Countdown to Killing Kurtis

by Lauren Rowe

  I’m shaking with my sobs, aching to explain everything to her with my eyes so she’ll understand. But she doesn’t look up at me. She just covers her face with her hands and stays that way.

  My heart pangs violently inside my chest.

  Why won’t she look at me, just once? Am I so horrible, so worthless, she can’t even look me in the eyes and let me explain? After all these years of her lying on her mattress, drunk as a skunk, leaving me to scrounge up a bologna sandwich to eat, if I was lucky, she can’t do this one thing for me? Just this one little thing?

  Well, she can go hug a root, then. She’s in no position to judge me. She might not have killed Jeb exactly the way I’m telling it here on the witness stand, but she sure as hell had a hand in killing Jeb just the same. She might not have baked the cake that actually did poor Jeb in, but she sure as hell killed him by making my life so miserable that I had to do it myself—by making Daddy’s life so miserable that he had to leave me and go to Hollywood and not take me with him, just leave me here in Texas all by myself, sitting in the trailer with no one to talk to every single day of my life and nothing to do but amble over to the big rocks and play with goddamned dirt! Gosh dang it! Maybe if Mother hadn’t been such a sorry excuse for a wife, Daddy would’ve stayed in love with her—and if he’d stayed in love with her, then maybe all three of us would be in Hollywood, together, right this very minute, soaking up the sunshine and feeling fine as wine, and I wouldn’t have been all alone without my daddy all these years, living with a drunk-ass mother and just waiting and waiting for my sweet daddy to come get me like he promised to do but never did and I don’t know why! I throw my hands over my face, but it’s no use—I can’t stop the waterworks from shooting out of me like a geyser.

  Mother can refuse to look at me all she likes, if that’s how she makes herself feel better about what she did to me all these years, but I know the truth: Mother might as well have killed Jeb herself.

  Chapter 13

  18 Years 4 Months Old

  598 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  “Point your chin up a bit, Buttercup,” the photographer says. “Yeah, just a little more. Perfect, just like that.”

  The camera shutter clicks rapidly.

  “That’s too much, baby,” Kurtis interjects. He’s standing right behind the photographer, his eyes like laser beams. “Put your chin down.”

  I tilt my face down and raise my eyes. My nerves are jangling like spurs, but I just keep reminding myself that Marilyn herself did a bunch of nudie pictures before her acting career took off. When Kurtis suggested we do a “preacher’s daughter” photo spread for his stupid girlie magazine three months ago, I said I’d do it—but that doesn’t mean I’m not sweating bullets about it. Of course, I had two conditions before I’d agree to the photo shoots. “First,” I said, “I’ll only do nudie-cuties if the pictures are gonna make me into a legendary actress, Kurtis.”

  “Yes, baby, ‘a legendary actress seen by audiences in cineplexes all over the world,’” Kurtis responded, smiling. “Trust me, these pictures are just the first step toward making you a star.”

  I squinted at him, trying to decide if I believed him.

  “What’s your second condition?” Kurtis asked, his eyes sparkling at me.

  “I’ll be a nudie-cutie—on top only—but I’m not gonna let my titties flap in the breeze like they’re hanging on a line to dry. You’ve gotta promise the photos will leave something to the imagination.”

  Kurtis twisted his mouth and looked thoughtful for a moment, like he was considering his options. “Well, you can’t totally cover up—I mean, this is for Casanova, after all. We’ve got standards.”

  I remained immovable, staring at him.

  Kurtis continued thinking about the situation for another moment. “But I suppose we can make your shyness a selling point,” he finally declared, and I could see the gears in his brain turning. “Yeah, we’ll make it a monthly series for three or four consecutive issues—a ‘good girl’ series, starting with you as a buttoned-up preacher’s daughter and moving on from there.” Now his juices were really flowing. “Yeah, you can keep your bottoms on the whole series, honey. That’s fine. And we’ll keep you semi-covered on top—at first. With each installment of the series, we’ll get more and more revealing. It’ll be a long tease.” His eyes devoured me. “Because everyone loves a good tease.”

  And so it was.

