Fifty-Two Pickup: Aces (Jessica Rogers Book 1)

by Jayden Hunter

  ~ Umberto Eco

  Imagine the most bizarre cult. Now imagine that in a hundred years that cult could be a mainstream religion with millions of followers. Crazier still: In a thousand years that cult could be followed and believed by half the planet. Billions of true believers waking up early, skipping afternoon naps, and frowning on joyous, orgasmic, carefree sex. Fucking morons. Oh, not your religion, of course. The other guys.

  ~ Jessica

  BETHANY, ZACHARY, PETER, RUTH, AND ABIGAIL all stood like obedient robots while my sister took pictures of them.

  "Smile, Ruth."

  Ruth showed her teeth. But I read her mind: Get me out of this fucking dress.

  The scene brought back memories of our youth. It was just Evelyn and me, our parents not being as fecund as her and Ray, producing offspring like Hyundai cars coming off an assembly line. At least they didn't name one of them Genesis, seeing as they had a penchant for Biblical names. Apparently, someone in the Hyundai marketing department thought it was a good idea. I'm also glad they avoided unusual names like Azera, Equus, or Veloster, unlike someone in the aforementioned Hyundai marketing department--a someone who needs a good beating in my opinion...

  Abby saw me first and ran to hug me. She's almost as quick as Olive, but not quite. Bethany, who is fifteen, pretends to act cool and grown up; she greets me after she allows for a proper teenager moment of I don't care. Ruth, aged eight, she's like Haiku (or any cat), and she'll greet me when she damn well feels like it. I like that about her. Go Ruth, Go! It's tough being the little one, but not the baby.

  Apparently, the baptism had gone off with any drownings. Jesus hadn't come back, and it looked like half the church had shown up to eat Ray's food. I don't blame them. I think Ray took out a home line of credit before he sent Eve to Costco, they had enough food spread out that if the zombie apocalypse happened, we could have survived for a week. Maybe two if we’d rationed.

  I mingled and ate. Ray hugged me, but he didn't linger on my tits like when we're alone. Coward. If he asked, I'd let him feel me up in front of the church ladies, just for the thrill of it.

  My sister wouldn't be amused.

  Well, fuck, when you're at an afternoon post-baptism party with a gaggle of Christians, it's not like anyone is going to do coke lines off the ass of a stripper and then, later, in a drunken stupor, vomit in the pool.

  That will be next Saturday in West Hollywood. I have an invite to Eugene and Calvin's place for a celebratory party (Eugene optioned a script for--his words--a fucking lot of money). Calvin is a bit of a diva, and he always gets pissed when someone vomits in this pool, but Eugene, being the practical one points out that it's not a good party if nobody vomits in the pool. And besides, Eugene will say, "We pay Marcus an outrageous rate--outrageous--he can handle it."

  I think they overpay the pool boy because Eugene insists that he works in a Speedo, and swims for awhile just to be sure everything is working.

  That party will be much different than my nephew's baptism celebration.

  I WAS AMBUSED.

  No, it's a word. I made it up.

  My sister cornered me in the kitchen with one of her church lady friends.

  Ambushed + Abused = Ambused.

  "We missed you at the service," she said. The church lady's name was Chloe.

  "I have a restraining order against God," I said. Wanting to make light of their desire to interfere with my life.

  "He loves you, Jessica. He has a plan--"

  "You're fucking kidding me, right?" I looked at my sister, stared at her, in fact, with demon eyes.

  "You're a hurt little girl, still, Jessica. He understands. Your mother was special to Him, and--"

  "Don't bring up my mother."

  "I knew her... She was a big influence on me. Your mother mentored me through some hard times. She knew that Jesus had a plan for me. And she--"

  "I'm not going to listen to this." I started to turn and leave. Eve grabbed my shoulder. It was a desperate clutch, and I nearly yelled at her.

  "Please, don't go yet. Chloe means well; we were praying for you today. It's sad that mom's gone and I want my old sister back."

  "What old sister?"

  "You know."

  "No."

  "The one that went to church and sang hymns. And didn't hate God."

  "I was twelve."

