LONER: A Good Guys Novel Read online

  Loner

  Copyright © 2021 Jamie Schlosser

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is for your enjoyment only and may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted without permission from the author except for brief quotations in a book review. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to locations or incidents, is coincidental.

  Due to language and sexual content, this book is intended for readers 18 and older.

  Cover design: More Than Words Graphic Design

  Cover Model: Lucas Loyola

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  Proofreading: Deaton Author Services

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  EPILOGUE

  MAGIC MAN PROLOGUE

  OTHER BOOKS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  To Adalyn and Everly. I hope you always love yourselves as much as I love you.

  She was just supposed to be a job I turned down.

  I’ve been picky about my clients before, and when I was approached by a man with ties to the mafia in search of his daughter, my immediate answer was no. His personal private investigator had recently died under mysterious circumstances, and I didn’t want to meet the same fate.

  Then I saw Rosalie’s picture.

  I should’ve walked away.

  I didn’t.

  The last of the fireworks burst in the dark sky over the trees in the distance, and I watch the sparks die away. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine the cheers and other happy sounds from Maryville.

  Parties and celebrations are happening right now.

  Without me.

  Underneath one more explosion, people are laughing, kissing, and making plans to raise hell together later.

  The white lights fizzle out.

  And then it’s done.

  Quiet.

  Dark.

  If I sniff the air coming through my cracked window really deeply, I can smell food from the festival. Fried, sweet, delicious food.

  My stomach rumbles, but as I release the grip on the curtain, my appetite turns to disappointment, weighing heavily in my gut.

  I’ve never been to a firework show up close before, or pigged out on greasy treats until I can’t eat another bite, and it’s likely I never will.

  Unless I take matters into my own hands.

  Unless I defy my mother, the one person who’s always been there for me. The only person who’s ever loved me.

  The person who smothers me until I feel like I’m suffocating.

  Conflicting feelings about my mom wage war inside me as I look over my shoulder. My eyes go to the Hello Kitty backpack shoved underneath my bed. My grab-and-go bag. It’s been packed with the essentials for three days. Hidden by a few teddy bears surrounding it, it blends in with the rest of the childish décor of my bedroom.

  My four-poster twin bed has a frilly pink canopy. The slanted ceilings above it are covered with clouds and angels—something I’m proud of because I painted it myself. There’s a bookcase next to my computer desk. It’s stocked with my favorite novels and every edition of Teen Magazine from the past six years. The pages are weathered, and the spines are worn from reading them so many times.

  Next to that is my favorite area. My easel stands proudly, holding acrylic paints and brushes in the storage bins attached to it.

  Countless colorful canvases litter the room. Some are mounted around my window, but this attic doesn’t have enough wall space for every painting I’ve done. The most recent artworks are stacked in the corner. All of them are of faraway places. Forests, mountains, and monuments like Mount Rushmore.

  Places I’ll only get to touch with a brush.

  Unless I leave. I just haven’t decided if I have the guts to do it yet.

  Mom thinks keeping me here is for the best. She says I’m sick. Too crazy to fit in with other people. That I wouldn’t even know how to act in a crowd.

  Maybe she’s right, but I won’t find out for sure if I never try.

  Sighing, I’m about to turn away from the window, but movement by the hedges outside grabs my attention.

  I blink at the shadows, wondering if my eyes are playing tricks on me again. Maybe it’s a coyote or a racoon. Living this far from town, it’s not uncommon to see wildlife roaming our lawn.

  Or maybe it’s him.

  Preston.

  The new groundskeeper is easy on the eyes. The first time I saw him, I felt like an electrical shockwave traveled through my entire body. I swear my heart raced for hours after a glimpse of him chopping wood, with his muscles rippling under his black T-shirt.

  Admittedly, I’m a total creep when it comes to him.

  I’ve spent the last two months discreetly staring at him whenever I can.

  I wonder what it would be like to have a relationship with someone like Preston. Sometimes I imagine he’s mine, and he’s just outside doing some work before coming back in all sweaty. He’d pull me into the shower with him and tell me how much he missed me, how he can’t stand to be away from me for another second.

  I know, I’m delusional.

  My mom would probably freak out and fire Preston if she knew I paid so much attention to a man. An older man, judging by the gray peppering his dark hair at the temples. And the hired help, no less.

  I continue squinting through the glass for a few more seconds, but I see nothing unusual.

  Just for the hell of it, I start unbuttoning my nightgown. Trying to be sexy like the girls in the magazines, tilt my head to the side and let my long hair fall over my shoulder as I reveal my chest one inch at a time.

  Baring my small breasts, I do a sultry pout as I stare at my reflection in the glass, and I imagine Preston’s out there, watching me. Rubbing my finger over the exposed skin of my upper chest, I notice how pale it is. In the moonlight, I’m almost translucent. I need bronzer. Even better, actual sunlight.

