3,325 words - adult fiction
You’re going to be angry. I’ll just tell you that upfront.
If you want to come yell at me for being stupid, go ahead. But please at least bring the bail money with you. I promise I’ll pay you back.
See, it all started with the author signing. Or, actually it probably started with Dave, the security guard. If I hadn’t dated him, there’s no way I could have pulled off the kidnapping.
Dating a security guard is even better than being a security guard, if you ask me. You get to see all the hidden corners the cameras can’t reach. You get to find out the pass codes. You get to see the basement tunnels and the roof access. And you don’t have to go brain dead with boredom staring at computer monitors all night long.
I know you said I shouldn’t date him, and I agree. He turned out to be a jerk. But think of this to cheer you up. He’ll get fired as soon as they find out how I had a key to the janitor's closet.
So, Dave made it possible. But you know I’m not for kidnapping someone without a very good reason.
That very good reason was Helma Dugan. Debut author extraordinaire. New York Times bestseller. I know you’ve read her new book. It seems everyone and their dog has read it.
But do you remember her when we were growing up? Little Helma Dugan was just a frizzy haired kid with a runny nose and braces for too many years. She was in my grade. We were acquaintances. She sat at the lunch table with me and my friends. My writer friends.
The weird thing is, little Helma had no interest in being a writer, unlike me and all my friends. But she was an avid reader and would do a decent job reading over a manuscript. We all let her read and critique ours. She especially loved one of my novels called Love in the Arcade, about a teenage boy and girl who are tied for the winning score on the most popular game in the arcade and then get sucked into the game and have to fight to the death to stay alive. And, of course, they end of falling in love during all of this. Anyway, Helma kept bringing it up for at least a year after she read it. I guess that’s why we kept her around. She was good moral support when we needed a boost. We were like her own private book club.
So, when I went to college, and she asked if she could room with me and four of my friends, we shrugged and let her come along. She still had the braces.
We were all going to writing conferences together and comparing stories, and Helma was happily reading away anything we gave her. I entered dozens of writing competitions, but never won anything. At least, I thought I didn’t.
Life went on. I graduated. I still wasn’t published and had to get a job. Being a full-time writer is great until your rent is due.
My job got demanding and I had less time to write. All my other writer friends had agents and editors and most of them had husbands too, and they had all moved to other states, and so it was just me. Even Helma moved off somewhere, though I didn’t keep in touch enough to know where she’d gone.
I started to think my ideas were trash. All my friends had books coming out and even though they weren’t wildly successful, at least they were published. I wrote less and less frequently, until I kind of gave up on the whole writing thing. Then, to top it all off, I walked into a bookstore one day and there was Helma. She wasn’t buying books. She was signing them.
There was a table set up right at the front of the bookstore with a long green tablecloth. And on the tablecloth were stacks and stacks of shiny new hardback books. And behind it all was Helma, smiling a dead-straight smile, her braces gone, and signing the front pages with a flourish.
I must have stared for ten minutes before I realized what the title of the book was that she was signing.
Love in the Arcade.
I leaned around the line of people and snatched a copy, flipping it open. The first line was like a punch in the stomach.
“It’s so much easier to get along with someone once you’ve killed them a few times.”
I knew that line.
I flipped further into the book, turning pages and reading snippets, all the way to the very last line.
“Love’s a battle - make sure you’re on the winning side.”
I smashed the book shut, crumpling a few pages at the end.
This was my story.
I had written this story.
“Would you like to buy that, ma’am?” A sales lady asked. “The author is signing copies.” She pointed to my right at Helma.
“That’s not the author,” I said.
“Hmm?” She leaned closer like she hadn’t heard me.
Helma still hadn’t seen me, surrounded by her adoring fans.
I shoved the book into the sales lady's hands and darted out of the store.
At home, I booted up my laptop and dug around for the story. It was one I had written years ago. I’d sent it into a contest, and when I never heard back, I assumed the thing was rubbish. The contest had specifically said to keep the submission anonymous, so I had. No name. They said they would send a letter if I won. I never got a letter.
But now I pulled up their website and clicked on the contest results from that year.
Grand prize winner: Love in the Arcade by Helma Dugan.
My vision went a little tipsy.
Had Helma found the letter when she checked the mail? The prize had been something good. I checked because with all the contests I’d entered I couldn’t remember exactly what. But there it was - $2,000 and a publishing contract.
She had taken my publishing contract.
She had never been a writer, but she had plenty of experience editing. They would have had her make some edits to my manuscript, but that wouldn’t have been a problem for her.
Hands shaking, I googled her.
There she was, smiling that disturbingly straight smile.
And there was my book.
I clicked a link and read the blurb.
“...coming out with another book next Fall entitled How to Get on a Serial Killer’s Hit List, the first in a romance thriller trilogy.”
