Riley's Excellent and Not-at-all Fake Exorcism Service

Chapter 1

Writer's Juice

Fifteen floors below me, cars and people hustled down the long city streets. The air was damp, thick and rich with the scent of car fumes and soiled dreams. The cigarette between my lips did little to quell the dark imposing forces dancing in the back of my mind.

No, that was what my black coffee spiked with Irish whiskey was for. Or as I liked to call it, my writer's juice.

Though, in all honesty, writer's juice was always just whatever I was drinking at the time. Spiked coffee was just my morning writer's juice. At lunch, I'd switch to beer, or usually two. Maybe even a shot of tequila on a particularly bad day, always followed by generous amounts of mouthwash. And as the evening approached, wine while I cooked dinner, then another glass with dinner, and whiskey neat to end the day.

My husband, Daniel, only knew about the two glasses of wine and the nightcap. He'd often have them with me. One time though, he came home for lunch to surprise me, and that had been a particularly bad day, so he found me buzzed on the couch with a bottle of tequila and slices of lime. That was probably one of the worst fights we'd ever had. I told him I'd never do it again.

But really, I just learned to be more careful.

He didn't get it. I worked from home. I was a freelance editor. He's never had to deal with writers before. They're temperamental. Incapable of keeping a solid schedule. And worst of all, he didn't understand having to work for people that had everything you want, yet they didn't even know the difference between "then" and "than". I had tried for years to publish my book. Despite all the authors whose crap I polished and slaved over till they turned into mother fucking diamonds; my own dream still eluded me.

"It's just not marketable."

"Can't you write YA?"

"Maybe a romance?"

Pricks.

The pay was pretty much shit, too. I didn't make nearly enough to afford our comfortable Manhattan one-bedroom apartment. That's what my Daniel was for. But I did make enough for food, liquor, and the occasional splurge on a good book. I knew, deep down, that Daniel wished I had a better job, that I wasn't home all day.

I couldn't count on one hand the number of times he's suggested I take a yoga class, a cooking class, volunteer – anything where I would leave the apartment and just socialize. But I had my cat, and I had a best friend. Andrea was the only person from high school that ever knew I existed. And honestly, that was all I needed.

Daniel had always been surrounded by family and friends, but I was used to being alone. My upbringing was a tale told far too often. Dad left before I could even form a memory, and my mother worked multiple jobs to put food on our plates. She died before I graduated high school. Breast cancer. At her funeral, I didn't even cry. I looked at her in that cheap casket, cold and pale, her face dolled up more than it ever had been when she was alive, all I kept thinking was,

I never even knew you.

I took another drag. Followed by a gulp of my writer's juice. The coffee was lukewarm, but the whiskey still burned the back of my throat. I glanced back at my desk. Visible through the glass doors to the balcony was my cat, in all her fluffy orange glory, curled up neatly on top of my computer keyboard.

I closed my eyes.

The image of the email I had received a few minutes ago resurfaced.

Riley,

I've looked over your manuscript, and even with this rewrite, I just don't feel this is the right project for me to take on. I hope you understand. If you ever decide to work on something else, perhaps in a different genre, you know I would be happy to look it over.