  "You loved Jesus."

  "I loved Santa Claus once, too."

  "That's not the same."

  "It's exactly the same. You have an invisible father figure that you use to fill the emptiness caused by your own fucking pathetic life. You can't accept that Dad would rather fuck young Thai girls than be around your fucking bitchiness and neediness. You have a husband that would rather play golf than spend an hour listening to your goddamn mouth run and your friends are weak minded cult followers that like you because you're a people pleaser with a big house in Newport Beach and an unlimited snack and drink budget."

  My sister cried. Deep sobs. She left the kitchen without speaking a word to either of us. Chloe, the church lady, and I stood in the kitchen. I wanted to punch her in the face, but that wouldn't be very Christian, would it?

  "That was especially cruel," Chloe said.

  "You believe in bullshit that is used to manipulate and control people. Of course it goes badly."

  "Why do you hate God so much?"

  "I don't."

  "It sure comes across that way."

  "That's because you fail to comprehend. I don't hate the Joker or the Penguin."

  "I fail to see--"

  "Exactly."

  "Your sister is very hurt."

  "She's a grown up."

  "Even grown-ups want and need the family to be close, kind, and loving. You don't see your own wounds and hurt because you're so protected by your own walls."

  "Look, Chloe. I'm sure you mean well, but you don't know me."

  "The Lord showed me something about you while I was praying for you. Can I share it?"

  "You're batshit crazy, lady." I was shaking my head and exiting the Holy Ground of Eve's kitchen when I ran into Ray.

  "Have you seen Eve?"

  "She's upstairs. Crying her eyes out."

  "What?"

  "Talking to plants."

  "Fuck, Jess, what did you do?"

  "Same old. Same old. Tell the brats I'll see them in a couple of weeks."

  THE PARTY ON THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY couldn't come fast enough for me; I needed drunken debauchery with the Hollywood crowd to wash off the filth of cultish, brainwashed zombies. I've never had sex with a gay man (that I'm aware of) but I was considering it so that I could freak out my sister. Maybe I could star in a gang-bang film and send it to her?

  I have had a couple of hot make-out sessions with some of Eugene's gay friends. It's not so hard to get any man feeling like a horny teen at a homecoming dance after-party if you're both drunk and someone suggests spin-the-empty-vodka-bottle.

  I realize I was just processing my angry at my sister, and my feelings of loss towards me mom. I know not all Bible believers are mean-spirited or controlling.

  Forgive me if I've offended you?

  It's the Christian thing...after all.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Heterosexuality is not normal, it's just common.

  ~ Dorothy Parker

  Imagine how silly it would be to not eat bacon, pork chops, or carnitas burritos. I don't mean for ethical or health reasons (those are fine reasons) I mean because some stone-age witch doctor declared that it was forbidden. Seriously, if you're curious, why not try? Don't we tell children not to dismiss broccoli without giving it a chance?

  ~ Jessica

  ONE OF THE NICE THINGS about living in RPV is that it's about an hour or two to drive to just about anyplace in the greater Los Angeles area, including Orange County. I can be in Dana Point in under an hour and a half. The same idea applies heading north or inland.

  Of course, this doesn't include rush hour, an accident, or rai
n...

  Californians can't drive in bad weather. Word to the wise, if you see a car with California plates in your home state, and it’s snowing, get the fuck out of their way.

  I made it the guy's house--Eugene and Calvin--in about an hour. Granted, it was Saturday evening, and traffic was light.

  You might wonder why I didn't choose to live in Malibu or Santa Monica, the home cities of many stars. With beautiful beaches--the setting for lots of novels, television shows, and movies--the two beach cities were attractive to me. But, the answer is simple for why I choose RPV instead: my nieces and nephews. The extra hour or so driving just makes it that much harder to drop in for dinner, which I like to do, even when I'm fighting with my sister. The bitch.

  Okay, she's not always a bitch. Lately, I just need to vent more about her. I think we're both suppressing unspoken failed parental expectations. I don't know if that's an actual mental disorder. UFPE. If not, it should be.

  Maybe a big pharmaceutical can trademark this and send me my cut? Thanks.

