“Dread…”
“That’s one letter too long.” He slid the sharpened number two pencil behind his ear and glared at the children’s activity book filled with puzzles, connect-the-dots games, and illustrations for coloring that he’d stolen out of her kitchen.
“Head.” Emerald scratched her knee. “Fed… is it three letters or four?”
“Four.”
“Dead.”
“You already said that.” He set the booklet down on the coffee table, along with the pencil. “You’ve been obsessed with death ever since you got a hold of more of Peter Jones’ books. It’s ironic, right?”
He leaned against Emerald’s couch, plumped one of her over-stuffed chaise pillows behind his head, and got a waft of the can of sardines and crackers he’d devoured a few moments after coming through the door. Famished, he’d wolfed down the first thing he saw in her pantry.
“He was a good writer.” She picked up the remote control and turned off her television.
“Yes, he was. A lot of writers have stolen his style as of late and these new readers have no idea they are reading recycled work.” He shook his head in disgust.
“But isn’t that how this works? Everyone is an inspiration to someone, right? We observe, learn and emulate.”
“There’s a difference between gaining an angle based on someone else’s talent and learning a thing or two versus copying it to the letter. For instance, your furniture… You’re either restoring or improving an original idea, correct?” She nodded in understanding. “What you’re working with was already established. It’s no mystery. You don’t claim to have built the furniture from scratch. Your expertise is not in furniture making; it is in restoration.
“You’re using the original structure and building upon it. No one is fooled or misled, and yet, still, your art and craftsmanship are respected as such. I had a lawsuit a couple of years ago against someone who plagiarized key passages from several of my books. I could not go after him for ideas… ideas are free and open and rarely is there a completely innovative one within itself. What we do with the idea is what makes it original. He did not place any ingenuity into the work; he simply changed my character and location names, but my premise and plot were stolen.”
“Did you win?”
“Damn straight I did, but that’s because I had a good attorney and the money to chase this guy down. Not to mention, my fans called bullshit and started a petition. Peter is not alive to go after all of these people; nor, as you know, did he have any heirs to do it for him. Once someone dies, their work becomes prey to vultures, incessant pirating, and legal loopholes are in place that allow this rampant theft. So yeah, Peter probably learned from some of the masters, and I learned from him and many others, but he never stole their ideas, intellectual property or words, and claimed them for his own. Everything has degrees of recyclability; the extent of that degree is what defines what is yours and what is mine.”
“My daddy used to tell me there was nothing new under the sun, but I suppose even if that’s true, sometimes you can make something shine a bit brighter under those rays.”
Smiling, he leaned in close and brushed his lips against the bridge of her nose. “From all that you’ve told me about him, your father sounds like he was a great man.”
“He was. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him.” She looked down thoughtfully into her lap.
“What traits of his do you think you have?”
She looked at him curiously, as if no one had asked her that question before. Perhaps they hadn’t.
“I look like both of my parents, but I do have a sense of loyalty, of knowing right and wrong, and of respecting the golden rule. He won a settlement from a job he was working at, and instead of living off it, he opened his own car repair business. I believe I’m that way, too. I have enough saved up where I would be okay if I became conservative with my money. But why?” She shrugged. “I tend to keep things to myself unless it just becomes too much, just like him, too. I’m always learning… ’cause each day, life class is in session, Sloan. But, I’ve learned not everything needs to be kept bottled up inside, and sometimes being angry and saying so, right when the offense happens, is okay, too. I’ve been portrayed to be one type of woman, but was really someone else.
“My Daddy taught me how to hide in my own skin. This isn’t to say I wasn’t authentic, but nobody, not even me at times, was allowed to get the full scope. That’s a hindrance. As Sugar says, ‘Don’t block your blessings by being stubborn.’ I had the nerve to wonder where my Nikki got her stubborn streak from.” She laughed sadly.
Sloan caressed the skin along her wrist, comforting her while she let him that much closer into her heart.
“For some reason,” he said, leaving a trail of pecks along her neck, “I believe…” She sighed, melting into his embrace. “…I’ve been loving the
real
you.” With one final kiss on the cheek, he leaned back against the decorative pillow, sliding his arm beneath it. “Can I give you a test to make sure you’re the real Emerald, and not some imposter?”
