“Dark in My Imagination” – of Verona
I can't sleep. Every noise, every creak and pop in this house leaves me unnerved.
Being in a stranger's house while he's camped out in his backyard—a stranger who isn't exactly that because for years you've all but worshipped him—is an odd feeling. A gust of wind howls around the corner of the house. The bare branches of the tree outside my window scratch against the pane. That noise makes me cringe.
I stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows from the limbs dance across it. There is no way I’m finding sleep any time soon. I roll onto my side and turn on the lamp before grabbing the strap of my satchel and hauling it up onto the bed. I dig through, looking for my plot book, but instead, I pull out Echoes of the Fall. This is one of my favorites of Edwin's books. My fingers slowly trace over his name. EA Mercer.
And isn't this something? Here I—little Miranda Cross—sit, snuggled down in his guest room bed, in the very house these words were written. I know what he looks like when he's pissed, when he smiles. I know what he smells like. I know things so many of his fucking readers would love to know, and something about holding this book in this very room is exhilarating.
I turn to the first chapter, my eyes poring over his words.
Her eyes bead with tears—worthless tears—as I wrap the duct tape around her pretty mouth. I'm not exactly sure why I cover their mouths like this. It's not like anyone would hear her pitiful screams coming from this cabin in the middle of the woods—
And my attention darts from the book to the window, all too aware of where I am right now. Chills splinter up my spine. I don't scare easily. In fact, for the most part, I thrive on fear.
"Don't be ridiculous," I whisper to myself. "You've written some fucked up shit before."
And I have. I wrote about stabbing Margaret Stanley, and I loved every word I put on that paper, but I didn't actually kill her. I wouldn't kill her. My gaze veers back to the window, to the faint glow of the bonfire bouncing off the trees. He's peculiar… but aren't we all? Aren't we all quirky and strange? I know damn well my penchant for dark stories comes from the abuse, from the demons I keep hidden deep inside me. It's an outlet for my shame and anger over the fucked up hand life dealt me.
I attempt to read some more, but for the first time in my life, I can't stomach his words. And it's not because they aren't beautiful; it's because my idol is human. I understand that he may very well have some dark, twisted past that parallels mine. And that leaves me unsettled. Why? Because his books were my escape, a haven if you will. They were fiction that let me avoid the shit that was my life, and due to my overactive imagination—because that’s what it is, my mind running wild in an effort to rob me of sleep—I fear that maybe he isn't the person I always dreamed he was.
And with that thought, I turn off the lamp and settle beneath the sheets, wondering what kind of demons he's hiding. Because that is one thing all humans have in common—we all have some type of demon riding our backs. Some are just far worse than others.
I stare out of the windshield, my hands gripping the steering wheel. Janine went to have drinks while I was at the spa. One too many, she said as she tossed me her keys. I don’t like driving her car. The gas pedal is too sensitive, the steering wheel too tight. She’s put the radio on some pop station. Each song blaring through the speakers is more annoying than the last, and she's singing along. When she turns the volume down, I'm thankful, but I know that’s my cue to glance at her.
"How can you look that tired after a day at the spa?" Janine asks.
I shrug. "Didn't sleep well, I guess." And I didn't. I barely slept last night.
“Oh.” She points out of the window. “Turn in there. I’m starved.”
I put the blinker on and check the rearview before switching to the far right hand lane.
"So you said EA was camping out?" She laughs. "Him and his ways to find inspiration. Give me cable and a bottle of cab sav any day. That's plenty inspiration. Who needs dirt and the elements?"
I laugh, not because I find it funny but because I know that's how she meant it. "Yeah, I guess everyone has their thing."
"Like I said, he's a nice guy, just a little quirky."
"Yeah, well." I sigh. "The fact that he apologized speaks volumes."
"That it does. All these years and I think I've gotten one 'I'm sorry' that sounded more like a sneeze and a fart than anything."
I pull in between two pickup trucks, the bed of one filled with wire cages housing chickens.
"A burger okay? This place has the best burgers," she says, not really waiting on a response as she opens the car door and hops out.
"Yeah, fine." I'm speaking to myself because Janine's already heading toward the entrance of the tiny restaurant. I shut the door, lock the car, and jog to catch up with her.
"Don't let the looks of it scare you," she throws over her shoulder. "And don't look at the health rating either."
The tiny bell hung above the entrance jingles as a group of men dressed in blue coveralls open the door to the diner. They hold it for us, and we skirt around them. The thick smell of grease slaps me in the face the second we step inside, and my nose crinkles. I follow Janine to the counter and take a seat on one of the red stools.
A frazzled-looking waitress is sorting silverware behind the counter. She looks up and grins, revealing a gap-toothed smile. "Hey there, baby doll. Give me just a second, and I'll be right with ya."
Janine smiles and hands me a menu. "The Classic is the best, and the Coke floats here…" Her eyes roll back in her head, and she bites her lip. "They are amazing."
I skim over the menu, every so often eyeing the grill that looks as though it hasn't been cleaned in months. Janine rambles on and on about how good the food is, but I don't really believe her. And I definitely don't look for that little framed piece of paper with the health rating on it either.
After the waitress takes our order, Janine turns her chair toward me and smiles. "So that guy the other night, the one at the bar…"
I stare blankly at her. "Yeah?"
"You gonna meet up with him at any point?"
"What? No."
A group of men sitting across the counter from us are staring and whispering. Damn perverts.
"Why the hell not? Did you not get a good enough look at him?" She tosses her menu on the counter. "His muscles, his face—a man like that would ruin you."
"Uh, I'm not really… you know. I just…"
The waitress sets my soda in front of me, and I take the opportunity to glance away from Janine's look of utter shock. This entire socializing bullshit is not my forte.
"Miranda?"
I slowly turn to look at her. "Yep?"
"Any normal woman would climb that man like a tree. I mean, hell, what, are you a virgin or a Jehovah's Witness? Are you into girls or something?"
"No." I take another sip of my drink, staring at the piece of overly processed meat sizzling on the griddle.
"Okay, so I don't understand the problem here. He—" She places her hand on my shoulder and spins my chair to face her. "What was his name?"
"Jax."
"Sexy name." She smiles. "So Jax was obviously interested. You were interested. I mean, hell, you two were basically eye-fucking each other."
Covering my mouth, I choke on my drink. To be so crude, she sure as hell looks put together. "I'm not really a people person."
Janine rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I haven't met an author yet who is a 'people person.' Did you give him your number?"
"Hell no… he gave me his."
She arches one of her perfectly sculpted brows. "Interesting."
"What's interesting about that?"
"That he gave you his number instead of asking for yours." She shrugs. "I like to analyze people, figure out what makes them tick. That's the only reason I work well—huh, as well as one person can work—with EA. You have to learn what drives someone, you know, and the fact that he gave you his number, well, he put the damn ball in your court…" She smirks before lifting her drink to her lips. "Life is about experiences, Miranda. Do something that takes you out of your comfort zone."
"Oh." I laugh. "I assure you this entire ordeal with Edwin"—I wave my hand—"way, way out of my comfort zone."
Shooting a disapproving look at me, she shakes her head. "Just call the damn man, would you? One call. Ask him to have coffee with you or something." She turns back to the counter just as the waitress sets a plate filled with soggy fries and a gigantic burger in front of her. "Coffee and a quick fuck, is that too much for a woman to ask for?"
Easy enough for her to say. Not in a million-fucking-years would I call him. No matter how badly I may want to.