Don't Write it Down (Rainbow Noir, #1) Read online

  Don’t Write it Down

  A Rainbow Noir Novel

  by C.E. Wilson

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Don't Write it Down (Rainbow Noir, #1)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

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  Chapter One

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  Don’t Write it Down

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  Text copyright © 2017 by C.E. Wilson

  All Rights Reserved

  To an amazing talented unicorn.

  Your work continues to inspire me and all those around you.

  I f’ing love you, Desiree.

  Don’t Write it Down

  Chapter One

  The carpal tunnel tingled its warning as I scrolled and refreshed on my phone for the umpteenth time that day. Sitting on the stoop on a random Wednesday afternoon with a cigarette in one hand and a margarita resting at my side, I should have been in heaven. I had it all. There were many who had called me a hack, a pretender, a failure who would never make it, but I had left them in the dust years ago. I had a steady, self-paying job. I was my own boss and could work any hours I pleased. I wrote through the night and slept through the day. Or, if I wanted to, I slept at night and worked through the day. It all depended on what I felt like doing. Freedom was the ultimate perk of being a top-selling author. Not that anyone would know because of my modest living. My place had been small to begin with, and now it felt even smaller because of the cluttered shelves filled with everything I’d ever wanted growing up. Horror movies and manga, collectibles and magazines. There were shelves on every wall and crap on every shelf. I could barely move around the impossibly cramped space. With the money I made I could have easily moved into a mansion ten times the size.

  But I didn’t want to.

  I liked my humble home. I liked having endless funds to spend on things other than a mortgage. I didn’t have school bills or credit card bills. I bought whatever my heart desired, and the only person who even gave a rat’s ass what I did was my ex-husband.

  Ugh. Ex-husband. I hated thinking about it. At twenty-five, I was far too young to have an ex-husband, but that’s what Kevin Akers was. My ex. We were high school sweethearts – and I had been in love with him before I knew what love was. I thought love was having a date for prom. I thought love was being okay with giving it up before graduation. I thought love was sneaking out in the middle of the night for dollar menu sandwiches. I was an idiot. Luckily, I found my true love and realized that what I felt for Kevin was nothing more than a dire need for a security blanket. We promptly divorced right as my writing career was taking off, but he didn’t move on like I did. He stayed close to my side, convinced we could work things out.

  He probably wants my money. Get in line.

  Refreshing the screen on my phone again while taking a long drag from my cigarette, I allowed the nicotine to coat my lungs in the same way my writing style painted the darkness in my heart. People said I would never make an honest living as a horror writer, but they were wrong. They were all so fucking wrong. And while I didn’t have a movie or TV deal that I so desperately craved, I wanted to shout out to the world that I was successful. Not that anyone was listening.

  There was just one thing missing besides a movie deal.

  I refreshed the screen on my phone again. Any moment they would update. This time it would happen.

  “FUCK!” I belted out the word without hesitation, hardly noticing that a mother and child were coming up the path towards the townhouse near mine. They shot me a look, and I arched an eyebrow. “What?”

  They didn’t answer. I didn’t care.

  Another week at number two.

  My book smiled back at me from the second spot on the list. Another new release. Another shot at number one and another chance missed. Another opportunity taken away from me by a man I’d never met.

  Jessen Blake.

  Died young. Dead. Deceased. Inexplicable talent. The Kurt Cobain of horror writers. Another new release dropped days before mine. The dead man stole everything from me. Everything I wanted lay in that single space. Jessen Blake had defeated me again from beyond the grave. I took in a deep, trembling breath as I tried to calm my nerves and stomped out the burning filter of my cigarette wishing I brought the entire pack outside. My arrogance ruined me yet again. I was so sure this was going to be the week I’d defeat him, but no. Another hidden story in a drawer his family had discovered and exploited for money.

  Five of Jessen Blake’s books were now films. Five. Two were mini-series. One had a TV show that was still airing. It was good.

  I loved Jessen Blake. I respected him. I hated him. I would say I wished he was dead, but he already was. And it didn’t help at all.

  I gripped the phone tightly in my hand before I slammed it down on the sidewalk next to my drink and narrowed my eyes towards the sprawling empty parking lot. Ten or fifteen cars were sloppily parked in poorly lined spaces. The whole area screamed blue collar no matter where I turned. A duct taped window here. Bungee cords holding up a bumper there. I sniffed the air and the stench of the nearby factory hit my nostrils, making me want to cough. There was only one thing that could annoy me more than seeing my name at number two again, and his car had just pulled into the lot.

  My ex-husband knew my schedule almost as well as I did. On Wednesdays, I drank and smoked heavily. The best seller lists also released on Wednesdays. His car pulled lazily into a nearby parking space and came to a stop. My mind reeled as I tried to come up with an excuse for him to leave, but it seemed only to want to focus on one disturbing fact.

  Another release – another release at number two.

