I called Rebel, but she didn’t answer. I’m fucked if Felicity does something stupid.
Sending a last-minute text before the meds kicked in again, I groaned in agony. Call me.
18
Pseudonyms
Author Dating Rule #:21390 My name and author name stay separate. Stalkers are a legit fear.
Rebel
My phone was long dead. Coen was probably worried about me. I let it die along with my strength to write. If doing something I loved caused creepy weirdos to stick around, I wouldn’t have any part of it.
Time passed by me, and I hardly felt it. Stace did God knows what with whichever flavor of the week she had. My not leaving the house was our routine. When I decided to write my first book, I knew I’d use a pseudonym for privacy alone. Living in a small as hell town led to people knowing your business. The romance genre took a lot of heat, and I didn’t want that at first. I’d gladly held that badge of honor after this.
Stalkers were a legit fear. And this one, he went too far. He somehow found out where I lived. He even drove states away to see me. If I weren’t freaked out, I might have been flattered, but a restraining order told another story. After leaving that stupid speed dating event, I cried for a while. Now, I dug into my inner hermit and stayed home. It was pathetic really.
At least I could binge watch Buffy, Angel, and Supernatural. I blew off deadlines while cuddling with my favorite blanket and some hot chocolate. That was my current state right now. Hot chocolate was the only warm thing in my body lately. Wish I felt that sexual innuendo opportunity, but I don’t.
Stace answered her phone in the joining room. She screamed, and while she freaked out, I sipped my cup of warm velvety goodness. I couldn’t allow myself to have emotions, not even worry for my best bitch. She stomped into the room, yelling obscenities to me, but that too didn’t register in my post-traumatic-stalker-fog.
“Rebel, get the fuck up!” she bellowed, making my eyes widen in physical fear. I could literally feel the pain in her eyes. “Coen is in the hospital! Get the hell up, babes!” she screeched at me like a hyena.
That registered in my mind. Coen was hurt. Fuck. In all my scared self-absorbedness, he got injured and was now bedridden in a hospital.
The guy of my dreams literally showed up out of nowhere, and then happiness galore. Yet, we all know that shit never lasted, not for me and not for anyone else. How could everything be fantastic and awful all at once?
For the first time in forever, I got off my ass and headed to the shower. Scrubbing myself and readying my mind for the outside world, I remembered the hot shower sex from the day after my birthday. I hadn’t had sex since then. Definitely shouldn’t be thinking about sex when Coen hurt himself.
I’d always been a lonely person, and for once in my life, I was one hundred and ten percent okay with that.
After showering, I toweled off and trailed into my room. My favorite coral sundress with sugar skulls stood out, matched with my simple sea green converses. My outfit made me appear beautiful, and a confidence boost couldn’t hurt. I placed the typewriter pendant Coen bought me on my neck. After I brushed, blow-dried, and curled my hair, I put on enough makeup to make me seem alive on the outside though my inside didn’t match.
With my mind made up, I went to the Grab-N-Go for a four pack of Red Bull. Without telling Stace, I began my seven-hour drive to California. Coen always went out of his way for me. It was my turn now.
Drives were becoming my new norm, whether to fake dates for my book that lacked in juiciness or to just get the hell out of dodge.
I loved music. It kept my life on its axis, tethering me to this life. My newest obsession was a band called AJR. They had new age alternative pop. Is that even a genre? Regardless, AJR spoke to my soul. I needed to get my man. My life had only begun, and we could be happy if we both gave into our hearts and trusted that everything would fall into place. Felicity messed him up good, and Carl ruined me in ways I wanted repaired by Coen. We were perfect in our own way, and that pushed me to fight for us. Everyone fucked up once in a while. After all the shit with Carl, it was bound to happen to me.
I’d only made it an hour before a call interrupted my singing. “Hello?” I answered, not able to look at who called.
“Rebel, please come to the Ashville Inn,” Carl’s frantic voice wavered through the other line. I should’ve blocked his number after he stopped by.
My heart hammered and an intense frenzy flurried inside my stomach with each passing breath. He never spoke with this much anxiety.
“Are you okay?” I asked sincerely. My ex might be an asshat, but we had been together a long time. It wasn’t in me to not care.
“It’s urgent, please,” he begged. He actually begged.
Without another thought, I made a U-turn back to Mt. Pleasant. Coen and I could wait. He had already said not to bother coming anyway.
“Thank the Lord you came.” His distraught features bordered unhinged.
“What’s wrong?” I took a shy step toward his mother’s house, hoping everything was all right in the world.
“It’s that man you’ve bedded with. Coen,” His grimace was guilt stricken and nearly disappointed.
I nearly buckled to my knees. Why would Carl bring him up? Was he okay? My nerves shot, skyrocketing with the panic in my heart.
“I just got a text, and you’re not going to like it,” was all he muttered. His hands went to his pocket to get his cell phone. “I didn’t want to say anything on the phone. I thought you’d want to see for yourself.”
My feet made their way to him, but my mind was unwilling to accept anything Carl had to offer. He handed me his phone, and on the screen were photos of Coen and Felicity. My veins felt icy but scorched with hatred all at once. Maybe this is why he told me to stay home. Maybe my avoidance had caused Coen to run back to the whore, the one who carried a child that might or might not be his. The lump in my throat nearly choked me, stealing away all the words I could possibly form.
No, these were probably old. Right?
My heart felt like those fabric ones that you stuck needles in, to hold for marking and sewing later on. Each pinprick brought an onslaught of pain and heartache. She didn’t have clothes on. It looked as if she rubbed up his body, and the fact that he looked blissed out didn’t help.
Maybe he’s medicated? my stupid mind tried pleading Coen’s case. Maybe she photoshopped Coen into them?
“Baby?” Carl’s puke-inducing voice questioned, his mouth in a firm line, his stance haughty.
He didn’t give a fuck about me, and this only proved it. Carl wanted a stupid and small girl to do his bidding. Since the town knew what kind of man he pretended to be, they’d wrecked his pride. Now, he needed a doting wife to make it all go away. If he thought for a moment I’d run back to him over this, he was out of his goddamned mind.
“I can’t do this.” My voice was a shell, so small and feather light. It pained me to flip through the images. They weren’t pretty. Coen could go back to fucking his blonde bimbo. I had better things to look forward to, for example another best-seller to write.
“He’s not good enough for you,” Carl tried again. His thumb and forefinger tilted my pouty chin upward.