Flypaper Con: Dark Psychological Thriller - Book 4 Read online

  “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. “I didn’t mean to throw it in your face. I didn’t mean it like that. Promise. It was a humorous observation, or it was supposed to be, if I didn’t suck at humor. Okay?” He motioned in the direction of the hotel. “Hotel, please? I’m melting out here.”

  Hellen covered her mouth to hide her smile. “It’s not that hot.”

  Nick took his hoodie off and tied it around his waist. “Compared to my neck of the woods, this is Dante’s friggin’ inferno. This is hell, is what this is.”

  She cackled and doubled over. “Oh my god, you poor bastard, you should visit during the summer.”

  They walked toward the hotel. A speck of guilt nipped at Nick’s heels. “Sorry about before. I’m not super good at interacting with people. I don’t do it a lot. Not really.”

  “Probably more than me. I go days without leaving the house. At least you have Corpse.” Hellen stopped at a crosswalk and put her hand across Nick. “Wait for the light, people will run you down here.”

  He took note of the warmth of her skin against his shirt. “Thanks. And technically you’re right, but I don’t count Corpse. When I say interacting with people, I mean with all the rules of social etiquette. That stuff doesn’t apply to her. That’s why we get along.”

  Hellen opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and then opened it again. “So you two have never—?”

  Nick laughed. “Everyone asks that. No, never. I’m not even sure she plays for that team. But even if she did, no. We’ve hugged maybe three times and it’s usually unbearably awkward. That’s it.”

  The light turned and they moved again. “That’s surprising. The way she acted this morning…”

  “That’s how she is. Crazy protective. Beats me why, but I’m grateful for it. You can’t buy loyalty like that. I’ve known her for a few years, paid her to run my site. We started talking more when Myiasis became a thing. When I broke my leg, she moved in to help me out, and fuck it, I let her stay. I think we’re both better off for it. She’s lived in some pretty sketchy situations before, from what I understand. I don’t know the details though, she plays it pretty close to the vest. I get the feeling someone fucked her up pretty good at some point.” They crossed into the hotel parking lot and squeezed between two cars. “What about you?”

  Hellen paused to pull a pebble out of her shoe. “What about me?”

  Nick waited until she moved again. “I mean, have you dated anyone since…”

  “Ha. No.” She opened the door to the hotel lobby and held it for Nick.

  “Thanks. Haven’t felt like it, or…? Sorry, I have no idea if that’s something I should ask. This is what I mean about never interacting with people. I do better with the written word. You can’t offend the blank page.” He glanced up at the picture of himself above the lobby. For the first time it made him blush. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it had something to do with Hellen.

  She paid no attention to the Nick shrine hanging above her head. “It’s fine. I met a guy online a month ago, but it didn’t work out. He was creepy.”

  “Oh, now you’re in my wheelhouse. Creepy how?” They stopped in front of the elevators.

  “A general kind of creepy. Texted me constantly. Stared at me a lot.”

  Nick instinctively shifted his gaze to the elevator. The floor. The ceiling. Anything but Hellen.

  “Relax,” she said, one side of her ruby lips curving into a grin. “It’s cute when you do it.” She put her hand on his arm. He was transfixed. “What are you doing now?”

  Brain… No… Work….

  “I don’t know. Bed?” Words. Words erupted from his mouth in a stream of self-consciousness. “I’m old. And lame. Bit of a pussy according to Corpse.”

  Hellen grabbed his hands. “You are not old. Or lame. Or a pussy. Come to a party with me.”

  “Oh god.” Nick swung their hands back and forth. Some nagging part of him wanted to keep the physical contact from feeling too intimate. “I haven’t been to a party in… shit… over ten years? Not a real party. I’m not counting bullshit Hollywood sip and chats.”

  She gripped his hands tight. “See, you say that like it’s a reason to not go, but I hear it as a reason to go.”

  Nick let go of Hellen’s hands and fished his phone out of his pocket. “I could probably go for a little bit. But I have to ask, and I don’t want to offend you…”

  She tried to read his face. “What?”

  He crunched his face up, in preparation for any blowback. “It won’t be filled with Maggots, will it?”

