with my elbow on the arm of the chair, I put my face in my palm, groaning.
"You need to stop that, or you'll have wrinkles by the time you're 30," Meagan said, popping from around the corner.
