Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection) (85 page)

Oh well. He’d just drive slow, and maybe there’d be enough time after the party to stop somewhere for a car wash. That could work. That could totally work. That was
going
to work.

Or he was going to get grounded for the next three weeks straight.

He knew, intellectually speaking, that it was better to have engaged parents, parents that cared about his well-being enough to know exactly where he was at any given moment, but at such an auspicious time as this, he could do with a more lackadaisical approach. Was that so wrong? To just have his parents check out from time to time? At least when it was convenient to him and his plans?

In spite of his reservations, Josh slowed way, way down and turned the wheel to the right.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

But as the car went over a huge rock and bottom out, Josh felt his stomach settle right down there with the chassis.

* * *

Keaton could not stop moving. He had checked over his Mickeys—his pet name for his micro-businesses—twice already and was about to go back for a third round. He had been up and down every hallway in the turn-of-the-century house like five times today, making sure the place sparkled more than a vampire in a teen romance novel.

And now, he breathed in the sweet smell of success, surveying his little kingdom. This was the night, baby. This was the night.

Now was the time that everything was finally going to go Keaton’s way.

Unlocking the door to the crafts room, Keaton peeked in on the middle-aged woman who was busy demonstrating decoupage to her rapt online students. He never would’ve guessed that their demographic for this one would be teenage girls in Japan. Go figure. He backed out of the room, closing and locking the door behind him. Couldn’t have his Asian goldmine running off on him, now could he? Not that the locks were what kept them working. He knew how to keep his people motivated.

On to the next room. This was one of his faves. The Russian mail-order brides. Oh, and grooms, of course. Keaton was not sexist in his business endeavors. Just as important for wealthy yet awkward women to find true love as it was for the men.

What he loved about this Mickey was that it was Keaton in a nutshell. Bringing people together. It was what he did. It was who he was.

The girl running it now was one of the first brides Keaton had brought over. Love hadn’t worked out so well for her, but this biz certainly had. When she had taken over from the ninety-year-old matchmaker who had kicked the bucket, profits had soared through the roof. Apparently, the thought was,
If the matchmaker looks like this, how hot are the
matches
gonna be?

The dark-haired beauty looked up from her matchmaking book as Keaton swiveled his body into the room. “Ah, Mr. Keaton,” she purred, her thick Russian accent making her sound almost sleepy. “You come to see how I do? You look.” She scooted the book toward her boss.

“No, babe. Just popping in to remind you to be on your best behavior. No flirting with our guest when he arrives.” She pouted a bit at that. “Actually, come to think of it, do flirt with him. That might be good. Or not. I don’t know. Play it by ear.”

“Play by ear? What is this?” Her pout had now turned into a look of confusion.

“Oh, right. Idioms. I forget.” Keaton thought about it for a second, then snapped his fingers. “See how he reacts in the moment that you meet him.”

“Mr. Keaton.” Her tone was disapproving. “I am woman. I do this… how you say?… sleeping.”

“Yeah, in your sleep. Right. Okay.” He moved back toward the door. “Best behavior, remember.”

Keaton found himself whistling as he moved away from the Russian matchmaking service. He had been working toward this moment for like five whole years. Yeah, sure, there was the whole Ecstasy business side of things. It was what was making this night happen finally, but it was not what was going to put Keaton on the map. No way, man.

What was going to make him famous was the whole micro-business thing. That was the hook, baby. Mickeys. This idea was going to revolutionize the way the world worked. It was working well enough for Keaton’s compound, lovingly referred to as “the Hive.”

It was all paying off tonight. In spades. Actually, in diamonds. Yeah, that was more like it. Keaton had never understood the phrase “paying off in spades.” Diamonds made a whole lot more sense.

Keaton bounced back and forth from his left foot to his right. He was so amped up, he was catching air on each hop. This was a big deal. This was bigger than Elvis. Bigger than the Beatles. Bigger than Weird Al.

He popped his head into the bathroom, just to make sure the “chemists” weren’t sampling their own wares. Couldn’t have them trying to touch and love all over their guest this fine evening. Glassware and chemicals were stacked precariously all around the small space, making Keaton claustrophobic the second his head crossed the threshold.

