The Perfect Game
by Stephen Paul
We are delighted to welcome thriller writer Stephen Paul to Omnimystery News today.
Stephen's debut novel of supernatural suspense is The Perfect Game (Telemachus Press; February 2014 ebook formats) and we are pleased to introduce you to it with an excerpt from the first chapter.
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HE SCANNED THE TEXT MESSAGE AGAIN.
C u soon ;)
Kyle Vine took a deep breath and slipped the smartphone back into his pocket as he stepped out of the taxi, still not sure what he was going to do. It was wrong. There was no question about it. And not just because he was more than two decades older than her — he was her professor. It simply wasn't right on any level. Yet he didn't turn around, didn't leave. He kept walking toward the Lower East Side bar where she texted she'd be waiting at one fifteen.
He checked his watch as he walked, the dew of the damp June night collecting against his skin. He felt nervous, the pit of his stomach a mess of good and bad, but mostly good, excited. The type of excited he hadn't felt in years.
He looked across the street through the misty haze and saw her step out of the bar right on cue.
Allie Shelton.
She was wearing a skimpy red skirt and a low-cut tight white tank, her chest barely contained, her long shapely legs seeming to go on forever. She turned to him and flashed a smile, brushing a few long strands of blond hair away from her green eyes. But instead of walking toward him, she went the other way. Away from the bar. Either trying to get away from anyone who might see them together, or playfully teasing him by making him work for it. He didn't know. It'd been a while since he'd engaged in such a dance. A long while. He watched her tap away at her iPhone as she walked and felt his BlackBerry vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out.
Glad u came :)
He smiled. He couldn't help it. No matter how much he wished he didn't want her, he did.
Me 2, he wrote back, thinking using the number "2" instead of spelling out the word somehow made him seem younger, more in sync, more "hip."
They'd never kissed. Never did anything but flirt. A game that had escalated once she asked for his cell number a few weeks earlier. The texts since then had been nonstop. She wasn't bashful, especially not when texting. But her text from earlier that night, asking him to meet her out, had taken it to another level.
As did his reply agreeing to meet.
She texted again — Been waiting weeks 4 this — then turned into an alley about a block away so they'd be alone. A gesture he appreciated, not wanting to engage in a public display of affection for their first kiss, already uncomfortable enough just being there. The last thing he needed was to put on a show.
As she disappeared from view, he stopped and looked back at the smattering of smokers hanging outside the string of bars. All young. Not much older than his thirteen-year-old daughter.
His daughter … What the hell am I doing?
But he could question himself all he wanted and the answer would continue to be the same. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking advantage of someone who trusted him, looked up to him. But he couldn't stop. The feeling growing inside wouldn't let him. It told him to keep going, to just cut loose for once and enjoy. He was entitled to it. Besides, she wasn't that young. She was old enough. She'd just turned twenty.
He started walking again toward the alley she'd ducked into, still not sure what he was going to do — slide his hands all the way up her long bare legs and pull her close as they kissed, or tell her he had to leave, that he couldn't do it. But as he turned the corner into the alley's dark shadows, he realized the question would forever remain unanswered as every single yearning temptation he had was chased away in one fell swoop.
Allie wasn't leaning against the wall waiting for him to take her. Far from it. She was sprawled out on the ground amidst the grime and litter not moving at all, her eyes shut tight, her arms awkwardly stretched out over her head, one leg snaked around the other. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of someone at the other end of the alley, a man ducking out into the next block.
Kyle rushed over to Allie, bending down and grabbing her wrist, feeling for a pulse. There was a heartbeat, thank God. A strong one.
He scanned her up and down for any sign of trauma, any wound, but didn't see any. He tried shaking her awake, but her eyes remained closed, her body completely unresponsive. She needed medical attention, quickly. He pulled out his phone and dialed 911, giving the operator the location and situation.
As he answered the follow-up questions, he spotted Allie's iPhone a few feet away. Probably fell when she did. He picked it up and tapped the screen. Their entire string of racy messages popped up and stared back at him. One long chain going back to when they first started flirting. It was exactly what the police and Allie's family would see. It's also what the school would eventually see. He'd be fired. There was no doubt about it. Hell, he'd probably just resign first to make it easier on everyone. Jesus, he thought, what the hell am I going to tell Bree?
The light smartphone suddenly felt heavy in his hand. He couldn't believe he was in this predicament. Nor could he believe what he was contemplating.
Delete them. Just get rid of the entire string and tell the police I was passing by.
Sure, it'd look suspicious, but the evidence, the texts, would all be gone.
He thought of Bree, thought of what would happen if she found out why he was there and how it would completely shatter the image she still held of him. He couldn't do it, not to her, and not to himself. He'd already done enough damage there.
He drew a deep breath as he pressed "edit," then watched the words "clear all" pop up and sear into his conscience. He paused again before pressing anything else, his emotions tugging him apart, one side flashing images of being grilled by the police, the other urging him to just prepare himself to lie and delete them, convincing himself that there was no need for anyone to see their private messages. That they had nothing to do with Allie's collapse.
He looked down at Allie and saw her chest moving. She wasn't having any trouble breathing. There were no marks on her, no signs of an assault. Maybe she'd even get up before anyone came.
But maybe not.
And if she didn't, the texts would destroy him. Something he wasn't prepared to let happen. So he flushed away any further hesitation and pressed the button, then watched as the entire conversation, every single racy message, disappeared. He thought about pocketing the phone rather than leaving it, but quickly dismissed the idea and dropped it, afraid someone would track it back to him using the GPS.
As he watched the pink case land next to Allie's still arm, the enormous weight of his actions bore down on his conscience like a bag of wet cement.
He'd crossed the line. And there was no turning back.
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Photo provided courtesy of
Stephen Paul
Stephen Paul was raised in the suburbs of Long Island and now lives with his wife and son in New York City.
When not crusading on behalf of the design professional community, he enjoys writing thrillers with a supernatural touch.
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The Perfect Game
Stephen Paul
A Supernatural Suspense Thriller
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