Wannabe

By David Gearing

Community college student Alexander Cooper has killed twice. First it was his grandfather. Then a dog. But this time, it's not going to be an accident.

Determined to be the killer his mother thinks he is, Coop sets out to find his first intentional victim: beautiful Alicia, the literal girl next door. But when he finds out what she's really like, Coop is thrust into a thrilling cat-and-mouse game of "Kill or Be Killed."

David Gearing brings you another "Saraday Thrillers" novel. Read his others psychological and Neo-Gothic thrillers ECHOES, SAVIOR, and MR. WHITE, available at your favorite online retailers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Gearing
• Release date: Jun 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310709890

David Gearing

David writes and teaches in the Pacific Northwest, where he lives with his husband and his lovable and very fluffy cat. Having studied psychology and law in university, his stories explore the darker side of the human mind, with a bit of a supernatural twist. Not much of a surprise since his favorite authors are Kafka, Hawthorne, and Poe. He has recently committed to the idea of "genre hopping", resulting in over 30 novels from thrillers to LGBTQ+ romances. When he's not cooking or plotting his next novel, he's off plotting to take over the world.

Book preview

Wannabe

by David Gearing

Copyright © 2014 by David Gearing

All rights reserved.

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Published 2014 by Akusai Publishing

www.akusaipublishing.com

First Published in 2013 by David Gearing

Cover copyright © 2014 by Akusai Publishing

Cover design by Kevin Johnson/Akusai Publishing

Cover art copyright © Chrobatos/stock.xchng vi

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Begin reading WANNABE

About David Gearing

More by David Gearing

Coming Soon from Akusai Publishing

Chapter One

and when I poked my first body with a stick, I never, ever thought it would have been my grandpa. The corpse didn’t bloat up so much, but his skin looks so—so thin. Like noodles. Or wontons. Okay, I’ll level with you. It wasn’t a stick, but a cooking spoon.

Pop-Pop? I say. Because even when you think someone’s dead or sleeping, you always err on the side of sleeping.

He doesn’t budge. And I’ll be honest with you, the smell isn’t that bad. I read somewhere that when you quote-unquote pass on, you have a tendency to go shit yourself. Something about muscles relaxing or whatnot. We never covered that much in my basic undergrad psychology class. Instead, we covered how to deal with grief.

Or at least we were supposed to. I was a little behind on the reading.

Pop-Pop must have been looking for someone to call, because his hands clasp the receiver of his old wall-hanging home phone in a tight claw of a hand. His muscles pull tight against his skinny frame. Tight, but so white. So, so white.

Directly behind him sits the baby-shit yellow rocking chair that my dad bought him nearly twenty years ago. The rest of the house is old, wooden paneling and dark. Even with the track lighting drawn up slightly, as they usually are, the place feels like it absorbs light, not reflects it. Graduation pictures of my mom and her brother hang on the walls. If it weren’t for the dust, I might be able to make out exactly who was who.

My grandfather, Pop-Pop, is spread-eagle on the floor and bent over at the waist. His cheek is pressed so tight against the low-thread carpet that his jaw sags open.

My first dead person, and he dies under my watch. Of course he does. Just fucking perfect.

I hold my breath and grab the exposed part of the phone receiver in his hands and pull. And pull again. And again. His soft old-people hands thump against the carpeted floor with each tug and release. This old fucker just won’t let go.

It’s funny, in a state of panic, you have a tendency to forget what you were really doing when you get somewhere.

Where I was supposed to be was in the kitchen preparing my Pop-Pop a can of tuna fish. At eighty-nine years old and after five mini-strokes, the poor guy ate like a cat. I tried to at least put the fish on some bread, but that always backfired. He’d eat the bread, scrape the fish off the bread with his tongue, and ooze the half-dissolved bread-goo out of his mouth. Ever see melted ice cream pour out of a dispenser at the mall?

Ya, kinda looks like that.

Pop-Pop has a helluva grip, and no matter how I pull, he just isn’t letting go. Just when did rigor mortis settle in? Was it hours? Days? Minutes? Why didn’t anyone tell me these things when I was volunteered by my mother to watch my Pop-Pop after school?