  My pout turns to a frown as I graze my flat stomach. I have no curves. My clavicle and ribs stick out, but maybe they wouldn’t if I ate more. I try to, but everything tastes like chalk. Even the turkey feast we made for Thanksgiving dinner tonight was bland and unappealing.

  Mother tells me it’s the mental illness. Depression makes people lose their appetite.

  Well, I think anyone would be depressed if they had to spend their entire life stuck in the same house. The scenery never changes. Every day is the same as the day before. It’s the same sounds and smells. The tick, tick, ticking of the grandfather clock. The stuffy air.

&
nbsp; My senses need variety, damn it.

  Ashamed of my bony body and my pathetic attempt to be desirable, I cover myself.

  No one’s lurking around at night, especially not Preston. The guy’s a saint. The few times I’ve managed to convince my mother to let me out of this house recently for some fresh air, I purposely sought him out.

  Once, I found him in the detached garage meticulously organizing his tools. Another day he was raking leaves from the quarter mile lane to our house. It became obvious very quickly that I was bothering him because he wouldn’t even look my way.

  His responses to my questions were mostly grunts before he mumbled an excuse about needing to go somewhere else. Somewhere away from me, doing whatever it is he does for fall cleanup.

  Guess Mother gave him the same warning she told all the other employees over the years: stay away from Rosalie or else you’re gone.

  It’s a wonder she let me get close enough to talk to him at all. She was probably testing him, and he passed with flying colors.

  Turning away from the window, I tell myself I just need to accept the fact that I’m alone. That another year of my life has almost expired, and the world keeps spinning without me in it.

  I’ve never understood why some people would wish for invisibility as their superpower. I know what it’s like to not be seen, and it sucks major balls.

  A ping from my laptop snuffs out any heavy feelings, and I rush over to check the screen.

  JessaBelle2002: Happy early birthday! The big 18 is just hours away! Did you do anything fun tonight?

  RosieDoll528: Sorta. The nearest town had a firework show for their annual Thanksgiving festival. I watched from my window.

  JessaBelle2002: Oh. Not in a partying mood, huh?

  RosieDoll528: Even if I was, I couldn’t go.

  JessaBelle2002: Why? You STILL grounded? Damn, girl. What did you do to get into so much trouble? It’s been weeks.

  It’s been a lot longer than that.

  Twirling a lock of hair around my finger, I think about how to answer her innocent question.

  Jessa and I have been friends on Solitaire Slam for a couple months now. When my mom set me up with the game last year, she figured it was a one-player game. She didn’t realize there’s a chat feature. All along, she’s had no idea I can talk to people from anywhere in the world.

  I was a good little daughter for a while. I blindly followed her rules, ignoring message requests. Then a spunky girl started blowing up my inbox. Jessa broke me down with questions about makeup advice, of all things.

  As if I knew anything about that. I didn’t then, and I still suck at it now, even after practicing every day since I got my cosmetic collection in the mail several weeks ago. I’ve found that I enjoy painting my face. It’s like a blank canvas. I can change myself into someone different. Someone better. Although, most of the time, I’m a little too heavy handed with the stuff, and I end up looking like a clown.

  At least I have someone to commiserate with. Jessa’s specialty is hair, but makeup is something we’re learning together.

  Like me, she’s homeschooled, so she understands what it is to be isolated. I’m not sure she knows the meaning of the word like I do, though. She’s still allowed to have friends. Go out. Meet people.

  Over time, our friendship has developed effortlessly. At this point, Jessa knows me better than anyone else ever has—besides my mom, of course. I’ve told her superficial stuff, like my favorite books and my art hobby. We talk about movies and music. She even knows about my obsession with true crime documentaries and podcasts.

  I take credit for the fact that I got Jessa hooked on Harlee Verona’s videos. Harlee’s a beauty influencer who posts a few times a week. Since social media sites are blocked on my laptop, I have to look her up on YouTube, and luckily, my mom hasn’t forbidden me from that website yet. Sometimes Harlee talks about new fashion trends or Hollywood scandals, but my favorite episodes are when she tells tales about serial killers. At the end of every video, she gives out a life hack or a safety tip. Like how to escape from the trunk of a car, should you ever find yourself stuck in one.

  My mother frowns upon rated R stuff with violence and sex, but who needs movies when you have real stories? They’re surprisingly educational. It’s amazing what you can learn about crime when you watch shows about murderers. Stalking, weapons, hard drugs, forensics, DNA, evading the police, capture, prison.

  Oddly enough, my mom doesn’t mind that I watch them. If anything, she likes that they scare me. “See, Rosalie?” she’ll say. “The world is a horrible, horrible place.”

  I’m smart enough to know you never fully trust someone on the internet, so I’ve held back my deepest secret from Jessa. Sure, she’s nice and she’s sent several pictures of herself to prove she’s not a creep, but maybe she isn’t really a seventeen-year-old girl from Florida. Maybe she’s a middle-aged man from New York.