  My ex shut his car door and smiled up at me from the lot with his phone in hand.

  He knew. He must have already seen the rankings for the week. Maybe he was planning to drive right on by if I had hit the number one slot. But since I was still number two, he would know I was feeling weak and vulnerable.

  “Still shopping at the Big and Tall, I see,” he said when he grew close enough to call out to me.

  “Shut up,” I growled, standing up on the stoop with my drink in hand. I polished off the rest of the margarita and lapped up the rim of salt with gusto, not wanting to be as buzzed as I felt. The sting of being number two was too fresh in my mind. Never good enough.

  “I’m just teasing,” Kevin said, holding up his hands. “It wouldn’t kill you to wear something nice. I know you have some clothes that fit hidden under those mountains of horror movies.”

  “They’re not comfortable.” I considered throwing something at him, but my smoking hand was empty. “So to what do I owe this honor?” I swung open the door.

  “You know I like to check in on you.”

  “And so you have.”

  “She worries—”

  “I’d invite you in, but I think you forgot that I hate you.”

  I heard his fingers rustle through his bristly hair. “You saw the ranks, I guess?”

  “You know I did,” I snarled, stumbling inside and reaching for my pack of menthols. “Look, don’t you have a slut convention to attend? Some whores who’d like to measure your dick?”

  “Oh, Emma,” he said, failing to be playful, but we
aring a dopey grin just the same.

  “Don’t call me that,” I snapped with a red face, allowing the words to tumble before I had a chance to censor them. I tightened my grip around my pack of cigarettes before staggering back out the door and took a sloppy seat on the stoop as I lit up.

  “You want me to get you another drink?”

  “What I want is for you to get the fuck off my property.”

  “Oh come on. Don’t be like that.” His smile grew warmer as his hazel eyes trailed down to my spot on the stoop. “It’s just another release. You’re going to get number one some day. You know you are.”

  “No. I don’t know that,” I grumbled, leaning against the door before taking a long drag. I exhaled the smoke toward Kevin as he remained standing. “How am I supposed to compete with a dead man? He’s the fucking Kurt Cobain of horror writers—”

  “Just because his estate trademarked that term doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  “You saw it, though, didn’t you? Of course, you saw it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. He’s number one again. How can a dead man have so many stories tucked up his ass? There should be rules against that, you know? Publishing beyond the grave. He’s not Kafka for Christ’s sake.”

  “The man’s only been dead for three years, I think,” he said before waving his hands around. “Not that it matters. You’re gonna get there, Emma—”

  “Don’t call me Emma. You don’t get to call me that anymore.”

  His expression shifted. “So what do you want me to call you?”

  “Shade. Just like every other jealous idiot in this world plotting against me.”

  “I’m not plotting against you. And no one else is either.”

  “Whatever.”

  “It’s not like being in second place is hurting you – you must make more every month than I do in a year. You should move out of this dump and—”

  “I like it here,” I snarled. “No one knows me here. I don’t have to deal with any bullshit from our moronic neighbors. Here, no one cares. I’m just some burnout with no job and no future. No one knows I’m a NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLING AUTHOR!” I shouted the last part to no one in particular as if to make my point. “I’m a loser who gets drunk on Wednesdays and smokes people’s children into cancer.” I frowned. “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe I’ll kill someone in my next book with second-hand smoke. That’s bound to get me the number one slot.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Second-hand smoke? That’s a little tame for you, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you have a guy punch a toddler in the face in your last book?”

  “A baby,” I grumbled sheepishly. “Whatever. No one cares anymore. Maybe I’ll stop writing horror and go into erotica.”

  “Now I know you’re drunk and feeling sorry for yourself,” he said, rolling his eyes and reaching for me.

  Sloppily, I tried to push him away, but my ex was a strong man. He easily scooped me up into his arms and plucked my cigarette out of my hands and stamped it out.

  “Those things are going to kill you.”

  “If you don’t cut it out I’m going to kill you,” I snarled, losing all my fight as he kicked the door open and settled me on the couch.

  “What?” he teased. “In your next book?”

  “Next time we meet.”

  “Let’s watch a movie,” he proclaimed.

  “I don’t want you here,” I said, growing tired as he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “You should go. What are the teenage hookers going to think when their best client doesn’t show up?”

  The corner of his mouth snuck upward in a crooked smile. An annoying smile. A charming smile. “Emma, you’re too dark for your own good. Just relax, and I’ll put on your favorite movie.”

  “I’m not in the mood for Martyrs.”

  “Oh, you’re a liar. You’re always in the mood for a bloody revenge story. Come on, maybe something will trigger, and you’ll be working on your next book tomorrow. Then you’ll show that dead guy a thing or two about real horror.”

