Held & Pushed (2 book bundle) (31 page)

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?