  Relief visibly washed over Hellen. “Oh, no. Totally not. Mostly bloggers and podcasters. Cool people. I can’t guarantee there won’t be anyone from that group there, but I highly, highly doubt it’d be anybody you’d need to worry about. I promise, I wouldn’t take you if I thought that were the case.”

  This was want he wanted. Exposure. To reconnect with people outside his limited circle of Corpse, Reed and the Littleberrys. “Fair enough. Okay, hell with it, let’s go.”

  Hellen punched the elevator button. “Yes. This is going to be great. It’ll be fun, you’ll see.”

  They boarded the elevator and rode upward in abject silence. Nick fished for topics to converse about, but the pond was dry. Hellen found something instead. “You drink?”

  “On occasion. Usually when I finish a book I have a couple. Do I party drink? Not in forever.” He cocked his head to one side. “Why do you ask?”

  The elevator came to a stop on the seventh and Hellen led the way out and down the hall. She looked up at him through her lashes, that little lopsided grin reappearing. “Just wondered how much I’d have to give you if I wanted to get you drunk.” Nick’s stomach did a little twist. He chose to believe she meant it in the ‘take advantage of you’ way and not the ‘steal your kidney and leave you in a bathtub full of ice’ way.

  They stopped outside room seven-twenty-five. The sounds of music and people talking pulsed through the door. “I don’t think getting drunk is a good idea. I have a full day tomorrow. I mean, I could theoretically sleep in a little, but…”

  Hellen knocked on the door. “Oh, then you’re good to go. Live a little, before it’s no longer an option.”

  A long-haired man in a Nightbreed shirt opened the door and greeted them. “Hellen, you made it. I thought you had a thing with what’s-his-name.”

  Hellen poked Nightbreed with her elbow. “Curly, this is Nick Dawkins.”

  Curly’s eyes widened. “Oh, this is him. Sorry man, I didn’t recognize you from your picture.”

  Nick smiled. “More than okay. I’d be fine if nobody here recognized me.”

  He waved them inside. “I can’t promise that, but yeah, sad to say I’ve not read your stuff. I know Hellen loves that shit though.”

  She elbowed him again. “He knows, Curly, thanks. Anyone good here?”

  Curly pointed around the room. “You know Neil. And Mike. Stacy’s here, from Killcount.”

  Hellen nodded. “I know her from Twitter.”

  Curly pointed out a number of other people. It was all Greek to Nick. It occurred to him that, in this group, he was the odd one out, having never succumbed to the connection-dependent world of social media. As he’d banked his next book entirely on the unproven—for him—tactic of digital distribution, he could stand to learn a thing or two, if he got the chance.

  But first, a bit of social lubricant. Hellen read his mind and pulled him over to a table full of liquor and beer bottles. He poured a drink and glanced around the room. “I don’t recognize anyone here.”

  Hellen mixed together her own concoction. “Did you expect to?”

  “I guess not. I think I was afraid I’d be the oldest person here.” He spied a grey-haired man in glasses and a Freddy Krueger sweater talking to a girl who could be his granddaughter near the bathroom. “Horror for life, am I right?”

  Hellen knocked her glass against Nick’s. “Horror for life.”

  They bo
th drank as Nick wondered if this was what a ‘normal’ social gathering felt like. It’d been so long since he had a basis for comparison, he’d all but forgotten. Parties reeking of Hollywood bullshit aside, the last time he’d been at anything resembling a party, a Republican was in the White House.

  A tall man about Nick’s age walked up to Hellen and hugged her. “Hellen, I’d hoped you’d make it. I see you brought your date.”

  Nick waited for Hellen to correct the guy. She didn’t.

  “Mike, shit yes I made it. Mike Reaper, Nick Dawkins.” Hellen motioned at him.

  Was this a date? It hadn’t occurred to him before that second. He stuck out his hand and tried to focus on the moment. “Nick.”

  “Mike.” They clasped hands. Mike gripped it tight. This guy. He moved like he knew what the hell he was doing in life. Like people in movies do. Every nod and gesture was smooth and unflinching. Something about it vexed him. And Mike Reaper? Even his damn name was cool.