  My friends Eugene and Calvin have been together forever. They fought the bigots during the Proposition 8 battle in California and Calvin has worked his way into the Los Angeles political scene. I tease him on occasion that he works for gangsters, he claims he's making a difference.

  Eugene, as I mentioned, is a script writer. Which means he's crazy as fuck and twisted in ways you cannot imagine. I love him like a brother.

  “WHERE IS YOUR SEXY FRIEND?” he asked when I walked in alone. Eugene always called Audrey my sexy friend. She was, he said, the reason they tolerated me around. If they wanted their straight friends to show up to their parties, they needed eye candy, and she was it.

  "She's coming. She'll be late," I answered.

  "Good. I was about to send you out to recruit some more breeders. I've made promises."

  I hugged him for a long time. It felt nice to be squeezed tightly by a man who wasn't interested in my breasts and simply had lots of affection for me. Eugene is often inappropriate, crude, rude, socially unacceptable, and obnoxious, but he's one of my truest and most decent friends. In spite of his jocular attitude about just about everything, he's someone I know I can always count on to be there for me.

  "Where's Calvin?" I asked. Calvin was the serious one in the partnership, a bit anal retentive and uptight, but he kept Eugene inside the lines, and he had a compassionate personality.

  "Ice run. And we’re short on vodka."

  "What! Ten gallons wasn't enough?"

  "Not with this crowd."

  "Hell. It's good to see you."

  We talked for five minutes about my life situation before someone needed him. Towels or something. The people who arrived early to his parties were the helpers, usually his closest friends. Family. I had a certain amount of pride being in his inner circle, especially after the last couple years when he'd produced and sold various projects and wannabe's, hanger-on's, and old friends seem to show up out of nowhere needing favors.

  I mingled.

  It was going to be a fantastic party--but then again--they always were.

  The DJ set-up and was testing the sound system as caterers filled bowls with tortilla chips and salsa. It was going to be a chilly night, but not freezing by any means. Go! Team LA! But gas heaters were staged in the backyard, and a fire pit was ready to be lit as soon as needed. In some ways, their parties were like being at a fancy restaurant.

  Wisps of steam lifted off the pool. I considered swimming later in the evening, but there was one rule--strictly enforce--and that was a 'no suits in the pool' rule. If someone insisted wearing a bathing suit, another guest--or Eugene-- would rip it off and burn the damned thing in the fire pit. This rule only caused a problem once, a young actress, a FDJLB, went crazy when another guest pulled off her top. She called the cops and caused a huge stink. Nobody gets invited anymore unless they receive a clear lecture about the rules, and agree to them.

  Don't like the rules? Don't swim in the fucking pool.

  Or better yet, go to a Christian luncheon in Newport Beach, hang out with the church ladies, and say hello to my sister.

  FDJLB? Fresh Dumb Jet-lagged Bitch.

  Rumor has it that Charlie Sheen fucked six hundred and seventeen of them in one year. Middle America supplies them like schooling minnows, and Hollywood--the people, the industry, the pressure--breaks them down to dust. The city dashes their dreams and sends them to live in places like Downey, Anaheim, or Commerce where they end up as poker dealers, bartenders, hookers, and waitresses at Denny's.

  Don't move to Hollywood unless you have a thick skin, a lot of patience, and a progressive attitude.

  Having naturally big tits helps, too.

  Check out Kate Upton dancing the Cat Daddy on YouTube...

  “JESSSSS!”Only Audrey screams my name like that.

  "Hey, I thought maybe you'd skipped," I said.

  "Hell no," my friend said. "I just had shit to do. I need a drink."

  Calvin was bartending. They hired a bartender (who was relegated to back bar assistant) but Calvin was quiet and a bit shy (especially compared to Eugene). He preferred not to mingle, but instead enjoyed people coming to see him, so he choose the safety of the bar to hang out. It kept three feet between him and the animals.

  Eugene, however, did naked backflips into the pool.

  If you've never seen a well-endowed man do a backflip into a swimming pool, you're missing out. If you're in town during one of these shindigs, call me. I'll see what I can do.

