Let’s Talk about Fleshtrap: Meet the Cast
If you’ve been paying attention the last few weeks, you’d know from the avalanche of spam that my debut novel FLESHTRAP is coming out on December 10th. Some of you probably read it way back in the day when it was a free-to-read online serial, but if you didn’t, then it’s probably new to you. So if you’ve already pre-ordered your copy, you’re looking to pick it up soon, or you’re still not sure it’s your speed, I figured I’d take a minute to talk about the book a bit more. This is the cast, their world, and everything you need to know.
Casey Way by Anna Rose
Casey Way. Our protagonist. Library cataloger. Insomniac with daddy issues as far as the eye can see.
Casey borrowed the space at the end of Paul Orman’s black sofa. His dark jeans and t-shirt helped him fade into the upholstery, cross-legged, shrinking away between the cushions he slouched against. Paul’s office was a cave carved out of cinderblocks and mahogany on the eighth floor of a high-rise building, black leather and wood stain stretching from wall to wall. In the center of the room was a high-backed leather armchair with heavy pleats and ornate brass decorations, an end table, and the sofa. Paul on one side, Casey on the other, silence between them.
“What would you like to talk about today, Casey?”
Flanked by the tall arms of his chair, Paul was sallow with thinning gray hair and grayer eyes. The bony peaks of his skull recalled Max Schreck, Count Orlock, Nosferatu, stalking dark corridors and staircases. The notion that Paul Orman had ever instructed a classroom of future therapists made Casey uneasy. That Paul held a fond place in Joel’s heart as his thesis advisor ultimately left a bad taste in his mouth.
“I don’t know.” He said nothing about vampires. “What should we talk about?”
Casey saw Paul on Tuesday mornings with black coffee still fresh in his mind. Joel made terrible coffee, half-caff piss-water, not at all like the black tar Casey needed in his veins every day. Joel made up for it on most mornings, when squeezing Casey’s small bicep Joel kissed him goodbye at the door and warned him to play nice. For the first three sessions Casey agreed. This morning Casey had promised nothing.
“You know it’s up to you, Casey.” Paul smiled vacantly. “You can talk about whatever you like here. It’s a safe space.”
Casey shrugged. “There’s not a lot to talk about. I told you that last week.” And the week before that.
“Humor me, Casey.”
“I’m pretty sure Joel already told you everything you needed to know. I mean, you’re on his Christmas card list, right?”
“Joel only came to me and asked me to review your case. That was all.”
“Then you already know I’m just here so Joel will feel better, right?” The thought of Joel sitting bright-eyed and gullible in the front row of Paul’s yawning classroom, some cathedral-auditorium, all dark glossy wood fixtures and overcompensation, made Casey uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t fully articulate. “And you get paid either way, so I think it’s a win-win no matter what happens.”
“I don’t think so. Now I would like to more about you, Casey.” Paul reached for the pen and legal pad sitting on the arm of his chair. “I think hearing it from you would be more useful. So tell me a little bit about yourself.”
Casey folded his hands and sighed. “Where should I start?”
Joel Britton by Anna Rose
Joel Britton. Casey’s boyfriend. Therapist and rape crisis counselor. Eternal optimist, even when it gets him in trouble.
The sun was gone by the time the soft glide of the patio door told Casey he was no longer alone. Joel wrapped his arms around Casey’s shoulders from behind and sighed against his hair, pressing himself into the curve of Casey’s spine. Casey closed a hand around the cross of Joel’s wrists and leaned back into the contact.
“Hey.”
“Long day?” Casey asked around his cigarette, limp and nearly-burnt.
Joel closed his eyes and breathed from the nape of Casey’s neck. “It usually is.”
Joel Britton’s office was a closet in the Turning Point Counseling Center with chipped wood paneling and smoke damage on the ceiling. It afforded him enough space for a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. He spent his Monday-through-Friday each week amid the clutter of opened case files and Pepsi cans in front of his computer, the telephone wedged into the crook of his shoulder when he had time between appointments. When he had a spare moment he checked his messages on his smart-phone, mostly news or updates on soccer matches. Joel invited his patients into his office for counseling most days; others he jogged the four blocks to the court-house to go with them to trial. On particularly busy days he responded to calls from officers in Sex Crimes to aid with taking statements or filing reports, either at the hospital or down at the station. On the speed-dial of at least five cops, three lawyers and two doctors, Joel’s days were longer than most.
This afternoon he held a young woman’s hand, waiting in the hallway outside the courtroom. Her name was Stephanie and she was twenty-one, a theater major from Scarsdale. She had to swear on a Bible and recall being raped in the parking lot of a laundromat, because her dryer had broken and a man with a knife was waiting in a station wagon. Joel didn’t want to talk about that.
Mariska Kovol by Anna Rose
Mariska Kovol. Casey’s sister. Late-night DJ at 92.5 KVBS. Wants the best for her brother, even if she has to drag him to it kicking and screaming.
If he concentrated, Casey could hear Mariska’s voice on 92.5 KVBS, the smoky rumble of her laughter slipping into the dining room between tracks of ZZ Top and Led Zeppelin. She was the late-shift DJ, seven at night to one in the morning. Monday-through-Friday, Classic Sounds with Mariska. It was easy to imagine her sitting in a hazy studio booth in her favorite cowboy boots, all long legs and jeans, wearing sunglasses at night like a poster from a cheap exploitation movie about drug culture and rock-and-roll. The way she looked since she was old enough to spend money at thrift shops on the clothes her mother hated, where she would drag Casey after school and hide bags full of old combat boots and leather jackets in his book bag so her mother wouldn’t see.
For all my little lovelies out there who can’t sleep tonight, Mariska said. The way she always did between commercial breaks, voice dark from too many cigarettes. You know who you are and you know why you’re here, so just shut the hell up and listen to some good music.
