Savage Sins Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  "There is always one woman to save you from another and as that woman saves you she makes ready to destroy."

  —Charles “Hank” Bukowski

  “Fuck me hard,” she insisted, her voice simultaneously a whisper and a scream. “Fuck me like you want to kill me, Vic.”

  We stood upright in the back storeroom of a New York City bookstore surrounded by boxes of my new novel along with stacks of other hard and soft cover editions from the bigshot writers like Stephen King, Lee Child, and James Patterson. We had both managed to be alone just minutes before the official signing started under the guise of having to use the toilet which was located on the opposite end of the storeroom.

  Her words sent a chill up my backbone and caused me to stop. When I did, she begged me to keep going.

  “Why would I want to kill you, Stel? Why would you say that?”

  “Just make it hurt,” she ordered.

  My mind was spinning with sensations and images. Stella’s perfect ass, the smell of her sex, the feel of my cock inside her, the sheen of sweat forming on my skin. But then, there were the boxes of my first novel set on the floor, the cacophony of voices outside this hollow wood door reminding me why we were there.

  We had quite the turnout waiting for us in the other room, especially for a writer who, just a few months ago, couldn’t even afford to pay the phone bill. People had even lined up outside on the street. The weather had been getting cold now that late Fall had arrived. It was rainy and nasty out, and the wind blew off the river and the water that surrounded the Battery like an icy blue devil.

  But still, they came, and for what? To see me, the new overnight literary sensation.

  Twenty years of overnights that is.

  The fans. The serial readers. The men, women, and even kids who had no business reading the graphic words and images I filled my first novel, Savage Sins, with. Overly descriptive words about murder, about blood and savage lust. About sex and booze and torment. Words that cut like a knife.

  My editor, Jake—a stocky, balding, forty-something man who loved his jazz—said he’d never before worked up a sweat like he had when he first read Savage Sins. It was raw, it was fiery, it was incendiary, it was pornographic, it was over the top. It was even off the rails. But most of all, Savage Sins was filled with more than just words on a page. It was art in motion. But it was also reality. It was a fresh alternative to the usual white bread, snowflake, politically correct mass market shit that had been forced down the throats of readers who spent their weekend in Barnes and Nobles bookstores from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon and everywhere in between. In other words, the publisher took a gamble on its publication, and the gamble was paying off.

  “You’ve managed to do something extremely rare, Vic,” he’d said to me from across his desk inside his fifteenth-floor publishing office in the Times Square’s Bertelsmann Building. “You’ve managed to make the reader feel like he has committed murder himself . . . violent murder. Like he has bedded those women. Like he has personally stalked his prey in the dark of night.” He breathed in, lit a cigarette, exhaled a puff of blue smoke. “Don’t you see, Vic? You’ve done something remarkable. Something not seen since Hemingway’s early work. Or even Bukowski. You’re not entertaining people. You’re injecting memories into their brains. Memories of acts they never committed.” He shook his head, and against building regulations, smoked the shit out of his cigarette. “I’m having nightmares because of Savage Sins. Re-fucking-markable.”

  So, here’s the really re-fucking-markable thing: they offered me an advance of one million dollars for three books. I had the material for two of them. It meant, of course, I would have to hunt down what I needed for a third. But then, I was still The Handyman, and I knew in my heart that an opportunity would come along. If not, I would hunt for one myself. I’d killed twice already, and truth be told, I was beginning to develop an appetite for it. That last bit is between you and me.

  Again, there was the question of God and salvation when the time came for my own demise. But that didn’t seem to enter into the equation anymore. What mattered was that I was doing what I felt I’d been put on this earth to do. Accomplish what I was meant to accomplish, no matter what it took. No matter who died in the process. Wait, allow me to rephrase . . . no matter who deserved to die.

  “Fuck me, Vic,” Stella begged, pulling me back from the thoughts that rattled around inside my skull like pebbles inside a jar. “Now. I need it. Fuck me like you want to punish me.”

  I hiked her skirt all the way up, pulled her panties further down around her knees. I slapped her ass, hard. She winced and moaned. Then I pulled out my hard as steel cock and slipped it into her wetness. She was balancing herself with her left arm extended, her hand planted on a stack of boxes filled with Savage Sins. It felt appropriate somehow. Like there was more than just one man in the room fucking her. Stella used her other hand to massage her clit. Even though I couldn’t see it from my position planted behind her, I knew it had to be swelled and wet and pink. I knew she was rubbing and pinching it while I fucked her, and I knew she wanted to cum when I did and that we had to do it quick.