  I sniffed, nuzzling into my ex, hating that he always knew what I needed, and when I needed it. After losing to Jessen Blake, a little blood and gore called to me. There was nothing I loved more than being drunk in front of my large TV mounted to the wall with a buzzed brain and blood splattering across the screen. And my ex – for all his annoyingness was a fantastic snuggler. His sweater smelled like freshly mowed grass though I was sure he didn’t have the slightest idea how to turn on a lawn mower.

  “When I wake up, I want you to leave,” I said, hating myself for giving in so easily.

  He didn’t answer.

  I didn’t care.

  Chapter Two

  The following morning, I woke up in my bed in my favorite Halloween II t-shirt. Michael Myers’ face smelled like grass so with a furrowed brow, I turned over, half expecting my ex to be laying there next to me with a smile on his annoyingly sexy face.

  But it was empty.

  I smoothed my hand across the expanse of the king-sized bed which took up the entire bedroom and felt for a dent in the mattress. I was checking to see how long Kevin might have stayed but with a slight bit of disappointment, there was nothing there.

  He must have put me to sleep and left last night.

  Sitting up in bed, I clutched my head and groaned, wondering how much I must have drunk the day before. My phone was charging on the nightstand, and I reached for it, annoyed when the screen lit up with the last thing I had looked at the day before.

  Another gurgling groan escaped, and I placed the phone back on the nightstand and flopped back into bed, not even wanting to think about it.

  Still number two. Not good enough. Jessen Blake wins again.

  How did he do it? I couldn’t help wondering how he still had so many unpublished stories. I knew he was prolific, but three years’ worth of books? With another published every three to four months? Would there be no end? How could a man who died at thirty-three have so many finished novels tucked away?

  I had nothing, repeat, nothing other than the project I was working on that moment in time. I never had a backlog, and I never had the slightest clue as to what I was going to write next until I decided that day would be the day I would write my next book. Scowling, I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to write today. I probably wouldn’t write tomorrow. Or the next day.

  Maybe I would never write again.

  ***

  Three days later I decided I was in the mood to write. And this time – like every other time – I was convinced I was going to write a New York Times number-fucking-one best seller. I didn’t care how gory I had to get or who I had to kill. I didn’t care who needed to be raped, gutted, murdered, or mutilated; I was going to write a book that would make Eli Roth himself sick to his stomach.

  The first few chapters came quickly enough. A town infested with unspeakable evil. A respected local man offers to fight the evil to save his family, but he has a secret. He’s a fraud, a philanderer, and a thief. No one knows who he really is, not even his family. A cheater and a fraud, just like my ex. I didn’t base the character on my ex, but rather more on my father. He was a cheater, and it just so happened that my ex was too. All men cheated. That’s what they did. But that was neither here nor there. The story was coming easier to me now as my father-like character kept declaring every other page that he would save the town because he would never allow his family to go through any pain. I smiled as I created a smartass thirteen-year-old girl who could read minds.

  She knew her daddy was wrong.

  And she was going to make him pay – after he took care of the evil that wasn’t his own first.

  I chuckled as the story unfolded, ignoring a hallucinatory unicorn who wandered past at one point. No distractions, Mr. Unicorn. I could feel myself growing more depraved and manic with each chapter. The less sleep I got, the more I longed to kill everyone with words.

  The husband started to lose it
and killed a local drunk, convinced that he knew something.

  Two more days went by.

  The smartass daughter knew her daddy was bad, but she wouldn’t hurt him. Not yet. But the dad grew more panicked and drowned his baby in a bathtub when mommy was out getting groceries.

  It was an accident.

  She believed him.

  She always did.

  But the daughter knew daddy was an evil man.

  A week passed. I had so little sleep with the curtains drawn that I didn’t know the difference between night and day. They all flowed together with my madness. This story was going to be it. This was going to be the story that hit number one. I could feel it. Every death moved me higher up the charts. I thought about watching I Spit on your Grave for a little revenge motivation, but I couldn’t move my ass to the couch. The only places I went to were the bathroom, the kitchen and the stoop for a cigarette. I hadn’t showered in over a week, but I was in my writing cave. The words were coming quickly now and as the story loomed towards fifty-k I knew I was halfway to where I wanted to be.

  I was still going when my ex showed up to check on me.

  The door unlocked. Kevin had a key. I didn’t want him to have it, but I didn’t want to be found dead in my room after two weeks because I had no one else to check on me.

  “What do you want?” I barked from the desk in my bedroom.

  “You haven’t been online,” he called back. “There’s usually a million updates with word counts and the latest horror movie you’re watching. You’ve been eerily silent. I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.” He laughed nervously behind me, probably glancing around the bedroom. “I see you’ve been eating.”

  “Yup.”

  Cheetos and Cheddar and Sour Cream crisp bags littered the floor. I couldn’t begin to imagine how bad the room must have smelled and I traced my eyes over to the cylinder of Febreeze resting on the edge of my desk and sprayed it around. My ex coughed.

  “I’m alive, so you can go now,” I said, glancing over my shoulder.

  His eyes widened. “Damn Emma. You look like shit.”