Scream Queen Read online

  Scream Queen

  Chelsea Hates Libby

  KT Morrison

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by KT Morrison

  Prologue

  I. Block Party

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  II. Million Dollar Boat

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  III. Succotash

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  IV. Rocket Fuel

  Chapter 26

  Afterword

  About the Author

  KT Morrison writes stories about women who fall in love with sexy men who aren’t their husband, and loving relationships that go too far—couples who open a mysterious door, then struggle to get it closed as trouble pushes through the threshold.

  Visit My Website!

  ktmorrison.com

  Also by KT Morrison

  SERIES

  Landlord

  Obsessed

  The Cayman Proxy

  Separate Schools

  Keely

  Six Weeks In Winter

  EPIC NOVELS

  Cherry Blossoms

  Maggie

  Learning Lessons

  Happy Endings

  NOVELS

  Going A Little Too Far

  Pool Party

  Après Ski

  Rachel’s Truth

  NOVELLAS

  Watching Natalie Cheat

  Watching Natalie Again

  Inconceivable

  Mary’s Pledge

  One Night Only (as Becky Haze)

  ANTHOLOGIES

  The Taken Anthology

  Happy Birthday, TF!

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Models on cover are meant for illustrative purposes only.

  All characters are over the age of eighteen.

  This book takes place in Canada where recreational use of cannabis is legal.

  SCREAM QUEEN

  A Chelsea Hates Libby Serial Novella

  Chelsea Hates Libby #1 of 3

  33,000 words

  First Edition. May 19, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 KT Morrison

  Written by KT Morrison

  Cover by KT Morrison

  Prologue

  When it was all over, Ben Todd would ask himself how it happened—no, not how, but why. Why did it happen?

  The awful events of that summer, the series of reproachful interludes that finally led to great calamity must have occurred for a reason.

  The answer was in his house the whole time. Not out where he would see it, not in the face or the eyes of the woman he loved nor the one who ruined him. On the second floor of their rented Beaches home, in the room he used as his office, there was a box on the top shelf of the closet. In that box was a dusty old tome he hadn’t looked at in probably seven or more years. A glossy bound book of no more than two hundred pages; and just past the halfway point, on page 105, on the right hand side, bottom half, a picture on the inside left would show the clue that could answer the ugly question of why.

  The three collected faces of the yearbook committee.

  It might not be the greatest answer—because what had happened was truly awful and ultimately unnecessary—but tales of this nature never have an answer you could call satisfactory. The best that could be mustered is a general: I guess that makes sense. Because human nature is unknown, and the cruelty of others never truly boils down to one reason; people are dark and you can never truly know how they interpret the actions and conversations around them. Sometimes their greatest acts of cruelty can appear meaningless and wanton, but to the mean girls of the world a settled grudge can taste like the sweetest soda pop...

  Part 1

  Block Party

  Saturday, June 22

  1

  A party was a great way to introduce yourselves to the neighborhood, so Ben and Libby held an open house on the first Saturday of summer, welcoming anyone from their modish beach neighborhood who’d like to drop by between three in the afternoon and ten at night. They had cold beer ready in coolers, punch, soda pop for anyone with kids, two tanks of propane for the barbecue, and in the fridge were four dozen homemade hamburger patties and a hundred and twenty hot dogs. A table on the back deck was festooned with bowls of chips, cheese, and veggies and dip, some deli meat, and pickles.

  It had been almost four weeks since they’d moved in, and they’d met a lot of the neighbors and had been invited to a few dinners as well. But this open house was a ‘thank you’ to those who’d extended graciousness and a chance to get to know those they hadn’t crossed paths with.

  The house they were in was a narrow red-brick three-story with tight hallways and small rooms, but it was in the Beach Triangle, expensive, finely appointed, and while they were in the city, this neighborhood had a small-town feel where everyone knew everyone and watched out for each other. There were primo bars within walking distance, great shopping, great eating, and of course the scenic Kew Beach with its boardwalks and cafes.

  Ben was out back on the deck raised up about four feet off the small square grass patch that served as their backyard wearing an apron Libby had bought him that said “Dinner Is Coming,” underneath the Game of Thrones wolf emblem comically wearing a chef’s hat. About twenty burgers and twenty dogs had been served over the last five hours and it was getting near dinner time now. The turnout was good and friendly, and there was a happy churn of well-wishers and hopefully some future friends.

  Libby was born for the duty of host, taking the job on earnestly. Ben knew she’d be committing everyone’s name to memory successfully, making eye contact and generally charming everyone—and not just the guys, because despite her beauty she was better with women. It was her demure and gracious manner that made other girls feel easy.