  There was an entire bookstore filled with people waiting for me. Not just my new fans, but my publisher, my editor, my agent, the press. Jesus, the fucking press. I’d even heard a rumor that actor Mark Ruffalo might show up since his production company had snatched up the movie rights to The Handyman’s story for a cool half a million—in addition to my book advance. According to my agent, Jimmy, he wanted to play the role of Vance McKenna, the antagonist of “Sins.” He saw himself in the pages of the book like it had been written entirely with him in mind. He’d even sai
d it had scared him when he read it.Made him feel like he was capable of murder in the first degree. It had been both unnerving and exciting at the same time. The film had to be made.

  It was all a writer’s dream come true.

  “Fuck me harder, you bastard,” Stella pleaded, once more forcing me to focus on the task at hand. “I’m going to cum.” Anyone who says your mind can’t be in two or three places at once is a fucking liar.

  A knock sounded on the door. Someone was trying to turn the knob.

  “Hello?” a man barked from the other side of the door. My agent. “Vic, bro. We got a room full of adoring fans wanting to catch of glimpse of their hero, man. Come on out.”

  I went to speak, but I couldn’t seem to find my voice.

  Another knock.

  “Don’t stop,” Stella whispered forcefully.

  “Be right there, Jim,” I said as casually as possible. “Just finishing up.”

  Which of course, was the truth.

  Stella let loose with a small scream, and I immediately slapped my hand over her mouth. She was climaxing, and so was I. It was like two titanic ships colliding in the middle of a choppy sea, and there was no way to stop it.

  “Everything okay in there?” Jimmy pressed. “Sounded like a scream.”

  “All good, Jim, bro,” I said, forcing the words from my mouth. “Be there in a New York sec.”

  Slowly, carefully, I removed my hand from Stella’s mouth. Her hot breath spilled against my palm. I felt my heart beating. Pounding. She pulled her panties up, pushed down her skirt, stood. Turning, she ran her hands through her hair. She breathed in and out slowly a few times, trying her best to calm herself.

  “We’d better go,” she whispered.

  I couldn’t help but smile at her. “Was it good for you, baby?”

  She gazed around the room.

  “A bookstore storeroom,” she said. “Let’s just say it was a first.”

  I tucked in my shirt, buckled my belt. “My public awaits,” I said, unlocking the door.

  “Spare me,” she said. “Just remember, Vic, fame is a fickle mistress. And we both know it’s not you who’s famous. It’s The Handyman.”

  Her words hit me in the stomach like a short, sharp jab. I knew what she meant by The Handyman being the one who deserved all the attention. After all, it was The Handyman who conducted all the research for Savage Sins. Research, as in murder.

  “Thanks for the reminder,” I said.

  I opened the door, walked out onto the bookstore floor like I owned the joint.

  An hour into the signing and all the books were gone. The fans hadn’t gone anywhere, however, since I was scheduled to read aloud from Savage Sins. My agent made his way to the podium that was set before a long couch and table where I had signed copies of the novel. He tapped the microphone and smiled for the two or three members of the press in attendance, snapping photos and taking notes.

  Jimmy wasn’t a tall guy, but he was thin, if not wiry, and sporting a full head of thick black hair. A Manhattan metrosexual, he was dressed in expensive charcoal slacks, purple button down, black patent leather shoes, red socks, and a green blazer with pink hanky stuffed in the breast pocket. He originally hailed from Alabama, but there wasn’t a hint of Southern good ole’ boy in his voice as if he’d somehow had it surgically removed. At the very least, he’d taken private lessons to do away with any evidence of his red neck past.

  In the few years he’d resided in Manhattan’s West Village, not to mention his fourth-floor office on lower Broadway, he’d become a real New Yorker. He was a shark who would sell his own mother if she could bring him a hefty advance. He referred to me as “bro” like he was my best pal.

  But I knew the score.

  I knew how quickly he’d dump me on the side of the street like a pile of trash once I stopped selling. And trust me, I might be the toast of the town now, but in the not too distant future, all that would change. Someone else would take my place. Someone younger, someone fresh, someone trendier. Like Stella said, fame is fickle. Even if that fame truly belonged to The Handyman and not me. She didn’t have to tell me twice. But for now, I was going to enjoy the ride. I was also going to sock away the cash. Between the advances and my cuts of both Tara’s and Allison’s life insurance payouts, I’d never have to worry about making another cent for the rest of my life if I managed it right.

  The Handyman was a Godsend.

  Jimmy tapped the mic. Coming from the speakers set up on either side of the wide room, the taps sounded like short bursts from a .22 caliber automatic.

  He smiled like only a New York literary agent can smile.