  A month later, when my first “preacher’s daughter” pictures finally came out in the magazine, Kurtis proved himself to be some sort of porno-genius. People did, it turned out, love a good tease, and then some. Even though my praying arms modestly covered my boobs in all the shots and my pictures were tucked away in the back of the magazine, that issue went flying off the shelves.

  “You got twice as much fan mail as the spread-eagle-centerfold did,” Kurtis hooted. “You’re every man’s fantasy, baby. We’re on to something here.”

  The following month, for my second pictorial in the magazine, I reckon the preacher’s daughter grew up to become a topless Sunday school teacher. And yet again, even though I covered my lady lumps with my hands that time, too, that issue was an even bigger success than the last one.

  For my third photo shoot, the preacher’s-daughter-Sunday-school-teacher apparently went away to college and joined a sorority—a sorority that’s not all that fussy about its members wearing shirts, I reckon. With Kurtis looking on from behind the photographer, just like he’s doing today, I posed for the camera, looking studious (and hot and bothered) while keeping my arms crossed over my bare chest. But that time, unlike the two prior photo sessions, Kurtis started cooing at me from behind the photographer to uncross my arms and put ’em over my head.

  Of course, my first instinct was to say no. But then, when I saw the way Kurtis was looking at me, like he was waiting on me before taking his next breath, I felt a kind of electricity surge into my body—a delicious kind of zap that hit me right between the legs and vibrated throughout my sacred places—and I suddenly wanted to do it. Wordlessly, without taking my eyes off Kurtis, I pivoted my body away from the camera—away from Kurtis’ blazing eyes—and brought my forearms to rest on top of my head. And even though the photographer was there, clicking away furiously at my side-boob, it suddenly felt like Kurtis and I were the only two people in the room.

  I stared at Kurtis, silently, my chin straining over my shoulder, my body humming with that delicious electricity and the bull’s-eye in my panties tingling like crazy—and I felt like a magnet to Kurtis’ steel. When I licked my lips with my tongue and then bit my lower lip, Kurtis blinked slowly and practically convulsed on the spot. It was then that I knew Kurtis wanted me so bad, he’d stop at nothing to get me. If Kurtis had been married right then, his first wife would have been burnt toast—and if he’d belonged to a church, he gladly would have been excommunicated to get inside me. And, hot damn, the crazy part was I wanted Kurtis just as badly, too. I wanted nothing but to be his queen.

  Of course, the side-boob shots were a sensation when they finally came out in Casanova. Apparently, every pervert who reads Kurtis’ stupid magazine gets his rocks off watching a good girl slowly turning bad.

  And now, here I am, at yet another good-girl photo shoot—my fourth and, hopefully, final one— wearing nothing but a little white hat, a stethoscope, and itty-bitty white panties emblazoned with a red cross on the front (because apparently, our now-famous preacher’s-daughter-Sunday-school-teacher-sorority-girl furthered her education at nursing school.) I’m standing in front of the photographer guy and Kurtis, arching my back, trying to make my face look like I’m one matchstick away from a forest fire—and all the while, covering my boobs with my forearm. Gosh dang it, it’s cold as a frosted frog in here.

  “Pucker your lips a little, Buttercup,” the photographer suggests.

  I pucker.

  “Yeah, that’s good—”

  “But keep an innocent look in your eyes,” Kurtis interrupts.
>
  “Like this?” I make my eyes wide and innocent, yet sultry.

  “Yeah, baby,” Kurtis says. “That’s good. Make it sexy—but keep it sweet.”

  “Okay.” I try to look simultaneously pure as the virgin snow on the faraway hills and yet hotter than a billy goat’s ass in a pepper patch—all while freezing my titties off in this cold studio. The whole exercise is like trying to pick up a cow patty by the clean end.

  “That’s good, baby,” Kurtis says. “Real good.” He turns to the photographer. “What aperture are you set on?”

  The photographer rolls his eyes. “It varies with every angle.” He winks at me. “How ’bout a little smile, Buttercup?”

  I give him a little smile.

  “More of a smirk, baby,” Kurtis says. “But keep your eyes innocent. Just let the corner of your mouth slide up, slightly. Yeah, like that. Oh, baby, yeah, just like that.” Kurtis looks at me like I’m a needle and he wants to poke his thread through my eye. “You’re something else, baby.” He grunts like a gorilla. “You’re a fucking knockout, you know that?” He leans his head toward the photographer. “How are you metering this?”