She smirked, eyebrow arched in question. Crossing her arms against her chest, she leaned back onto the couch.
“Bled.”
“Excuse me?” he asked, not certain what that meant.
“The four letter word you were looking for, was ‘Bled.’ The clues were ‘red’ and ‘punctured’.”
A slow smile graduated across his face. “Did that just come to you?”
“No, I just wanted to draw it out…because it was fun.”
“Somehow I knew you knew the answer. Not really certain though what tipped me off.”
“And why didn’t
you
know the answer?”
“Who’s to say I didn’t?” He sucked his teeth in a satisfied sort of way.
“You didn’t.”
He burst out laughing and nodded. “You’re right. I’m a little preoccupied… got things on my mind.” He clasped his hands together and leaned forward, staring straight ahead at a pitch black television that disseminated his own convex reflection of reality in muted shades.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m haunted.”
“You’re not haunted. Your house is haunted. But that’s old news. You’re dealing with it.”
“Yes, I made him an altar and promised a sacrifice,” he teased. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. See, Emerald…” He whipped out his lighter, cocked his head to the side, and lit a cigarette. Taking a long inhale, he exhaled just as slowly, trying to come to terms with the speed of his heartbeat as each second birthed and died against the Earth’s timeline. “There are good hauntings and bad hauntings. When you’re passionate about something, it haunts you, too. You think about it all the time, to the point you rarely get a good night’s rest. It becomes an obsession, but it’s positive… because the outcome is always beautiful.
“I’ve endured the not so great haunting, and the best kind of all…” He slowly turned in her direction. “The best kind of haunting is when you’re in love. You think about that person all the time. Your love speaks for you when you don’t have the right words. Everyone expects the writers of the world to have the right words…but we don’t own the marriage between sentiment and language. It comes and goes as it pleases.” Emerald nodded in understanding, while he succumbed to this moment of vulnerability—an alien, yet welcome, feeling. He could get used to this. He’d
become
used to this. Ever since she’d come into his life… “Like with the crossword puzzle. You seem to always have what I need, and you can step in where I come up empty.
“I told you I wanted to test you, to see if you are the real you, ask some questions…but that’s redundant. Every time we’re together, I’m testing you… whether either of us knows it at the time makes no difference. Frankly, that’s what lovers do. We test each other. We test our strengths, weaknesses, our desires, and all that the relationship entails. We’re all a bit narcissistic if you ask me, using the other person for a supply of fulfillment, investing in them, so they can invest back in us. When we look at each other, we hope to see ourselves in the other person’s eyes, because that means they’re seeing us, too, truly seeing us, and loving us all the more for it.” His eyes watered, and he blinked the pending tears away. “I moved here to Maxim both to get away and to get close. I chose the house I live in because it would allow me to run away from myself, and dig deep within all at the same time.
“I chose to pursue my dream to write sci-fi, so that I could live a million lifetimes of my own choosing, instead of just this one. I wanted to be reincarnated; I wanted to be God and his servants, all in one.”
He set his cigarette down into an ashtray on the coffee table she’d purchased just for him, dug into his jeans pocket and removed a small russet leather pouch. Sliding his fingers inside, he retrieved the ring box and, on a deep breath, presented it to Emerald. As he pulled it open and revealed the jewel inside the box, her expression remained the same… but her eyes grew wider and glossier. Then, tears began to fall down her face.
“I can’t run anymore, Emerald. I can’t live inside of my books. I can’t have it both ways. I wanted a woman who loved me for me, for who I truly was. I got her. I wasn’t looking for you inside my mind, but my heart was on the hunt and I’d be a damn fool to not seize this opportunity. So, here I am, doing just that. Emerald St. Claire, will you marry me?”
Her teeth sank into her lower lip, which curved into an emotional smile. She nodded, causing that cluster of salt and pepper hair he loved to swing forward.
And then, she said the words he so needed to hear—“You already know… yes. Yes!” Surrounding him in a tight embrace, she kissed all over his face.