  Either way, I need this friendship like I need air, so I’ve chosen to believe she is who she says she is while hiding the ugliest part of myself.

  She doesn’t know I’m sick, and I’d like to keep it that way.

  Deciding not to respond to her question, my finger goes to the mousepad as I move a few cards around. I’m about to finish the game when a notification pops up with a chime.

  I have a new message request from Jimbo6969. Clicking the icon, I open my inbox, and it takes me a second to figure out what I’m looking at. Covering my mouth, I make a noise of disgust.

  The video features a closeup of a guy exposing himself. It’s just a five-second clip of him pulling his camo-print underwear down to reveal a penis buried in a lot of hair, but it keeps playing over and over again on a loop.

  Gross.

  JessaBelle2002: Hello? You still there?

  RosieDoll528: Yeah, I’m here. I just got my first ever dick pic. Or video, in this case.

  JessaBelle2002: EW. Forward it to me.

  RosieDoll528: Why?

  JessaBelle2002: Just do it.

  Well, if she really wants to see this mess, who am I to stop her? I send it her way. Maybe we can laugh about it. Plus, there’s nothing like a floppy dick to distract someone and change the subject.

  JessaBelle2002: Omg, he’s not even hard. It looks like a drunk guy falling out of the back of a cab.

  I laugh.

  See? She’s funny. This is another reason why I keep her around.

  RosieDoll528: LOL. Well, I’ve never seen a drunk guy fall out of a cab.

  Or a penis for that matter.

  JessaBelle2002: Trust me. They’re both flaccid and clumsy. So, what did you do to get put on lockdown for so long?

  Ugh. So much for that subject change.

  Should I tell her the truth and risk losing my one and only friend?

  Sometimes when I’m talking to Jessa, I forget I’ve been locked in this attic for the majority of the last six months. On this side of the screen, I can be anyone I want. I can pretend I’m not an emotionally troubled, mentally unstable captive in my own home.

  I used to have free roam of the house until something my mom calls ‘the incident.’

  The incident being, I might’ve stolen some of her happy pills from her nightstand and accidentally overdosed. I didn’t want to die—I just wanted to feel good. And I did feel good for a few minutes until I got really sleepy and passed out next to the grandfather clock in the hallway on the second floor. I remember staring up at it, watching the arms go round and round the Roman numerals as darkness closed in. Instead of annoying me, the tick, tick, ticking made me happy. Giddy, even. Hearing that sound is the last thing I can recall from that day.

  Waking up in the hospital wasn’t scary. It was worth it. I got to meet people. Even with my mother hovering every time the nurses came in, it was fun. There was noise and life.

  But during the days I was away, Mom had a heavy-duty lock installed on my bedroom door so I couldn’t leave the attic unsupervised. Now she’s always watching me. Always b
reathing down my neck.

  I’ve been trying to gain back her trust ever since, but so far, she won’t budge on the new arrangement. I get to go down to the dining room for meals. If I beg enough, she’ll let me go outside for about fifteen minutes at a time. Bedtime is at seven, at which point, I’m locked in here until the next morning.

  Fridays are still cleaning days, and I think the only reason my mother includes me in the activities is because she needs the help. I’ve actually started to look forward to polishing floors and dusting just so I can do something different with my hands. How sad is that?

  To sum it up, my life is hell.

  Oh, to hell with it. Friendship is nothing without honesty.

  RosieDoll528: I can’t leave. Ever.

  JessaBelle2002: What, like you’re grounded for life? Lol.

  RosieDoll528: I guess you could say that, but there’s a reason. I’m bat-shit crazy. Like, legit looney tunes.

  JessaBelle2002: You’re kidding, right?

  RosieDoll528: Nope. I have to stay in my house for my own good. And the good of everyone else. It was either that, or a mental institution.

  Yes, my mother has threatened to have me committed several times. It’s her go-to when I’m being particularly difficult. I’m not sure if she’d follow through with it, but sometimes she’s unpredictable. She’s just as crazy as I am—thanks, genetics—and I worry she’d have us put in the same psych ward together.

  JessaBelle2002: I don’t believe it. You don’t seem crazy.

  RosieDoll528: That’s because I’m medicated.

  Yeah, I have my own happy pills now. Mom made sure I got some, though she controls my dose.

  She doesn’t know I’ve been biting my pills in half for several weeks and stowing the leftovers away. Not so I can overdose again; just in case I decide to run away. That way, I’ll still have some medicine with me until I can get settled somewhere else.

  I like my pills. I need them. They make me somewhat normal.

  Staring at the screen, I wait a full minute as I wring my hands. No response from Jessa.

  I let out a humorless chuckle.

  What did I expect? She’s probably in the process of blocking me right now.