  “Both in-camera and manually. I got it, Kurtis.” The photographer smiles at me. “Buttercup, why don’t you try—”

  “Hey, honey,” Kurtis interrupts. “Do me a favor. Look away for a second and then back at me.”

  I do as I’m told and the camera clicks away.

  “Yeah, that’s good. Just like that. Good. One more time. Yes. Now straighten your back.”

  “How’s this?” I ask, straightening my back, taking great care to keep my bare chest covered with my forearm.

  “Nice. Now, honey, look right at the camera the way you always look at me right after I kiss you.” His voice is husky now. “Look at the camera how you do when we’re all alone—when it’s just me and you and I’m doing that thing you like so much. Oh, God, baby, yes, that’s it. Holy shit, yes, that’s it.” Kurtis practically growls that last part. The thing he’s referring to, the thing I like so much is when Kurtis kisses me between my legs. Holy hell, yes, I sure do like that a lot.

  Right quick after Kurtis licked me for the very first time, I knew I had to find me a caveat to my preacher-daddy-vow of chastity lickety-split (pun intended)—so I explained to Kurtis that letting him kiss and lick me on my sacred places was allowed, believe it or not, every single day, in fact, if he was willing, because Kurtis’ pecker stays in his pants and outside of me when he does it.

  Kurtis just laughed when I said that. “Ah, so you’ve found a loophole, have you, baby?” He winked at me. “Well, good for you, baby—good for you.”

  “Kurtis,” the photographer says, motioning for Kurtis to lean in and listen to him.

  Kurtis looks annoyed at the photographer’s interruption, but he peels his eyes off me, anyway (which seems to takes a Herculean effort), and gives the photographer his ear. “What?”

  “Can she put her arms behind her?” the photographer asks softly, but loud enough for me to hear. “Can we get a full topless with an arched back this time?”

  Kurtis considers. “Not showing everything is what makes her different. She’s shy. She’s”—he looks back at me, his eyes blazing—“pure.”

  I smile at Kurtis. That’s right, honey. I’m pure.

  And, actually, it’s the truth. When Kurtis (and the photographer) glimpsed my side-boob at the last photo shoot, it was the first time any man had ever seen any part of my naked boobs. (Dr. Ishikawa doesn’t count ’cause he’s a doctor and he only got to see my old boobs, anyway—and even when I’ve let Kurtis lick me and kiss me between my legs under my skirt, I’ve adamantly kept my clothes on.) The truth is nobody’s seen me fully naked, ever. Even through months of increasingly hot and steamy hanky-panky with Kurtis, I’ve managed to keep my clothes on my body while we’ve pretty much performed every variation of third base we could think of—except for me sucking on him—I’ve steadfastly refused to do that. “No, Kurtis,” I explained. “‘No sex’ means your pecker’s gotta stay out of me—no matter what opening.”

  Of course, after all these months, Kurtis has tried his mighty best to get me to change my mind about that sucking thing and about sex in general, of course, or, at the very least, about me taking my clothes off for him. But I’ve refused on all counts, citing my solemn vow to my daddy. But frankly, it’s getting harder and harder to resist Kurtis, especially ever since I started letting him kiss and lick me between my legs. Good lord, when he does that to me, it makes me want to spread my legs afterwards and let him burrow deep, deep, deep inside me. Shoot, the way I scream and whimper when he’s doing it to me, I’m surprised Kurtis hasn’t just ripped my clothes clean off me and barreled right in anyway.

  But he hasn’t. In fact, although he begs and coaxes me every single day to let him finally slide his junk inside me, nice and deep, Kurtis is always the perfect gentleman when I turn him down. It’s almost like a small piece of him likes me telling him no (though, of course, a much larger piece of him—namely, the rather large and hard piece of him that’s straining up from between his legs—desperately wants to hear me say yes, yes, yes).