By watch, I meant, make him food and watch him half-chew and swallow canned tuna until he fell asleep. That was my cue to go back home, read and/or study and let my mom do the rest.

And I swear to God, it was tempting. I could have—at that moment—just allowed my mom to find the mess. Let her come into the room and see her father lying on the floor, phone in hand, looking helpless as an infant with SIDS.

His skin feels so soft against my fingertips, but the muscles remained stiff, hardened. Pop-Pop held on with his dying breath, literally. I feel like I’m desecrating the dead by doing this. Disturbing the body while trying to phone for help.

C’mon, Pop-Pop, I say, though it’s not bloody likely that he was listening, you can give up the phone now. Just let me have it.

But he isn’t giving the fucking thing up. His fingers snap back into place as I pry them off one-by-one. Cartoon style, the way you see birds pluck the fingers of hapless cats and dogs, hanging on phone wires.

Come on, damn you.

His body begins to feel cold against my fingertips and I realize that I have to gun it. Just do the damn thing, pull the fingers back, and take the fucking phone.

And it almost worked out that well until I hear the snapping of his fingers back into the palm of his hand. All four of his fingertips make a soft clapping noise as they shoot back to their original, tight-gripped position.

I swear I felt my food climbing up my throat.

Pop-Pop’s hand sweat covered the handset in a thin film. The thought of that wetness on my ear—like a slobbery kiss from your dog—gave me shivers. Wiping the phone against my shirt, I dial up my mom’s work number and pray to God that she actually answers. But she doesn’t. At least not right away. Mom used to tell me all the time, call her if I needed anything.

I know it doesn’t make any sense to whisper, but when I take the fifteen steps it takes to be in the kitchen, that’s what I do. Hey, mom? It’s me. I got a question for you.

My mother’s voice goes silent. She mumbles something to herself. I only know it’s about me because she doesn’t actually say the words out loud. If it’s about my sister or my dad, she’s as loud as all get out.

Across the room, pictures of my cousins stare at me with wide, smiling eyes.

Mom? I say. Seriously. What do you do when you find a corpse?

Cooper, she says. What do you mean? Corpse?

What do you do when you find one? Like, do you move him?

As if it’s happening right in front of me, I can see her rolling her eyes then checking the clock on the wall just above her cubicle. As the two events begin to merge in her mind, she begins to process cause and effect. What happened, Cooper? And Speak slowly.

I think Pop-Pop is dead.

There’s silence. That’s not funny. Her voice feels still. Cold as Pop-Pop on the floor.

It’s not a joke, Mom. I’m pretty sure he’s dead.

How sure is pretty sure? she asks. Because, ya, I’d lie about something like this.

I don’t know, I say. Pretty sure.

Is he breathing, Cooper? An obvious question she asks. I feel stupid for not checking myself.

I rest my foot against Pop-Pop’s chest, wait for it to rise or drop. No change, I say.

Cooper, this is not the time to be rummaging through his pockets.

Goddammit, bitch. No, mother. There’s no change in his chest. He’s not breathing.

I’ll call nine one one, she says, and then I’ll be right over.

You don’t trust me to call for an ambulance? I ask.

My mother hangs up.

Chapter Two

When did this happen? My mother stands in the hallway before the living room. Her hands remain tight against her mouth and she speaks through the holes between her fingers. What did you do?

Why does it have to be I did something when we find a corpse?

Do not call him a corpse, my mother says. Her eyes widen and her eyebrows nearly reach the top of her forehead. He is your grandfather. Not a corpse.

But I—

I’m interrupted by a man in a blue EMT jacket. He’s tall, buzz cut and looks more military than a sensitive EMT guy. The usual empath must have been off today.

The man is dead, Buzzcut says. He wipes his head with his hands and then looks at us with a fake sorrow that I mastered nearly thirteen years ago. Amateur. If I could, I’d like to ask you a few questions. You know, for our investigation.

I thought cops do the investigating? I say. I look to my mother who barely resembles a cognizant human being at all. She might as well be Pop-Pop.

