Eye Candy

by R.L. Stine

Genres: Horror; Suspense

Synopsis

She’s drop-dead gorgeous. But one of the guys she’s met online might be a stone-cold killer. A chilling game of lies, secrets, and manipulation awaits in R. L. Stine’s dark, sexy thriller—now an MTV original series starring Victoria Justice.
 
Lindy Sampson is a beautiful twenty-three-year-old New Yorker with an unusual problem: She’s too beautiful, and guys are intimidated by her. Her roommate suggests Internet dating and writes a personal ad for Lindy, calling her “Eye Candy.” The responses pour in. Suddenly, Lindy is dating four guys at once—and having the time of her life. Until she gets a terrifying note that warns: “Don’t say no, Lindy. Keep going out with me. I’ll mess you up if you ever say no.”
 
Which one of her admirers is a deadly freak? Lindy is now forced to say yes to everything the four men ask of her—dates, invitations to spend the night, anything. From the East Village to the Hamptons, panic and paranoia shadow her every move. Lindy suspects everyone, even the one person she thought she could trust. But Lindy Sampson doesn’t know the half of it—and what she doesn’t know could kill her.

Release date: December 18, 2007

Publisher: Ballantine Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

1
 
I don’t like the way you’re looking at me,” she said.
 
I lowered my cup of coffee. I kept my eyes on her. “Like how?”
 
“Like that. Sort of . . . intense.”
 
I smiled. “I’m an intense sort of guy, Alesha.”
 
She spun her cup between her hands, returning my stare. “What do you do, anyway?”
 
“This and that. Actually, I’m a Web site developer. You know. The tech side.”
 
No point in telling her the truth at this point.
 
She had coffeecake crumbs on her bottom lip. I wanted to lick them off. She had a nice, full mouth. I liked her eyes, too. Gray-green with yellow flecks, like sunshine.
 
She licked her lips clean. “Did you work on the dating Web site? You know. The one where we met?”
 
I shook my head. “Not that one. But I worked on some others. Consulting, mostly.”
 
Consulting sounds like hot shit.
 
I could see her thinking, “He must be pretty successful. ” She narrowed her eyes, trying to decide how much I make.
 
She had a pretty face, with those great eyes and that pouty, full mouth. I’d seen her as soon as I walked into Starbucks, and I’d hoped she was Alesha.
 
Please—not the one with the ring in her nose, I’d thought. I can’t stand that. It makes my whole face hurt to think about it. And when I talk to someone with a pierced tongue, it takes all my willpower not to heave my lunch.
 
When Alesha turned out to be the pretty one, I almost cheered. I’ve done a lot of these Internet dating hookups, and so far I’ve been pretty lucky. No Kennel Club members, if you know what I mean.
 
“What are you thinking about?” Alesha’s voice broke into my thoughts.
 
I pushed my finger through a tiny puddle of water on the table. “How about some dinner?”
 
She tilted her head, as if she had to consider it. “Well . . . okay. Great.”
 
It was only supposed to be a coffee date. You know, a meet-and-greet kinda thing. But I could tell she was into me. And I just kept staring at those dark red lips. I pictured them doing all kinds of things to me.
 
A squirrely-looking guy with long strands of greasy, brown hair leaned over the table next to us, banging away on a laptop. Was that supposed to be impressive or something? Why couldn’t he do it at home? He’s wireless . . . and he’s clueless, I thought, as Alesha and I squeezed past him.
 
We stepped out onto Broadway. I let her go first so I could check out her ass. Not bad. She was wearing those low-riding black pants—not too tight but tight enough.
 
The wind gusted, blowing her chestnut hair back. It was cold for May, no real sign of spring except for the cherry and apple trees in Riverside Park going all pink and white. It had rained earlier, and the sidewalk was still puddled and shiny.
 
She struggled to pull her hair into place. “Where do you want to go to eat?”
 
“We’re almost to Eighty-eighth Street. Let’s try to get into Aix,” I said.
 
She frowned. “It’s always so crowded.”
 
“It’s early. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” I flashed her my best smile. “I’m a lucky kinda guy.”
 
She smiled back with that lovely mouth. Another strong gust flapped my raincoat and blew back the canvas bag she was carrying. She pulled it close to her, and that’s when I first noticed her hands, and I felt a little sick inside.
 
Hands like a truck driver.
 
I took her to dinner anyway, but now I was a little off my game. I kept glancing at her hands, and I knew the current was going against me.
 
We sat at a red banquette near the back. She kept her hands below the table, and I made it through dinner. Actually, it was pleasant. I tried hard to revive.
 
She ordered a glass of some blush wine, and I asked for a Ketel One on the rocks. I could see her expression change when I ordered it. Maxim had it on their ten-most-impress-others list, and I trust them.
 
