“How much of it did you read?” he growled. It was an actual growl—the kind that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, like finding myself face to face with one of the mean dogs guarding Perry’s junkyard. The guard dogs had become putty in my hands eventually, but I got the feeling Vandal Stokes wouldn’t respond as well to pats and treats.
I sidled away. He was still holding my phone, but even if it wasn’t smashed, staying and trying to get it back was stupid. It wasn’t that expensive and definitely wasn’t worth dying over. Vandal looked ready to murder me.
Maybe he’d even write a book about it.
Was that a thing? Horror writers actually murdering people?
“How much did I read of Winter’s Thrall? All of it.”
“Not of Winter’s fucking Thrall. I was gone for what—an hour? You could have read the ending, at least. No, you probably fucking downloaded it. Where’s the flash drive?”
“Flash drive?”
He grabbed my arm again and shook me as though a flash drive might fall out of me, like an apple from a tree.
“Where is it?”
I wanted to be indignant and tell him off, but I was too shocked to do anything but stare at him.
“Don’t play stupid. I know why you’re really here.”
“I-I just wanted you to sign my book,” I stammered.
It sounded like he thought I’d read something new. I scanned the yard and realized a laptop sat on the patio table, half covered by books and spiral bound notebooks. “I didn’t even go over there,” I promised, gesturing to the seating area. “I’d never dream of snooping in someone else’s laptop!”
“I’m supposed to believe a trespassing stalker would balk at opening my laptop? It’s people like you who make it next to impossible for writers to make a living nowadays.”
My mouth opened in indignation, and I narrowed my eyes, my shock ebbing as my anger grew.
“No matter how broke I’ve been, I’ve never so much as downloaded a novel from a pirate site. Why would I steal from the man who used to be my favorite author?” I slapped his chest with my leatherbound copy of his book.
He recoiled in surprise, reflexively clasping the book to his chest, and I yanked my arm out of his grasp.
“Yeah, showing up on your doorstep like this was out of line, but I’m a fan, not a—” I couldn’t think of anything good to say so I left it at that.
He was still glaring at me, and I yanked my copy of his book out of his hand, changing my mind about leaving it behind. It was no longer going to be my prized possession, but I’d be damned if I let this jerk keep something I’d worked so long to buy. He could keep everything else I’d brought with me.
I stalked off toward my bicycle, determined to get away from him before I said or did something regrettable.
This had all been so ugly, and not at all what I’d pictured in my mind when I’d been planning this and pedaling out here. Tears tried to well up, but I told them to fuck off.
It felt like he was right behind me, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around to take up the fight again. Sure, I was afraid of him, considering how angry he was, but the bigger issue was I was pretty sure I was going to start crying if I said another word.
Couldn’t anything go right for me?
First, my Aunt Natalie—the only person who’d always been in my corner—had moved all the way to Vancouver, the victim of corporate downsizing. Then, almost as soon as she’d left, I’d lost my job at Perry’s because people kept buying their gas the new gas station that had opened down the street. The owner of the new place was only hiring part-timers, and almost all of them were members of her family. Because I’d lost my job, my landlord was hounding me to give him rent ahead of time because he didn’t trust he’d get his money.
The possibility of getting Vandal’s autograph had been the only bright spot in my life since my aunt left.
I got to my bicycle, aware he was still trailing me, and as I reclaimed it from against the tree, he grabbed my handlebars.
Why did a writer have such big hands? How did he even type?
“Let go of my bike. I’m leaving. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Griselda.”
“It’s Sadie,” I snapped, trying to yank my bicycle out of his grip. I couldn’t twist my handlebars out of his hold. It might have helped if I’d had both hands free, but without my backpack I was going to have to hold onto my book all the way home.
He jerked my bike away from me and pointed back toward his cottage.
“You’re coming with me so I can make a call and find out what the hell I’m supposed to do about you.”
“Screw that. Keep the bike, I’ll walk.” I turned away to do just that, but he grabbed my arm again. What was it with this guy feeling like he had the right to manhandle me?
“Yeah, sorry. That’s not going to work for me. Either you come along and wait for me to make that call, or I call the cops and have you charged with trespassing and theft.”
“Maybe I’ll tell them you won’t let me leave, and you keep touching me!”
He let go of my arm, but arched a brow, pinning me in place with his implacable gaze.
I’d never so much as spoken to the police before, let alone been in trouble, and the thought of it made me sick to my stomach. For that matter, if they did charge me with theft and found me guilty, I wouldn’t be bondable anymore, and it would be damn hard to find a job.
What was I supposed to do?
We stared each other down, but it was difficult to tell if he was angrier than I was. Of the two of us, I was probably the one breathing harder, but I had every reason to be scared, where he had what? A trespasser who had possibly read a book no one knew he was writing? Meanwhile, if he called the police, I had no money to hire a lawyer, so I’d end up with a duty counsel lawyer who didn’t care what happened to me.
Who would the courts believe? A famous writer or a nobody?
My shoulders slumped. “Fine, I’ll go with you, but you won’t call the police, right?”
Grimly, he nodded.
Despite my cooperation, he stayed next to me up to the house, walking the gravel drive leading up to the flagstone section as though the stones were of no consequence against the soles of his bare feet. Maybe he ran around here shoeless most of the summer.
When he opened the front door, I was blasted in the face with cold air.
Sweet baby Jesus, he had air-conditioning.
As he led me through the homey place, I pinched my T-shirt away from my skin, letting the cool air creep up to greet the sweat trickling between my breasts and in my armpits. The shirt was one of my favorites—black with a headshot of the bride of Frankenstein on it. Although I’d cursed the way the color had absorbed heat on the way here, I’d been glad not to have visible sweat stains when I finally got to Vandal’s door.
Now I couldn’t care less what he thought of me. The man was the biggest asshole I’d met in my life—but hey, that’s what I got for believing a celebrity might actually be a decent person.
The cottage was tastefully decorated with enough personalized doodads and knickknacks that either he’d had a hand in choosing what had gone into the place, or he’d added things later that blended in well. There were a few larger pieces of what looked like graffiti framed throughout the house—monsters and demons and words I couldn’t read.