  Hellen turned to Nick. “Mike runs BrainRot. Indie film company.”

  Nick shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  Mike had a huge smile. Like Blaire’s, but without the subtext of quiet desperation. It was disarming. Everything about the guy was. His was a rare and dying breed; The Grown Up. Grownupicus Magnificus. “It’s okay, Nick, you wouldn’t know us. We’re releasing our first feature next month. Joint Custody.”

  Hellen’s excitement was palpable. “It’s about a woman in a custody battle with the Devil over their Antichrist kid. That reminds me; hit me up if you still want to record some audio with me tomorrow.”

  “Will do.” Mick turned to Nick. “Hellen is being very supportive in our grassroots marketing, such as it is. I’ll get a screener to you too, if you like.”

  “Yeah, that’d be cool.” It could be cool. It could also be total garbage. Either way, it’d be a way to kill a night with Corpse.

  A girl in dreadlocks passed Hellen a joint. Hellen inhaled… and inhaled… and inhaled, then spoke through held breath. “Thanks, hun. Nick, this is Annie. Podcaster from England.”

  “Oh, cool. You came all the way here from England?” Nick watched as Hellen passed him the joint. He’d never smoked before. Would it be rude to pass it on? Did he even want to?

  Annie’s accent was pronounced. “Yeah, from London. This is a good con. I’ve gotten a lot of good stuff. Always do, I suppose.”

  Nick looked at the joint in his hand. When in Rome…

  Annie looked at Hellen. “What about you, dearie? Have you got what you came for?”

  Nick put the end of the joint in his mouth and inhaled like he would a cigarette.

  Hellen glanced sideways at Nick. “Not yet, I haven’t.”

  Bits of ash and weed flew into his mouth and coated his tongue. He coughed and hacked and burped, and with each exhalation, puffs of smoke ejected into the air.

  Hellen patted him on the back as he handed the joint off to the closest available hand. “Whoa. You okay?”

  His eyes watered, but he could make out Hellen, bent over and looking up into his face. He moved his mouth, but nothing came out. He thrust his head up and down between coughs and gave her the thumbs up.

  Mike reached over and picked up a bottle of water. He cracked it open with a solid twist. “Here you go, buddy.”

  Nick squeaked out what little he could. “I’m good.” He took the water, pulled the cap off and swigged it. He stood up and cleared his throat. “I meant to do that. ‘S’how I like it.”

  “Fuck yes, brownies.” Annie presented a plate full of baked chocolately goodness. Half-a-dozen hands reached in and picked at the moist squares.

  Nick couldn’t remember ever being so hungry in his life. “Are these…?”

  Annie nodded. “Special brownies? Yeah. Have one.”

  He examined his current state of mind. So far, so good. Why not? Everything sounded like an incredibly good idea.

  Someone—it might have been Curly—brought up The Inn. Nick started to elaborate on why it was probably for the best that the thing never saw a release, but was distracted by the hoodie around his waist. He explained that he wasn’t some masturbatory douchebag, but there’d been an incident with a blood balloon… and brains.

  The group broke up into smaller, randomly intersecting dialogues. They talked about favorite current trends in the horror genre, franchises deserving of sequels or reboots, and properties that should remain dead. Nick had a couple more drinks and pointed out that the Hellraiser series should have stopped after they sent Pinhead into space. People around him nodded sagely, as though he were the Dalai Lama of murder-movies.

  The brownies came around again. Holy shit, those were good. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said as he plucked another off the plate. He stuffed it into his mouth as Hellen and Mike talked about the ups and downs of independent digital distribution. This was stuff he should pay attention to. He tried to hold onto pieces of the conversation, but they slipped away like grains of sand between his fingers.

  He looked at his hand. Fingers, when it came right down to it, were freaky as shit.

  The world came into focus and the conversation had moved on. How long had he been obsessing over his digits? For that matter, how fucked up was he? He looked at the drink in his hand. Was this his fourth? Fifth?

  Hellen put her arm around his and asked if he was okay. He nodded. “Need some air.”