The restaurant filled up quickly. It’s hard to find good gourmet food on the West Side of New York, so this place caught on fast. I bring women here a lot, and they always like it.
 
The middle-aged couple in the next banquette were arguing loudly over whether to get their dog clipped. The old guy was so heated about not trimming the dog, I thought he might stroke out or something.
 
“So I’m a nurse,” Alesha said, after the food arrived— lamb chops for me, soft-shelled crabs for her. A little early in the season for soft-shelled crabs, if you ask me. “I’m at Roosevelt. You know. Here on the West Side.”
 
“Yeah, I know,” I said, salting my chops. “From your profile online. You wrote that you’re a nurse. Does that mean you can get all the drugs you want?”
 
She laughed. She thought I was joking.
 
I hated her laugh. It was Mom’s laugh exactly.
 
Uh-oh. Mom’s laugh and those Hulk Hogan hands. I knew where this evening was heading.
 
She kept putting her big hand on top of mine, squeezing my skin, smiling at me with those beautiful lips, giving me the look. You know. The look that says, “We’re going to end up in my apartment.”
 
Which we did.
 
It was only a couple of blocks away on Ninetieth and Amsterdam. A pretty big place, airy, with high ceilings, but shabby. The furniture must have come off the street, and nothing interesting hung on the faded walls, just a framed museum print, some Van Gogh thing I’ve seen a million times.
 
“How old are you anyway?” Alesha asked, narrowing those eyes at me.
 
“Twenty-five.” This time I told the truth.
 
“An older man,” she whispered. “I’m twenty-three.” And then she started kissing me, kissing my face, her lips warm and kinda spongey. Kissing me and making these soft, moaning sounds, biting my ear and holding me, those big mitts against my back.
 
She pulled me into her bedroom. We sat at the foot of her bed. A blue-and-white quilt in a Quaker design spread out on the bed. A tiny TV almost lost in the piles of clutter on her dresser.
 
She’s so hot. Kissing me and whispering my name.
 
I could overlook the laugh. But the hands just made me sick.
 
“Yes, yes,” I whispered. “Alesha . . . yes . . .”
 
I wrapped my hands around her throat. Gently at first, and then I began to squeeze.
 
I brought my thumbs up and pressed them hard into her larynx. It took her so long to realize what was happening, and then it was too late.
 
I pressed my thumbs in hard and tightened my hands.
 
She had no air. Her eyes bulged wide and gazed up at me, as if she was asking me a question. But she had no air. And she couldn’t struggle for long. My hands are so strong, and the thumbs do the damage very quickly.
 
She went limp and stopped breathing.
 
She was dead but I kept squeezing . . . squeezing. My hands hurt but I kept squeezing. Because I wanted her eyes to pop out. Just like in the cartoons. I love cartoons. I think they’re so funny. If I had a little brother, I’d sit and watch cartoons with him, and we’d both laugh till we peed.
 
But Mom only had me.
 
I squeezed till I couldn’t squeeze anymore, but the eyes didn’t pop. I knew Alesha would disappoint me. What a shame.
 
I let go and her body collapsed onto the quilt. I struggled to catch my breath. My heart was pounding in my chest. I hadn’t been to the gym for a few days. Guess I should go more often.
 
After a minute or so, I began to feel normal. I hoisted myself off the edge of the bed, clenched and unclenched my hands, trying to work the pain out. Then I stepped into the small, windowless kitchen, no bigger than a closet.
 
She didn’t have much of a knife collection. But I found a serrated bread knife I figured would do the job. Rubbing the blade gently against my thumb, I returned to the bedroom, steamy now. I hadn’t noticed the ugly flowered wallpaper.
 
I held the knife in my right hand and grabbed one of her hands in my left. The hand was limp, the arm heavy. I struggled to get a good grip. Then I began sawing off her fingers, one by one.
 
I finished the right hand, then went to work on the left. She didn’t bleed very much, I guess because she was dead. The fingers felt like asparagus. Real easy to cut.
 
I realized I had a big smile on my face, so wide my cheeks hurt. Now you have nice small hands, I thought.
 
But what to do with the fingers?
 
I counted them—eight fingers. I didn’t want the thumbs.
 
I couldn’t decide where to put them, so I jammed them into my raincoat pocket. I left a note, explaining why she had to die. I didn’t mention her laugh, just the big hands.
 
Then I hurried out of the building, a light rain starting to fall, the wind still gusting. I made my way home to my apartment and sat down at the computer without even taking off my raincoat.
 
Back to the personals site where I found Alesha. After all, there are plenty more women looking for a good time. . . .