  By now, after all the fooling around we’ve done, I reckon I actually want Kurtis to finally plow me as badly as he does. So bad, in fact, I’m starting to not trust myself to keep saying no. But the thing is, no matter how fierce my body’s own urges have become, my brain knows my only card in this poker game with Kurtis is my V-card—a rare and irreplaceable commodity. Even if my crotch is ready to scream, “Come to Momma!” my head doesn’t wanna lose my most valuable bargaining chip without the promise of a kingdom in return. I reckon keeping Kurtis outta home base, at least ‘til our Marilyn movie’s rounding second base, is the only way to keep my lusty porno king focused on fulfilling my destiny. But I don’t know how much longer either of us can hang on. Especially me.

  The photographer fidgets. “She might be pure, Kurtis,” he concedes, treading carefully, “but pure ain’t gonna sell magazines forever. We’ve gotta get the money shot sooner or later.”

  The muscles in Kurtis’ jaw pulse in and out. He’s thinking. After a minute, he exhales and walks past the blazing lights over to me. He puts a hand on my cheek. “Baby—”

  “I didn’t come to Hollywood to be a centerfold star,” I whisper, keeping my chest firmly covered by my forearm. “I came here to be a movie star.”

  “I know,” he says softly, dropping his hand. “But you gotta trust me. This is all part of the plan.”

  “Kurtis Jackman, I came here to fulfill my destiny to pick up the torch lit first by Lana and handed off to Marilyn—”

  “—and to carry it ever-farther into the catacombs of history. I know, honey,” Kurtis interrupts, smiling broadly. “And you will.”

  I scowl. I don’t like being interrupted, especially when I’m talking about my sacred destiny.

  Kurtis sticks out his lower lip, mocking my scowl, and when I twist my face up even more, he smiles broadly. “Baby, you’re the cutest little thing ever, you know that?”

  “Kurtis,” I say, chastising him, “I’m not a centerfold. I’m an actress.”

  “Baby, listen. Marilyn herself did a whole bunch of full-frontal shots, and now, those pictures are part of her mythology. Back in the day, those pictures were what made her an ‘It’ girl.”

  “I don’t need any help becoming an ‘It’ girl, honey. I’m already an ‘It’ girl. Just look at me, for cryin’ out loud; you can’t get any more ‘it’ than this.”

  Kurtis chuckles. “That’s for damned sure.” He touches my cheek again.

  There’s a beat as I consider the situation, biting on the inside of my cheek.

  “Buttercup, will you just trust me, for Chrissakes?” Kurtis says. “All I’m trying to do is make you a star. Don’t you know that?”

  I’m surprised at the earnestness in Kurtis’ eyes. He rubs my cheek with his thumb. “I know exactly what I’m doing, baby,” he whispers. “You
gotta trust me.”

  I glance over at the photographer. He’s staring at us, blatantly eavesdropping. Now my eyes go back to Kurtis. Once again, the sincerity in his eyes surprises me. I look at him sideways. “So lemme see if I understand the situation correctly, Kurtis Jackman. You want me to put my naked boobies on full-frontal display in the presence of a mortal man for the very first time in the history of the world right here and now, in front of you—and this photographer-man?”

  Kurtis’ eyes ignite like someone just turned his gas barbeque onto high. He abruptly turns to the photographer. “Take a break, Phil,” he barks. “Outside.”

  Kurtis’ chest heaves up and down as I stand before him in nothing but my tiny undies, my arms crossed over my chest. We’re standing four feet apart in a crowded supply closet at the back of the photo studio.

  “I’ve never done this before,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

  Kurtis nods, apparently too overcome to speak. He lets out a shaky breath. Even from here, I can see his erection bulging in his pants.

  “You’re about to become the first man, ever, that’s gonna see me in just my skivvies and a smile—head-on, in all my glory, both boobs at the same time.”

  Kurtis grunts and nods again. His nostrils flare.

  “Because you mean just that much to me, Kurtis Jackman.”

  Kurtis’ eyes are trained on me like he’s a heart attack and I’m CPR.

  “I’m glad it’s you, Kurtis,” I say. “I wouldn’t want it to be anyone but you.”

  He groans with anticipation.

  My crotch feels like it’s filling up with warm Jell-O. I exhale and drop my arms to my sides. My nipples instantly harden under his gaze. I can barely stand still, I’m tingling so much between my legs.