  While Ben manned the barbecue, he watched Libby flit around in an apron of her own that he’d bought her, hers black with white tuxedo markings. She moved in and out of the gathered clutches of people on their deck and in their kitchen and family room, making sure everybody had what they needed, making sure everyone knew what was available. Her silky blonde hair pulled back from her face, she wore just a touch of makeup today because she was expecting company. Nothing extravagant, just the slightest bit of color on her lips and a little black around her lashes. And he knew she must be very self-conscious about it, because she usually didn’t have the vanity or enthusiasm to pull off a face with makeup. She liked to keep things au naturel. Under her apron she wore a light chambray shirt with a button-down collar. Earrings were small tasteful gold clamshells...

  She caught him watching, gave him a funny and friendly wave, a summer camp theater gesture of Hello!, one hand on her hip the other drawing an arc like a rainbow, smiling at him. Light came in from the outdoors making the lenses of her tortoiseshell glasses wink at him like headlights from where she stood in the dim shade of the family room just beyond the sliding glass doors. He gave her a thumbs up, and she clamped white teeth on her pink tongue and gave him two back, wagging them awkwardly to show how pleased she was with the way the afternoon was going.

  When all the burgers were gone from the cooler he ha
d, he went back in the house and found her in the kitchen talking with two middle-aged couples, faces he’d seen on their own street. He swooped in with a hand on the small of her back and kissed her cheek. “How’s it going, baby? Everything good?”

  Libby patted his chest, said, “Have you met Mr. Meriwether?—and this is his wife, June.”

  “Not Mr. Meriwether,” the man said, smiling, “just call me Mike.”

  “Mike, pleased to meet you.”

  Libby now gestured with her hand toward the other couple, both of them women with short haircuts brushed back at the sides. She said, “Carol and Gwendolyn. They live at 58, you know, up the street and on the other side, the nice house with the brick entrance way.”

  Ben shook their hands as well, saying, “You’ve lived in the neighborhood long?”

  They told him it was just a few years now, but that they loved it and never wanted to move.

  Libby said, “I know, we can’t believe we’re here. I’ve always wanted to live in the Beaches, it’s this guy,” she said, thumbing toward him, “that made it happen for us.”

  He said, “I like to make Libby happy.”

  That brought awww-ing from all four of them. Libby blushed, and it made Ben laugh then peck her cheek, and Mike said, “I hear you’re Northerners too.”

  “Northerners too?”

  Libby bumped him with the back of her wrist, said, “Aurora.” The town where they were both from.

  “Oh, yes, right. We’re from Aurora too. Grew up there.”

  Mike said, “Libby said you know Chelsea and Finn.”

  He nodded slowly, saying, “I do. We do.”

  Libby said, “We went to high school with Chelsea. We don’t know Finn.”

  Mike’s wife, June, said, “Small world.”

  Ben said, “Isn’t it?”

  Carol said, “I ran into Finn yesterday at Casa Mia, he said they’d come by here today.”

  Libby nodded, and Ben said, “Yes, we’re expecting them, or I mean, hoping they show up. Looking forward to it, we haven’t seen Chelsea in years.”

  Mike said, “Bring you back to high school?”

  Ben said, “Doesn’t everything bring you back to high school?”

  Carol and Gwendolyn laughed, and Carol said, “You can never shake it.”

  Libby looked glum, said, “Sometimes it’s like Lord of the Flies. Hard to believe they throw all us kids together like that.”

  Now Ben jabbed a thumb toward his wife, said, “Look at this one, can’t have a conversation without referencing a book.”

  “I love books,” Libby said, brightening.

  Ben said to Mike, “She works at the big bookstore, the one down on—”

  Libby corrected him: “Not the big bookstore. I work at the good bookstore...”

  “It’s a pretty big store,” he said.

  Libby said, “We’re not known for our size, we’re known for our customer service.”

  Mike’s wife rolled her eyes comically toward her husband and muttered to him, “Sounds like you.”

  When Carol and Gwendolyn laughed, Mike said, “Hey, come on, I’m known for both,” and took a swig of his beer.

  The whole thing went over Libby’s innocent head, and she was still talking about the bookstore, saying how long she’d worked there.

  And that was when Chelsea and Finn arrived.

  2

  Standing in his front hall was the hottest girl in his high school. A four-year period—beginning twelve years ago—saw a teen Ben Todd with many a fantasy depicting him with sexy Chelsea Cunningham. Now Chelsea Slade. Back then there was no Finn in her life, but Chelsea had no shortage of boyfriends. She went through boys like a champ. Nothing but the best for old Chelsea. And why not, she was the most beautiful girl in their school, in fact, how about all five high schools that served the Aurora Township...