“How’s the batch looking?” Keaton asked the head X guy, a tall, skinny guy with patches of hair on his face that almost looked like a beard. His eyes were opened just a touch too wide for Keaton’s liking. He peered closer at his employee, checking his pupils.

“This one’s gonna be, like, fuchsia-colored, man. Or no…
rainbow
-colored. Like a double rainbow across the sky. Yeah. We haven’t done that one before. The kids’ll love it, dude.”

“Okay, yeah. Whatever. Just… keep those pills from ending up in your belly.”

“Totally, dude. It’s all about the work tonight, man.” The scruffy man turned back to his latest batch, held his arms out over it and started chanting or something. Weird. Keaton backed out of the room. This X lab was just a means to an ends. A profit center until his other Mickeys really took off.

Tonight, Keaton was playing host to someone special. Stavros Tarvasas was
the
guy when it came to dealing drugs on the West Coast. And after all this time, Keaton had managed to land himself on the big bald guy’s radar. If he got in with Stavros, the sky wasn’t even close to the limit.

And Keaton wasn’t just going to sell him on the X. Oh no. That was
so
passé. Keaton had much more grandiose plans for Stavros. What Keaton was really selling here were his micro-businesses. Just like Dippin’ Dots were the ice cream of the future, micro-businesses were the next step in… entreprenuerialism? entrepreneurship?… whatever. They were the next big thing. This was going to be bigger than the dot com boom, and this little sucker wasn’t gonna bottom out. Maybe they’d have to create a new market, like the NASDAQ or something.

That was what was cranking Keaton’s motor right now. Nothing chemical about this high, baby. It was
au naturel
. Honestly, that was the only way Keaton rolled.

Tonight, the X was his ticket into Stavros’s inner circle. And once Stavros was here and seeing the awesomeness that was the Mickeys, he’d be hooked. And Keaton would be living the sweet life.

But he had to keep his focus. Well, he had to
try
to keep his focus. This had always been a bit of an issue with Keaton. He had tons of great ideas, but the whole keeping-on-track thing was a bit of a problem for him. Not that he was upset about it. Not at all. It was out of his borderline ADHD that micro-businesses had been born, after all.

His Mickeys were the perfect playground for someone that couldn’t just focus on one thing. Instead, you focused on a whole mess of little itty bitty things.

Thinking about his Mickeys made him bounce higher and faster. Okay. He had been standing in one spot for way too long. Time to step outside to see if Stavros had arrived yet. He was supposed to get there at 9 p.m. sharp, but guys like Stavros could pretty much show up whenever they wanted. Keaton checked his watch. 9:05.

As he jogged over to the front door, Keaton realized that, soon, he could be the guy that could always show up late. He could be the one that everyone else looked up to. Well, figuratively, at least. He wasn’t the tallest guy on the planet. That idea definitely had its appeal.

Pushing open the door to the house, Keaton stepped out into a blast of the lingering heat from the day. Soon enough, the temperature would plummet, but for now, the waves of hot still air radiated up from the ground around him.

From his right, Keaton could hear the thump, thump of the dubstep they were playing over at the club. The weird mechanical bass warping reminded Keaton of the sound Transformers made when they were changing shape. It wasn’t his favorite kind of music, but it was what was popular right now.

Hey, if it made him money…

Over the vibrations of the music, Keaton could hear the howling of a pack of coyotes chasing something. Probably a jackrabbit. There were tons of them out here. When they caught whatever it was, there was a scream—definitely a rabbit—and then the sounds of the predators ripping apart their prey. Circle of life, right here outside of his dwelling.

He really needed to get a place in the city.

Stifling a shiver, Keaton peered out into the darkness. If you didn’t know better, you would think that the world didn’t exist outside the pool of porch light. Sure, he had a dozen employees and hundreds of partiers, but let them drive up to the house? No way. No how. He made all the patrons hike their way in. Two miles. Added to the whole “exclusive” vibe, plus a side benefit to the security of his… less legal activities.

Any headlights coming this way would have to be Stavros’s.