I blinked hard and long, that title staring up at me. I’d written that too. That whole trilogy! It was my romance thriller trilogy! One of my favorites I’d ever written, about a woman who’d been notified by the police that she was being put into witness protection because she was on this serial killer’s list of victims. But the police were too late and the serial killer shows up and kills her. Except they don’t know that he’s actually part of the vampire police, and he’s putting her into vampire witness protection. And the human police are totally corrupt and out to take over the world. Of course she ends up falling for the vampire chief of police, but not until the very end of the first book, right when the human chief of police drives a stake through his heart.
In the second book she trades her immortality for a chance to visit the underworld and bring her true love back from the dead, but it all goes horribly wrong when she realizes he’s in love with some other woman who’s also dead.
I won’t give away the ending, but it took me three years to write the whole trilogy. Everyone in my writing group cried when the vampire chief of police died.
And now Helma was publishing it? She’d had access to our shared google drive where we all posted our stories. Had she downloaded it and sent it to her editor after getting that first contract? Why?
I closed the laptop. Then reopened it and looked up her book tour schedule. She was at the bookstore today, obviously. But next weekend she would be at the library in the next town over.
The library that Dave, my security guard boyfriend, used to work at. And a plan started forming in my brain.
The night of, I dressed in black and I brought my backpack.
I did not buy a copy of her book - MY book - from the friendly sales clerk from a local bookstore that had set up a small shop next to the library front doors. I wasn’t going to add to her pirated royalties.
Before entering the room where she was presenting, I slapped an “Out of Order” sign on the door to women’s bathroom.
The plan was simple. I ran through it in my head again and again as I sat and listened to the head librarian welcome her and everyone applaud. I listened as she read the first chapter of my book. And I sat and listened as she answered questions from the audience.
“Where did you get the inspiration for this book?”
“This one, like all my stories, just came it to. It was like it landed in my lap one day.”
“We heard you are writing a trilogy next. Will there be more books after that?
“Oh, there are plenty more where this came from!”
I gritted my teeth and bided my time. When the question and answer session were over, I watched her like a hawk. The librarians were setting up a table at the back of the room for her, and everyone was lining up to have her sign their copy of Love in the Arcade. But she slipped out the door toward the bathrooms. Now was my chance. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I kept my head down and headed after her.
She saw the “Out of Order” sign I’d tacked up before her speech began and wheeled around for the bathroom on the floor below. Perfect.
When she was down the stairs, I ripped the sign off, and followed her at a safe distance. When she was inside the downstairs bathroom, I stuck the “Out of Order” sign on the door, then slipped in after her and locked the door so no one would disturb us.
I turned on the sink for some white noise, setting my bag down. When she came out of the stall, I was ready. I switched off the light and aimed a gun at her. She froze. Her eyes got very wide.
Now, before you freak about guns and safety and ask me if I’ve ever been to a shooting range in my life, let me tell you that this was not a real gun. Do you honestly think I have connections to be able to get my hands on a real gun? Good grief.
It was a toy from the dollar store. But in the dim light from the window, it seemed to be doing the trick.
I jerked my head toward the janitor’s closet connected the the bathroom. “Get inside,” I said.
I followed her inside, keeping the toy gun trained on her. It smelled like glass cleaner. She stumbled backwards into a chair.
“Sit,” I said. I dumped the rope I’d brought from off my shoulder and kicked it towards her. “Tie yourself to the chair.”
She picked up the rope and sat down with a whimper. Though, it quickly became obvious that I’d hadn’t thought this order through. She tied the rope around her waist and the chair, knotting it firmly, but it was obvious she could untie it whenever she wanted.
I decided to overlook this flaw and get down to business.
“You have a lot to answer for,” I said. My voice didn’t really sound very scary, so I tried making it deeper. “A whole lot to answer for.”
“What do you want?” she said.
“You know what I want,” I said. The deep voice thing wasn’t working very well. I sounded like a terrible soap opera actor. I coughed and continued in a more normal voice. “You’ve been dreading I would find out about this for a long time.”
There was a pause. “Who are you?”
She was dumber than I thought. “Seriously?” I asked. “I’m Lisa! Lisa Hemmingsway! The girl whose book you just published!”
“Oh,” she said. “Right.”
“Okay,” I said. “Listen up. I know what you’ve done. And if you ever want to see your dear cat Snookums again-”
“Snookums is dead,” she cut in.
“Oh, goodness.” I let the gun drop a little. “I’m so sorry!” She had really cared about that cat. “What did that happen?”
“Over a year ago. He was really old.”
I pondered this for a moment. “Well, do you have a new cat?”
“Of course! I have a little kitten.”
“Cute! What’s name?”
“Betsy.”
“Betsy? That’s a terrible name for a kitten! That’s an old lady name!”
“Well it’s better than your main character’s name. What was it? Senora? Doesn’t that mean lady in Spanish? My editor had me change all their names.”