  Don't forget: If you jump in the pool, it's got be in the buff. Make sure your shit is manicured and trimmed.

  "Hi, Audrey." Calvin smiled. He had a man-crush on Audrey, or a woman-crush I guess. He flirted with her and told her she was the only women who ever tempted him. He's mostly a tease, but it makes her feel good about herself.

  "Hey Calvin, how come you're not in the pool?" Audrey asked.

  "Needed to be here for you, darling. Vodka cran? Or do you want me to make you a Screaming Orgasmic Monkey's Fucker?"

  "Don't ask him," I said shaking my head. Calvin likes to create bizarre drinks.

  "Vodka crane is perfect," Audrey answered as she picked at a bowl of pretzels and made herself comfortable. I've seen her sit at the bar for four or five hours straight; men flock to her like she's holding court.

  "Jess?" Calvin said looking at me holding up the Grey Goose.

  "Sure." I'd be spending the night.

  HOURS INTO THE EVENING, Eugene stood on the diving board and shouted, "Ladies, gentlemen, fags, queers, homos, friends, assholes, motherfuckers, and future movie stars, I'd like your attention please."

  Some shouted, “Will the real Slim Shady please stand up, please stand up.”

  Another guest told the comedian not to quit his day job.

  “That’s so 2000s,” someone else said.

  Eugene was--no surprise--drunk as fuck, and he told everyone to shut up and listen to him, he had an announcement to make.

  Calvin was the sensible one at these parties, he'd get slightly inebriated, but stay sober enough to talk to the cops, if required. All the neighbors were typically invited, so I figured we were good, but you never know. Some people just don't know how to have fun.

  "Kissing, mother-fucking-contest time," Eugene shouted to the crowd. "Blindfolds, please."

  He fell into the pool. Again. At least nobody had vomited so far--I mean into the pool...

  But everyone was pretty fucking drunk except Calvin and a depressed producer who kept trying to explain an anti-plot to anyone that would listen. The plot centered around a child, living in a toll booth on the Golden Gate Bridge, who wanted to know if there was more to life.

  "Audrey!" Eugene, back on the diving board, and naked--again--was shouting for my best friend. "Where the fuck is Audrey?"

  "She's standing next to you. Blind motherfucker," someone shouted.

  "Oh. Audrey. You're the judge tonight," Eugene stated.

  "No fucking way," she s
aid.

  "You have to at least judge between Calvin and me. Calvin, get your sweet ass over here and kiss Audrey."

  Calvin walked to Audrey and grabbed her hand. He rescued her by telling Eugene he needed her help at the bar.

  "Okay," Eugene said defeated and a little confused about why he was still on the diving board naked. He continued rambling, "So, Audrey is fucking Calvin. I mean, Calvin is fucking Audrey. No. I mean, fucking Audrey is busy. Jessica. Jessica, you sexy bitch. You're the judge tonight in our kissing contest."

  I was too drunk to say no.

  THE KISSING CONTEST worked like this:

  Someone, who was, at the very least, not stumbling drunk, was designated the official recorder. We used the depressed producer. Eugene told him he'd do lunch the following Wednesday if he the shut the fuck about the lost boy in the toll booth and played secretary.

  The recorder would give you a number and write your name down on a pad of paper, being careful not to give any clues about who was who. The judge--that was me--had to remain in the dark.

  I was blindfolded.

  The rest of the rules worked like this:

  The official recorder would call out three numbers (supposedly at random), and the judge would kiss each one, choose a winner, and then proceed to the next three. Round two would be head-to-head competition, and so on until a single winner was named by the judge.

  The ongoing joke was that the judge would then get to fuck (or be fucked -- as the case may be) by the winner.

  But this never happened that I'm aware of--however, whatever happens behind closed doors happens behind closed doors...none of my business--or yours--is it?

  I'd never been the judge before, so I was nervous but too drunk to care. Besides, kissing is fun, what harm could come?

  A few months back, in a similar contest, I'd placed fifth, losing to a bi-sexual woman, a gay man, a transvestite with amazing tits, and a straight woman who I was told had a magic tongue.