I flinch when something metal clicks only three feet from us. My mother, she doesn’t budge a single inch.

The stretcher comes into the hallway. The wheels clang against the metal at the hallway door. On top, blue and white sheets folded neat and tight on top of each other. This is how they will get my grandfather outside of the house without my mother breaking down.

At least this is how they will try.

Sensing my mother’s distress, Buzzcut stops the questions and motions over for my mom to step forward. Ma’am? he says.

My mother stares off into the distance. Her fingertips trace her lower lip and for a second, it looks like she’s smoking. She quit nearly ten years ago, and we were all happy for her—especially my dad—but believe you me, I’d understand if she just started up again.

Mom? I say.

What, Coop?

This man over here would like to ask you a few questions. She smiles and wipes the tears off her cheeks with the backs of her hands. Then she folds her arms tight against her chest. Yes, yes. Of course. What do you want to know?

I don’t know what he’s asking; I simply nod my head up and down until I stop hearing his voice. In front of me, two women lift my Pop-Pop onto the gurney and pop it up on its wheels. One of the women—the black one, small frame, beautiful hazel eyes—smiles a tight-lipped smile. The kind of smile you give when you really want to frown, but can’t.

I feel my lips make the same shape and hold it. I feel a sensation crowbarring its way into my brain. This whole situation is trying to make me think about what really happened. About what they are wheeling out of this house. What will never come back no matter how long we wait. What is really, really going on here.

The gurney rustles, metal slaps against metal, as they wheel my Pop-Pop out of here. Buzzcut does a great job standing between them and my mom. He directs her eyes toward a clipboard, forces her to watch his pen and read some ink on a paper. None of it really matters much. He won’t admit it, but it’s for her own good. Trust me on this one.

Pop-Pop is wheeled to the ambulance outside, two wide doors opened to receive him. They’ll take him to the university, shove him in a freezer, and wait for further instructions.

My mom’s eyes, they look pink, looking bloodshot and raw like meat. Her hands begin to tremble as much as her words as she answers questions about who my Pop-Pop was, who I was, why was it he was left alone. She raises a quivering hand and looks to me. When did you find him?

I look at the clock and realize I have no idea. Four? Ish? I say. Right when I called you.

Her eyes blink in disbelief.

It’s not like I’m lying to you, I say. Check your phone.

You called me at work, Coop.

"Well I called you as soon as I noticed. He was on the ground and something like Law and Order was on television or something. I stop my shoulders mid-shrug and check for acceptance of my excuse. I don’t know."

Alex Fennimore Cooper. You called me at five!

I nod. I had a test.

You, she says. Her fingernail practically disappears into my chest. You were supposed to be here at three. You know he needs his meds!

He can take his meds on his own, I say. They’re right there next to him on the table!

My mom slaps my cheek. I feel the red and heat, my face a stove burner on high.

What the hell? I scream. I tell myself I’m too old to cry.

Beyond irrational. My mom’s face reflects the blue and red lights of the ambulance as it drives off. She says nothing to me as she forces her straw-like legs into the car and drives off to follow the traveling corpse of her father.

Behind me was the house, still unlocked but cold and uninviting. The baby-blue wooden weather paneling of the house might as well be ice blocks of an igloo. To stand next to the house is to be next to the bloodless embrace of death. I lock the door and step to my car, marching the wedding march of defeat.

I have to force out the emotions for my mom. Try to be stable so she can as messy as she needs to be.

My father, my sister are—who the hell knows where.

The cell phone rings and my mom’s number flashes on the caller ID. I’m reluctant to answer, but I cough to clear my throat. Smile though she can’t see me. Get home soon and fix dinner, she says. Whatever you can find. Your father will be home soon.

We don’t normally play any kind of music when we eat dinner, but for the first time the oldies from the 60s, 70s and 80s serenade us as we chew our chicken cutlets. My mother’s eyes focus on the picture behind me—a painting of wine glasses, distorted red apples, and purple grapes.

It’s only when I shift my seat, wave back and forth, and I receive no response from her that I realize she really is ignoring me.