“Just like you changed the author’s name?” I asked, leveling the gun at her again. “Look, if you ever want to see your terribly named kitten Betsy again, you are going to swear that you will walk out there and announce to everyone who the true author of that books is. Is that understood?”
She didn’t answer.
“Is that understood?” I asked again, louder.
“Please,” she said. “I just wanted a chance.”
“Promise!” I said. “Or Betsy becomes my kitten instead of yours! And I will change her name!”
“All of you were so talented!” Helma said. “I knew you would all be these famous writers and I was so jealous. I was never going to be a famous anything!”
“Do I look like a famous writer to you?”
“You were the best writer of them all,” she said, hurrying on like she knew she only had seconds to explain her case. “You were so talented! I knew when that letter came from that writing competition that you were going to be somebody. And I was jealous. I thought I could have just a piece, a small piece of what was in store for you. You wrote so much, surely you would be able to win a hundred more competitions! Surely this wasn’t your only chance. But it was my only chance!”
“That was my only chance!” I said. “Have you seen any books with my name on the cover? Have you been to any of my book signings?”
She was quiet for a moment. “You gave up,” she said softly. “I didn’t think you’d give up.”
I set my mouth. “I did not give up.”
“You did,” she said. “I would log into your account online where you kept all your writing files, and there were less new ones every time I came back. You haven’t been really writing in years.”
“You’ve been logging into my account?”
She didn’t answer.
“How many of my novels have you stolen?” I asked.
“Just the one that’s published, and the trilogy. The romance thriller one.”
I let the gun drop, leaned against the wall to see her face better, and glared. Holding up that toy gun was making my arms ache. “Anything else?”
“And… well… and one more.”
“Which one?”
“The one about the girl who gets tricked into being engaged to that dwarf even though she’s in love with the King of the gold mines. You didn’t have a title for it.”
I stood up straight. “Seriously? That was the one you went for next? I would have thought Sunken Moon about the were-mermaids would have been your next one.”
She shook her head. “You never finished that one. Remember? You never told us how Driselda gets out of the sea witch’s cave before the full moon is up or how Gerald reacts after finding out what she is.”
I’d forgotten that. “I don’t know how it ends yet,” I said. “The ending I thought up first was stupid.”
She shrugged. “You’ll think of something good.”
I frowned. Every time I sat down to write lately, I could only think of how stupid all my ideas were. How no one wanted to read them. But apparently I was wrong.
“Look,” she said. “I get that you’re mad at me. I had no right to steal that competition winning from you. But-” She stopped me as I opened my mouth. “You are a brilliant writer. People love your stories! You can’t stop writing.”
She was right. That much was clear from the lines of people she had waiting for the autograph of the person they thought had written Love in the Arcade.
“You need to give back my stories,” I said.
“I can’t!” She looked petrified at the idea. “No one would believe me. They would think you had blackmailed me or something.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. “I’m deleting that online account with all my stories. You’re not publishing any more of them. Got it?”
She nodded. “Of course!”
“And if you don’t find a way to give those stories back, I will ruin your writing career!” I said. “I’ll- I’ll give you awful reviews on goodreads!”
She swallowed. “I can’t give them back,” she said. “But I could make you a co-author of the trilogy. It’s not out yet.”
I considered.
“Then you’ll get your name out there. You can send out new stories and have your own books. We can go on book signing tours together!”
“No tours,” I said. “Not together.”
“Right. Sorry.”
I considered her offer. It wasn’t bad. If I had seen that letter from the competition, would I have been brave enough to actually go forward with it? To publish other books?
In a way, she had given me a confidence that I couldn’t have gotten any other way.
“Fine,” I said. “Keep the book. But just you wait. I’m going to be more famous than you one day.”
As I untied her, she looked like she was going to give me a hug, but I stepped back. “Hey,” I said. “Don’t push your luck.”
The janitor’s closet door banged open. “Hands up! This is the police!”
“It was her!” Helma said. “She kidnapped me! I had to keep her talking! She’s here! Arrest her!”
And that’s when I saw her phone in her hands. She’d been hiding the screen from me as she texted.
And that is how I ended up in a cell writing to you to post my bail. Pretty please?
I know you’re mad. I get it. It was irresponsible of me. I shouldn’t have threatened her kitten. I get it.
But let’s talk about Helma for just another minute. There’s no way she’s actually going to make me the co-author of my trilogy. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to believe her. I had been debating buying a copy of my book just for fun, but no way that’s happening now. Especially because after I pay you back for bail I will be broke. So, let’s just be mad at her instead, okay?
On the bright side, sitting here in this cell, I figured out how my were-mermaid story ends. And, guess what? I have this brilliant idea for a whole new novel about- Well, I don’t want to spoil the surprise.
It feels good to be thinking about writing again.
Who knew it would take little brace-face Helma Dugan to solve my writing problems.
Well, I’d better finish this letter. I need to get started on my next story. It’s going to be a best seller. I can just feel it!