  “Your attention please,” he said in a sort of falsetto sing-song voice. “When I first received the manuscript for Savage Sins, I didn’t quite know what to expect. I’d never heard of the author before, which was a good thing I suppose since it left me with few, if any, preconceived notions over what I was about to read. Sitting there behind the desk in my Broadway office, the only descriptor I could go with was the title. Savage Sins. A title I immediately fell in love with. Then, I started reading.” He shivered, rolled his eyes, glanced up at heaven as if attempting to convey a religious conversion experience to a group of born-again Christians. “To say this novel transfixed me is putting it ever so lightly. I was at once taken aback by its naked brutality, its realism, its dark humor, and its sadness. I also fell in love with the heroin and rooted for the anti-hero, even if he was a murderer. Not an easy task to pull off in a novel. Am I right, Jake?”

  He shot a glance at my editor who was standing a few feet away from me in his baggy blue jeans and blue crewneck sweater. He was sporting a three-day growth and I could tell he was jonesin’ for a cigarette and maybe even a joint.

  “Spot on, Jim,” he said, not without a smile. “Best first novel I’ve read since Mackey three years ago.”

  Mackey, the name smacked me upside the head. In the span of three years, Mackey had come and gone from the New York literary scene when it was discovered that he couldn’t write anymore. Not without Stella by his side, that is. But that wasn’t for the here and now. I needed to push his memory from my head if I was going to get through this reading.

  “Few authors have gotten it right over the many decades of modern publishing,” my agent went on. “Hemingway comes to mind. So do Capote and Mailer. And yes, even Mackey. But now we have Victor Casey.” He held up the hardcover edition of Savage Sins, its glossy, mostly black cover adorned with a bare-chested man whose body looked Photoshopped, and a scantily clad long brunette-haired woman who bore a striking resemblance to Stella. “Here’s to many, many, sexy, violent, downright murderous, Casey novels to come. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my friend, and number one client, Victor Casey.”

  The room exploded in cheers and hand claps. Stella set her hand on my leg, leaned into me.

  “This is the moment you’ve been waiting for, Vic. I’m so proud of you.”

  Her voice was quiet, barely a whisper. But it cut through the cacophony of clapping and even a few whistles. She kissed me on the cheek. In that quick kiss, I felt something from her that I’d never felt before. She was truly pulling for me. Despite everything she’d lived through for the past three years, the lack of money, the drinking, the inattention, the misery, she was truly pushing for me and my moment of fame. Didn’t matter that she knew exactly how I’d derived the material for my novel, or the material for the one I was working on now. Didn’t matter that it made her complicit in the crime, the expression on her face was one of confidence and love.

  In the end, I guess Stella indeed was my muse. No wonder Mackey didn’t want her back so much as he needed her back if he was ever going to write anything that would sell again.

  I got up from the couch, made my way across the floor to the podium. Jimmy held out his hand. I took it in mine, held it tightly. He took me by surprise when he pulled me into him, hugged me like I was his long-lost brother. Of course, I knew he would just assume dump
his long-lost brother out on the street should he stop selling units. But that didn’t spoil the moment for me. Not by a long shot. This was my day, my moment, and I was going to enjoy every minute of it.

  The bookstore went silent.

  So silent you could make out the sound of the book’s spine cracking when I opened it to page one. Clearing my throat, I began to read.

  “Sex,” I read, “it was always on my mind then . . . ”

  Sex was also on my mind four months ago. But it wasn’t the only thing. When I emerged from Andrew Craig’s office, knowing the police and the EMTs were on their way, I didn’t come upon a solitary Allison in the kitchen. I came upon Stella sitting there with her.

  The shock must have been plainly apparent on my face. Stella had smiled.

  “Surprise, Vic,” she said.

  My focus went from Stella to Allison and back to Stella again. Allison was wearing a similar, half smile, half smirk.

  “What the hell is going on?” I asked. “What is this?”

  My mind began spinning with the possibilities. Was Stella there to make sure the police arrested me not only for killing Andrew but also Tara’s husband? Had she known all along about my work as The Handyman? Was that the reason for her having met up with Tara the night before? Was Tara going to suddenly appear from somewhere? Were they all planning on testifying against me to put me away for the rest of my life? Or hell, maybe they were all conspiring so that I received the worst penalty possible.

  The death penalty.

  After all, Tara’s husband and Andrew Craig hadn’t died quite by accident. There was no manslaughter involved. Even murder in the second degree would be out. Their murders were planned and premeditated by a skilled killer. The Handyman.

  “What’s going through that brilliant mind of yours, Vic?” Stella said as she stood from the table, revealing a short, tight, tan skirt, and gladiator sandals on her feet. She wore a low cut V-neck t-shirt and several silver necklaces that dangled over her cleavage. Her thick black hair was parted over her left eye, and it rested on her shoulders.