Read Online Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) by Tiana Laveen - Free Book Online
Authors: Tiana Laveen
Tags: Fiction
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possible. I’m full of excuses. Fuck this, fuck it all…
Excuses… just what Mike accused him of time and time again, but it was true; he was fatigued and the rest he did get was often disturbed. He hadn’t told a soul, but sometimes, while asleep in his new home, he’d hear a peculiar racket, as if someone were shuffling about, walking along the floorboards. Every time he’d get to his feet with his gun in tow, the noises would stop. Occasionally, a door would open all on its own, or at least sound as if it were… slow and creaky, then close just as sluggishly, as if whatever had unlocked the thing and took a glance had seen enough to fulfill its curiosity.
Sometimes he could swear he’d caught the scent of a cigar, a brand he never smoked. He’d push the occurrences out of his mind until he’d awaken to a window unbolted, letting Jack Frost and all of his frozen henchmen climb through and chill him to the bone. He knew he wouldn’t have raised the damn thing; it was September and the weather was getting unpredictable. Despite all of this, he was hell-bent on convincing himself that it was all in his head.
Nothing startling had occurred; nothing he couldn’t find some way to rationalize, a plausible explanation. Besides, believing in ghosts was based on silly superstition, and he prided himself on being clearheaded and rational, only delving into fantasies when he’d sit down at his computer and type out bizarre stories where pretend astral worlds inhabited by bloodthirsty red-skinned aliens killed each other with invisible swords christened in poison; Amazon women ruled the world and used ‘normal sized’ men as sex toys; and fishermen discovered the bones of scaly deep sea monsters washed ashore but soon found they belonged to a species that wasn’t much different from man…
He wrote spine-tingling mysteries of the psychologically depraved and vivid sci-fi. These were his niches and his fan base showed their appreciation in droves. At times, they were the only thing that kept him going—self-imposed medication for a mind on the brink of depression and insanity. Receiving fan emails and requests for book signings allowed him to escape his own personal Hell. Pushing away the discouraging thoughts, he motioned the bartender who quickly served him another beer, this one even more enjoyable than the first. The guys sat around talking about the good ol’ days, and he’d give a head nod or perfectly timed chuckle to prevent from arousing their suspicions that he was there with them physically, but mentally, he was a million miles away.
He had to leave; he had to disappear inside of himself because now the band performed ‘November Rain’ by Guns N’ Roses, the song that had played over dinner in their home in Manhattan when the end came crashing down. His ex-wife leaned forward in her sheer white blouse, smelling of another man’s cologne. If he were a betting man, he’d say the inside of her mouth had traces of another man’s cum. She wore a slight smile on her face, lips glossy and blood red as if they’d been bleeding; and then, just like the rain in November, she delivered depression via a declaration. His eyes had welled with angry tears as she’d sat there calmly, a callous chill to her tone, with her fingers caressing the side of her wine glass, she uttered the silver bullet words that pierced his soul,
“Sloan, I want out. I don’t love you anymore…”
How many different types of limes can there be?
It was 1:29 in the morning. Emerald stood in the produce aisle of Whole Foods, her basket full of fragrant oranges, a pound of freshly carved corned beef—well, as fresh as one would expect at 1:29 a.m.—and a whole red onion to soon be diced into a crisp salad. She’d also picked up a bag of the sea-salted potato chips she told herself she was going to stop purchasing to no avail. She preferred to do her shopping late at night, despite her daughter’s occasional protests that she
Excuses… just what Mike accused him of time and time again, but it was true; he was fatigued and the rest he did get was often disturbed. He hadn’t told a soul, but sometimes, while asleep in his new home, he’d hear a peculiar racket, as if someone were shuffling about, walking along the floorboards. Every time he’d get to his feet with his gun in tow, the noises would stop. Occasionally, a door would open all on its own, or at least sound as if it were… slow and creaky, then close just as sluggishly, as if whatever had unlocked the thing and took a glance had seen enough to fulfill its curiosity.
Sometimes he could swear he’d caught the scent of a cigar, a brand he never smoked. He’d push the occurrences out of his mind until he’d awaken to a window unbolted, letting Jack Frost and all of his frozen henchmen climb through and chill him to the bone. He knew he wouldn’t have raised the damn thing; it was September and the weather was getting unpredictable. Despite all of this, he was hell-bent on convincing himself that it was all in his head.
Nothing startling had occurred; nothing he couldn’t find some way to rationalize, a plausible explanation. Besides, believing in ghosts was based on silly superstition, and he prided himself on being clearheaded and rational, only delving into fantasies when he’d sit down at his computer and type out bizarre stories where pretend astral worlds inhabited by bloodthirsty red-skinned aliens killed each other with invisible swords christened in poison; Amazon women ruled the world and used ‘normal sized’ men as sex toys; and fishermen discovered the bones of scaly deep sea monsters washed ashore but soon found they belonged to a species that wasn’t much different from man…
He wrote spine-tingling mysteries of the psychologically depraved and vivid sci-fi. These were his niches and his fan base showed their appreciation in droves. At times, they were the only thing that kept him going—self-imposed medication for a mind on the brink of depression and insanity. Receiving fan emails and requests for book signings allowed him to escape his own personal Hell. Pushing away the discouraging thoughts, he motioned the bartender who quickly served him another beer, this one even more enjoyable than the first. The guys sat around talking about the good ol’ days, and he’d give a head nod or perfectly timed chuckle to prevent from arousing their suspicions that he was there with them physically, but mentally, he was a million miles away.
He had to leave; he had to disappear inside of himself because now the band performed ‘November Rain’ by Guns N’ Roses, the song that had played over dinner in their home in Manhattan when the end came crashing down. His ex-wife leaned forward in her sheer white blouse, smelling of another man’s cologne. If he were a betting man, he’d say the inside of her mouth had traces of another man’s cum. She wore a slight smile on her face, lips glossy and blood red as if they’d been bleeding; and then, just like the rain in November, she delivered depression via a declaration. His eyes had welled with angry tears as she’d sat there calmly, a callous chill to her tone, with her fingers caressing the side of her wine glass, she uttered the silver bullet words that pierced his soul,
“Sloan, I want out. I don’t love you anymore…”
How many different types of limes can there be?
It was 1:29 in the morning. Emerald stood in the produce aisle of Whole Foods, her basket full of fragrant oranges, a pound of freshly carved corned beef—well, as fresh as one would expect at 1:29 a.m.—and a whole red onion to soon be diced into a crisp salad. She’d also picked up a bag of the sea-salted potato chips she told herself she was going to stop purchasing to no avail. She preferred to do her shopping late at night, despite her daughter’s occasional protests that she
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