  Not only beautiful, Chelsea had a reputation. An air of celebrity. Yes, she was a bitch, a first-class one, but she was respected and feared since they were little and it only grew more pronounced when she matured and she found a surprising career. Chelsea’s mom (another Grade-A bitch, as his mother would often refer to her) had Chels competing in beauty pageants and singing contests since they were all in Grade One. Tried to get her on all the American shows, and she apparently auditioned once for American Idol but her segment never aired. Singing wasn’t really her prominent thing, though she was talented. For Chelsea it was drama. Or movies more exactly. First year in high school, Chelsea got a part in a big-budget Hollywood movie that was shooting in Toronto. It was only a few minutes on screen but it led to a few more parts, one where she played the flashback teen version of Academy award-winning actress, Shelley Masters. Ben had watched that movie on a loop (at least part of it), because fifteen-year-old Chelsea—who he saw daily in real life—wore a bikini. There she was committed to film, a friend (kind of), showing off her tight body he used to wonder about at night. He watched her scene so many times he knew every heartbeat of her appearance, could recite her lines though there were admittedly not many. And, frankly, he jerked off to the scene quite a few times as well. It was only a total of five minutes and thirty-eight seconds of cinematographic history, but it was a big bright spot in his masturbatory repertoire. Because here was this girl he knew saucing around poolside playing the part of a teen vixen that later went on to murder three men (who arguably deserved it) and get defended in court by Russell Crowe.

  That part led to other Toronto productions, and because of her looks and her bad girl vixen portrayal in that big-time movie she was a shoe-in for any thriller or horror that came to film in the city. The last year of high school, a movie came out where Chels had a two-and-a-half minute flee-from-the-killer scene. It shamed the poolside scene for its wanton sexuality, and sometimes when he jerked off to it he lamented that she didn’t shoot this one first and he could have enjoyed it when all he had was masturbating. Although they couldn’t have done those scenes when she was fifteen. Because in this one—a pretty big budget eighties slasher remake—Chelsea showed bouncing bare breasts, bare ass, and holy shit, a half-second of bush. She was long-legged, insanely beautiful, and he used to study how her muscles moved against her skin as she ran in the dark shadows of an old summer camp unable to escape the machete-wielding murderer.

  The weirdest part was day-in and day-out he saw that exact same tall girl in the halls of the school. And he’d gone to public school with her. Libby as well. So that meant when he and Chels passed in the halls—even though he wasn’t any longer in her circle of friends—they had a grade one-through-seven history with each other that meant he wasn’t her enemy. It meant she would occasionally flirt with him, even at one point had him twisting in his bed sheets thinking maybe she meant it when she said he was cute. As he got older, it became completely clear that Chelsea said that to just about everybody. Once they were separated by post-secondary, her proximal pussy power over him ceased and he realized how foolish he’d been to harbor such fantasies.

  Now here she was: that girl that made his bed sheets sticky stood in his front hall, beaming at him, a devilish presence; outrageously and immediately sexy, tall and long-limbed, thick flowing honey-caramel hair in a tangled mane that fell around her shoulders and down to her waist...

  “Welcome to the neighborhood, Ben,” she sang in loud proclamation, holding a bottle of wine in each hand while her husband Finn plopped their motorcycle helmets on the deacon’s bench.

  He went to her like a gracious host. It’d been more than eight years since they’d seen each other, and he wasn’t that dorky high school kid anymore. He was a college grad, one with a great business underway, one he’d conceived himself. He’d made a quarter-million last year—good enough he could afford to prop him and Libby up in a multi-million dollar beach house.

  So as they got closer he felt confident and was happy to show her the new grown-up and manly Ben Todd. But as the distance between them shrank from a dozen feet to four all that confidence began
to wane. She was so crazy beautiful.

  She folded him in an embrace with a wine bottle still in each hand and hugged him hard. She said, “Oh, my God, it’s so effin’ great to see you, Ben—it’s crazy that we live in the same neighborhood...”

  “I know, isn’t it?” His voice had gone high and solicitous. Smooth.

  “We’re going to have so much fun together.”

  “I hope so,” he said, too soft and agog again.

  “Hey,” Chelsea said, stepping back, “Ben, this is my husband, Finn...”

  “What’s up, buddy,” Finn said and extended a hand for a shake. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Ben.”

  “Thanks, Finn,” he said.

  Finn didn’t look like the kind of guy he expected beauty queen Chelsea to end up with. The guy was good-looking, it wasn’t that, he’d just imagined Chelsea with some big beefcake guy who wore a suit and worked on Bay Street. Maybe drove a top-of-the-line Mercedes. But Chels went the opposite route. Finn looked like a musician. He wasn’t much taller than Ben, maybe an inch or two, and he probably wasn’t more than a hundred-seventy pounds. Not some macho football jock type at all. He had tattoos all up and down both arms, full sleeves, tattoos on his neck, dark eyes, like a magician’s eyes. He was kind of thin, narrow hips but with broad shoulders and big hands. And the guy didn’t drive some Mercedes, he rode a motorcycle. Libby told him the other night, someone told her Finn worked as a big-time sound engineer at the Sony Center. He was the liaison that ran big shows for all the major bands that came through Toronto. The guy had a good handshake grip.