  The door to the adjacent hotel room was open now, to make room for the surge of people who’d recently arrived. The party was now what the kids might refer to as ‘jumping’. Nick snorted at himself and slid the door open to the balcony as Hellen followed him. The cool air caressed his face. He needed that. He sipped his drink and peered over the railing at the busy streets below. “I got a new balcony, you know.”

  Hellen leaned over the railing next to him. “I know, you told me.”

  Nick raised a finger. What on Earth was nature or God or Darwin or whoever thinking? He kicked away the stray thought and went back to the topic at hand. Stop thinking about hands. “I didn’t say that to bring up the balcony thing, I just thought of it because we’re on one.”

  She smiled. “I know.”

  He looked out across the city. A much bigger pond than he was used to. It was profoundly comforting. “I don’t blame you for any of that.”

  “I know,” she repeated.

  “I blame me.” He drank from his glass again and set it on the railing, empty.

  Hellen tilted toward him. “Wait, what’d you say?”

  Nick tapped at the glass absent-mindedly. The lights from the street below were distorted in it. “What? What’d I say?” He couldn’t remember what they were talking about.

  She looked him in the eyes to draw his focus. “I think you just said you blame yourself.”

  He replayed the last few minutes. “Oh, right. I was talking to someone this morning. One of these tabloid TV shows.” The words ‘shows’ got away from him a little. He licked his lips and made sure everything was working properly. His mouth was awfully dry. “She asked me about Danielle. Flypap3r.”

  She studied him, but said nothing.

  “And I had this like, epiph—epiphim—this epiphany.” He enunciated the last word with tremendous effort. “I think I really hate myself for what happened to her.”

  It was the little light that had come on in his head earlier in the day. The one that illuminated thoughts he didn’t know were there. In the booze and the weed, they sat in the open where he could examine them from every angle.

  Hellen put her hand on his. “Okay, from what I know of that story, that was not at all your fault.”

  Nick rubbed his face. It felt numb. “No, she definitely had more than a hand in how things ended up, but I should have done something differently. Anything. Talked her down, pulled her from the car, I dunno.” He looked at her, both of her. “I attract crazy people like, all the time. That’s my whole thing. I attract them to me and they die. That’s what she said
.” He looked down at the street and whispered to himself. “Fuck me, she was right.”

  Hellen put her arm on Nick’s shoulder. “Nick, are you okay?”

  He put his hand on his face. He could barely feel it. Something was wrong.

  He picked up his glass and squinted at it. He had the damnedest time focusing. “Did anyone else touch this?”

  “Your glass? I don’t think so.” Hellen took it from him.

  “I don’t feel right.” He slid the balcony door open and went back inside. Hellen followed him. He moved for the front door. A skinny kid in a black trench coat stood in front of it, talking to someone else. A red fly was pinned to the kid’s lapel.

  Myiasis. A whole community of people who wanted to kill Nick—eat him, skin him, torture him, feed him things. Thousands of them. And there were god knows how many in the building right now.

  What if—this was conceivable—what if everyone at the party were a Maggot? What if they’d spend the past however long planning this? They’d given him drink and food and god-knows-what-else. He wouldn’t put it past them.

  Where was Corpse? Why did he leave her back in her room? Stupid. What was he thinking?

  A room full of strangers. Strangers and one woman who only a few months before was the voice of the entire Maggot community.

  He had to get out; get back to Corpse.

  Nick gripped his walking cane and put his weight on it. Something wasn’t right at all. Everything was fuzzy. His eyes felt too big for his head.

  He pushed his way past Annie and Mike. Mike. Something he didn’t like about that guy for sure. He was too perfect; too self-assured. Nobody was that self-assured. Like he knew something everyone else didn’t.

  He pushed his way toward the door. The Maggot in the trench coat spoke. “Hey, it’s Nick Dawkins, holy shit.” The kid was beside himself. Nick blew past him and out the door. Across the hall was either another party, or an extension of the same one. Inside, two more Maggots. They were everywhere. He hurried down the hall.

  What the hell floor was he on? He couldn’t remember. Half the night had slipped away from him. What the fuck was in those drinks?

  Hellen followed him into the hallway. “Nick, if you’re not feeling well, I can help you get back to your friend.”