This is really good chicken, Alex. My dad smacks his lips as he chews. I tried that once and had my dinner plate taken off the table. Strictly a do-as-I-say-and-not-as-I-do kind of guy.

Thanks, I mutter between chomps.

See what you can do when you actually try to do something? my mom says, deadpan and barren of life.

Dori, don’t. Not now, my dad says. Now is not the time.

Do not tell me what to do, Ian.

My eyes look over to my sister, who sits with saucer-sized eyes. Her pupils bounce from parent to parent like she’s watching a tennis match. Mom-Dad-Mom-Dad-Mom.

What the hell, mom.

Don’t talk to your mother like that, my dad says. He sets his fork and knife down and glares at me. You know, because I apparently started it.

My father is dead, Alex.

And what am I supposed to do about it now? My dad’s eyes widen, bigger than our dinner plates and he follows my silverware. My knife and fork are pointed at my mom.

Nothing, she says with muffled laughter. Her eyes gloss over, her skin puffy and getting puffier. Any time now and the water works will start. It’s almost like clockwork.

Then she stands up and looks me in the eye. Despite my dad putting his hand on her arm, she leans forward across the table. Nothing. It is what you are good at.

Dori, Dad says.

Are you kidding me? I shout. My feet twitch and quiver like a plucked string on a guitar.

Face the facts. You killed him.

Mom! I plead. Is she really doing this right now?

My sister gasps and gulps.

My dad—well, he says nothing.

My feet carry me to the door. I’m not even aware I’ve left the table, but like instinct I flee the scene.

That’s all he cares about, Ian, is himself. My mom’s words echo through the entrance and push me out the front door to a huge painted truck parked along our sidewalk. Yellow, with doors wide open at the back end of the trailer. Movers.

Large men in gray and blue shirts carry out someone’s furniture. A tall blond woman shouts at them, directing the flowing furniture train into the house next door.

Honey, she says to a younger version of her, except with brown hair and softer features. The girl’s hair bounces on her shoulders as she nods to her mother’s commands.

The mom’s pointy fingers move into my direction. The girl’s head, it moves, too, and two green discs flash their brilliance with red lips and soft, butterfly lashes.

Hi, she says. Her lips are dark red pillows, pouty. Fluffy. My mom wants to know if we can maybe borrow your microwave. These gorillas over there broke ours. The lugs carry more furniture—a glass display cabinet and some side tables—into the house. True to this beauty’s words, one of them looks like they stumble and nearly drop a table.

My first reaction, of course, is to hand over everything. Instead I say, Yes. Yes you can. Sure it wasn’t my microwave, but I was sure my mom would be okay with it.

I’m Coop, I say. Try as I might, my hands never left my pockets.

I’m Alicia, she says. "Enchanté."

Nice to meet you, too.

I rest my hand on the doorknob and pause. Um, I should probably tell you, I say, but the house is kind of in a mess.

I’m sure it’s okay, she says with a laugh.

And I blush.

We creep through the living room, step by careful step, until we both stand in the kitchen. The metal box that is our microwave sits ripe for the taking. My mother and father are back in their bedroom. The door is closed, only a thin beam of light illuminates the hallway carpet.

Whatcha doing? Holly asks.

Go away, Holly, I say.

My sister leans up against the refrigerator and crosses her arms. First you kill Pop-Pop and then you steal our microwave.

She’s borrowing it, I say. My head pokes into the thin opening between the fridge and the wall to find the plug. Go away.

Are you on drugs? she asks.

For a little kid, you ask a lot of questions.

Who’s this? Holly says.

Alicia giggles. At least one of us finds this shit funny.

Alicia, this is Holly, my kid sister. She’s thirteen. Holly, this is Alicia.

And how old are you? Holly asks.

I sigh, bite my cheek to keep from yelling at her. There. Done, I mutter. Take it before she calls the cops.

Holly giggles. As does Alicia.

You’re cute, Alicia says. Both Holly and I look to each other; my sister has the same idea that I do…she was complimenting her.

My hands rip the cord out of the wall and Alicia thanks me. "We’ll have this back