It’s part of what made his setup out here so perfect. By the time cops could get out to the Hive, Keaton could have all illegal activities completely shut down and stored. Another upside to micro-prenuering. Why it hadn’t taken off like wildfire was beyond him.

Keaton made a full circle, surveying his kingdom. There behind him was the beautiful structure that was the center of the Hive, Keaton’s house. Well, his grandmother’s house, but whatever. Each room housed another Mickey. Well, every room but one. Which brought him back to Grams.

Sigh.

Attached to the left of the house, was the garage that Keaton had converted into the hippest club this side of the Mississippi. And the most profitable of the businesses, right behind the one in the basement.

Was that a pair of headlights in the distance? He squinted, trying to make out if it was the black stretch Hummer Keaton had sent for Stavros. The limo was gorgeous, if Keaton did say so himself. Sweet ride.

Keaton glanced back over his clothes, making sure he had mastered the exact proportion of hip to professional. He rubbed his hands together as he knocked some dust off his Vans.

It was time to make some money.

CHAPTER 2

Stavros sat in the back of limo, trying to meditate away a throbbing behind his eyes before he had to negotiate the deal. Unfortunately, even though his eyelids were shut, the flashy gold lamé of the Hummer’s interior still burned into his retinas. And the strobing disco ball did not help. During the course of his job he had seen the back of many a limo. Never one with gummy bears stocked in the bar though

As the limo hit pothole after pothole, Stavros abandoned his quest for peace and opened his eyes. They were on the final stretch of the “driveway” to the complex—-what was it the little man had called it?—’the Honeycomb,’ or something equally inane. Nearly being bumped out of his seat by the next pothole, Stavros was glad that he had not driven himself out into the middle of the desert. His Bentley’s suspension would never have forgiven him.

The decrepit house came into view. While he watched “Flipping Out,” Stavros was no expert in architecture. However, the structure seemed built at the turn of the century. The last century that is, certainly not this one. Back in its day it probably was a sight to see. Two stories tall with fresh paint and shutters, it must have seemed like a mirage. Now the house sat like a squat overlord, scowling at the desert around it.

How the hell did he end up here? It certainly wasn’t by choice. His boss had a distinct dislike for homegrown operations, preferring to work with high-end mass-produced product. However, the DEA had been more than a little busy, raiding not just their primary supplier, but their backup supplier, as well. Along with the competition’s X labs. They were already calling the operation the Great X Caper of 2012. Clever, clever cops.

Even so, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal. With the late 90’s raves dying off quietly, being without X for a stint was only cause for a shoulder shrug. But now, with “dance festivals” creating a resurgence of overeager young partiers, being X-deficient was a serious business liability. How could you fill your clubs if you didn’t have the product the customer needed to complete their experience?

Hence the nearly insufferable disco-ball-gold-lamé ride out to the high desert. Keaton’s club had been on their radar…the very, very, very far edge of their radar. But it was such a low-rent proposition that it didn’t even warrant sending out an enforcer. His hourly wage, along with gas prices, added up to more than Keaton probably brought in on a weekend.

Now, though? Now Keaton had the only operational X Lab in southern California. Desperate times called for…well, just look around.

He would take this meeting with Keaton, and either they would reach a mutually beneficial arrangement, or—that enforcer was still on his speed dial.

Pulling up to the sprawling compound, the limo’s headlights stabbed ahead into the darkness. They speared Keaton right about chest level, bathing the vibrating little fellow in the white light of the vehicle’s xenon headlights.

As for Keaton, his clothes were kind of like the limo—they might be expensive, but money clearly couldn’t buy taste. A white button-down shirt covered in blue and pink polka dots with what looked to be silver and turquoise cufflinks winked back at Stavros in the glare of the headlights. Keaton was wearing a pair of tan Chinos that looked like they had been crumpled up on the floor five minutes earlier. His hair was styled in the same way. The cut wasn’t too bad, more than likely highlighted, but spiked up in a manner that said
I just rolled out of bed this way
.

Yet when Keaton flashed his smile, all the tackiness seemed to disappear. That was this kid’s talent. He had a smile that said,
Hey, you’re going to step into my three-hour presentation, and by the end of it you’ll be the proud owner of a new timeshare.