He burst out laughing, lightly fighting his way out of her grip.
“Let me give you the ring.” She slowly let go of him and stretched her hand out before him. Gingerly taking her ring finger into his grasp, his slid the ring onto it.
“It’s beautiful, Sloan.”
“I’m glad you like it. It took me a few weeks to narrow down which style I wanted to get you, but this one just sort of called to me. I figured this would be the ring you’d really like.”
“Well, it’s definitely my taste.” She smiled down at it, moving it to and fro to catch the light in its depths.
“Ugh…” He grimaced as he got to his feet.
“What?” She looked up at him, concern in her eyes.
“Why did I ask for sardines before proposing?” He chuckled. “I just burped.”
Emerald burst out laughing then quickly covered her nose. “Yes… I can see what you mean now,” she said in a muffled voice. She made a face, then burst out laughing again.
“I was hungry, saw ’em sitting there, and didn’t even think all of that through. You got some Listerine?” He pointed towards her hall bathroom.
“Yes, it’s on the counter.”
He turned and marched away, closing the bathroom door behind him. Grabbing the large plastic bottle, he unscrewed the cap, took a big mouthful, and swished it about, while staring at himself in the mirror. Exhilaration and gratitude filled him. Popping the lid of the toilet up, he spit the mouthwash into the latrine and made his way back up the hall, only to find Emerald up and about holding a hammer and her safety goggles on.
“I poured us a couple of glasses of wine,” she announced before dragging a small wooden dollhouse into the center of the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“About to fix the roof on this dollhouse,” she said as if it were obvious, as if he was some random fool who’d wandered into her abode.
“But I was hoping we’d celebrate, relax a bit.” He gave her a dirty glance as he tugged at his belt. She gave him an unimpressed look, which had him suppress a laugh. He placed his hands on his hips, feigning indignation.
“We will.” She turned her back, walked up to her kitchen counter, and took a sip of her wine. “But this dollhouse is for a little girl’s birthday, and that’s in three days. Not to mention, I have to get up a little earlier and open the office. We have a new alarm system and no one seems to know how to work it right without tripping the damn thing off.” She rolled her eyes before plopping down onto the floor, sitting cross-legged, and taking hold of the toy.
“I can’t believe this. I just proposed to you, gave you a ring ’nd everything…”
“Burped marinated fish guts in my face. Don’t forget that part.”
“Exactly! Burped sardines in olive oil in your face to prove my authenticity and undying love, and this is the thanks I get. You, sitting here with a hammer and nails about to fix a Barbie condo.” He tossed up his hands in faux angst.
“I’ll have you know it is a Melissa and Doug original.”
“I have something you can play with all right.” He tugged at his hard cock through the material of his blue jeans, causing her to blush. It made him all the hornier.
“Just give me thirty minutes.” She grinned, waving the hammer in the air. “I have completely tricked this house out. It is adorable. See, she had this when she was only ten years old; she’s now sixteen and it was her favorite toy so they wanted to re-furbish it for her and—”
“Re-gifting? Well, this will be a sweet sixteen she won’t soon forget,” he teased, pulling up a chair and sitting down, ready to watch her digging and jabbing at the roof of the house until she’d pried a piece off.
“I’m installing a chimney right here. I’ve already put a fireplace in the living room, and it glows, too,” she explained. “Stuck In The Middle With You” by Stealers Wheel played softly on the radio.
What a moment, he thought, as he made himself comfortable and stared down at the most beautiful woman in the world. Her small limbs moved frantically about, while determination and discipline etched themselves across her face.
It’s time for Emerald to let someone take care of her, too, for a change. This shit has to stop, and I’m just the man to put an end to it…
He took another toke of his cigarette, placed it down in the ashtray, and got to his feet.
“Come on.” He gently tugged on her arm.
“Just a few more minutes and then—”
“Nope. You’re not going to do this right now. The birthday girl can wait.” He shook his head and grabbed her up from the floor with a gentle tug. Enveloping her in his arms, he pulled her head back by the hair and slid his tongue inside her mouth, eliciting a moan.