Chapter Seven #2
The man scratches his jaw, shaking his head slowly. ‘The last thing I remember was taking a nap beneath the big old cedar tree at Blue Egg Meadow. Next thing I know I’m … Where am I?’ He peers around my flat and then, like a cartoon character, rubs his eyes in disbelief before looking around again.
Blue Egg Meadow? What on earth is he on about?
He scans the room as if searching for clues. He jolts when he catches sight of the hatstand I had to buy to accommodate my Millinery by House of Casablancas purchases.
‘My neighbour makes and sells them to me,’ I explain.
River blinks, his mouth twisting to one side.
He seems so genuinely bewildered I could almost believe that he really didn’t know where he was.
‘You’re actually really talented,’ I tell him, impressed.
‘Where did you train? RADA? Or are you genuinely American? Juilliard? Stella Adler? I have a cousin who went to the Lee Strasburg Institute. They once made her class spend the whole lesson pretending they were shooting laser beams out of their eyes at each other. Can you imagine the awkwardness in that level of eye contact? Couldn’t be me. ’
In response he huffs and takes a giant step towards me, heavy black cowboy boots clomping loudly on the wooden floor.
‘Is this some sort of hostage situation?’ he asks, biting his bottom lip, then pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.
‘Did that bastard Buddy McGinty put you up to this? How did I get here? Was I chloroformed? You want money, huh? Are you trying to intimidate me into backing out of the land auction? Because I already told you – I won’t ever let them build on Bedlam Creek land.
Not so you leeches can build some soulless dude ranch for weaselly investment bankers who want to play let’s pretend on the weekend.
My parents spent their whole lives protecting Bedlam Creek and I plan to do the same. ’
What on earth? I squint as I suddenly remember that Buddy McGinty is a minor character in the fourth Bedlam Creek book.
A property developer who appeared in one single transitional scene.
Why would Bridget tell this actor about Buddy McGinty of all characters?
No one cares about Buddy McGinty. And why is this guy still doing the bit anyway? What even is the bit?
‘Okay, you can stop the performance,’ I laugh uneasily. ‘Message received! Tell me your name? Your real name? And your bank details. I’ll send that tip now and then you can be on your way!’
The man’s jaw tenses, and I can’t help but be slightly mesmerised by how the flexing makes his stubble glitter golden in the sunlight.
‘I just told you my name,’ he scoffs, as if I’m a dummy. ‘River Oakley.’
Okay, this is starting to get awkward. Perhaps he’s a method actor like Robert De Niro?
I hurry over to the bathroom to grab my robe, and slip it on over the towel. ‘Haha, well, we both know that’s not your real name! Hahaha. Seriously, though. You can stop pretending now. And “scene!” Bravo!’
I notice then that on the floor next to the sofa there’s a massive bag made of cowhide.
I point at it. ‘Did you bring a T-shirt with you?’ I ask, trying not to stare at his chest which, I can’t help but notice, is, well, staggering …
sinewy but stocky – the kind of muscles that come from hard physical labour rather than the gym.
Does this actor have a day job as a builder?
A woodcutter? Yes, a woodcutter. I imagine that for a moment before mentally slapping myself around the face, completely ashamed at my blatant perving.
What is going on with me? Like Henry always said, I’m not really a sexual person.
So why am I now, right this very second, musing about what this stranger’s mouth tastes like?
Current thoughts are hot chocolate pudding with some sort of elixir like booze in it.
Cognac, maybe. Get a grip, Gertie. ‘Do you want to put your T-shirt on before you go?’ I ask brightly, still trying my hardest to be polite.
I point at the cowhide bag. ‘You can use the bathroom to get changed if you like?’
‘River’ follows my gaze down to the bag, frowning as if he hadn’t realised it was there.
As if he didn’t bring it with him. ‘My holdall?’ he mutters.
Swiping it up, he yanks open the zip and pulls out a pair of tattered jeans.
Then he digs back in, rifles around and pulls out …
another pair of jeans, these ones with an unstitched back pocket.
And then another pair, ripped across the thigh.
‘Nothing but jeans,’ he mutters.
I take a peek inside the bag. Yep. It’s a bag full of jeans. How odd.
‘Wait a second …’ he says, looking into the distance as if suddenly remembering something. ‘This bag was in my truck. I was planning to take my jeans to get repaired, but then Cassidy called … and then … I don’t remember …’ He trails off, huge shoulders slumping.
Okay, I’m starting to get the impression that something is amiss.
That this man might not be entirely mentally stable.
Maybe he’s not an actor at all. Maybe he’s an unhinged super-fan, like in Stephen King’s Misery.
I get a vision of being tied to my bed, while this man hand-feeds me spam and makes me type out the exact happy ending he wants for the Bedlam Creek characters.
And while I definitely need help getting this book written, I’m certain that that particular method would not be conducive to my creative process.
‘Um, can you leave now, please?’ I say, backing away once more to the kitchen and reaching unseeing for another knife from the block just in case Bridget has unknowingly hired an actor who is also in fact a murderer. I pull out the bread knife for a second time, which just seems like bad luck.
‘Hold on, you’re saying I can leave?’ The man’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘I’m not locked in here?’
‘Um, no?’ I almost laugh. ‘That would be insane. Of course you can leave. Please do. Really. Please leave.’
He pats his pockets and, not finding what he wants, starts re-pulling out all his pairs of jeans from the bag and patting those pockets too.
‘Where the hell are they?’ he barks. One of the back pockets contains a silver harmonica, which he throws onto the sofa in apparent disgust. It bounces off the sofa and clatters noisily across the wooden floorboards, skidding to a stop in front of the TV.
Then he spins around to face me, running both hands frantically over his head, messing up his hair so that the soft waves stick up slightly.
‘Lady, you better have the keys to my truck. How far out of Bedlam Creek are we? Double Horn? Marble Falls? Oatmeal? I better not be in fucking Oatmeal right now.’
My eyes widen. Double Horn? Marble Falls?
Oatmeal? These are real Texan towns and cities in Burnet County, bordering my fictional town of Bedlam Creek.
How does this actor know about those? I only ever wrote down the names of these places for my initial research, back when I began the series four years ago.
I never mentioned them in any of my books.
I never mentioned the specific location of Bedlam Creek to anyone, since it’s a completely fictional town.
I notice then, a tiny scar high on the man’s cheekbone. It’s shaped like the letter S. Just like River Oakley’s in the Bedlam Creek series. My eyes travel down to his belt buckle – an engraved image of the moon wrapped in a lasso – the logo for Oakley Ranches.
I gulp.
This cannot be.
It’s not possible.
‘Nope,’ I say firmly. ‘Absolutely fucking not.’
With a frustrated rumble, the man marches towards me, eyes dark, two spots of colour appearing on his cheeks.
Oh fuck. If this really is the River Oakley from my books, he could kill me right now with his bare hands.
He’s entirely capable. Beneath that beautiful face he has a heart made of stone.
At Bedlam’s Fourth of July rodeo he beat up a gang of three drug dealers and sustained zero injuries.
He was extremely mean to Cassidy when they were kids, stealing her candy and putting live worms in her boots.
Once, he wrestled an aggressive bison and then barbecued that bison for his solo Christmas dinner and, I assume, subsequent bison curries.
So whether he is real or imagined, whether I’m dreaming right now or trapped in an alternative reality, or in some psych ward on a cocktail of brain-warping drugs, whatever the scenario, my innate instinct for survival kicks in with a powerful thump.
My heart beats in my eardrums, a surge of adrenaline jolting through my limbs with so much force that my whole body starts to vibrate. With a jaggedy breath I lift up the bread knife. I ready myself to fight.