Countdown to Killing Kurtis

by Lauren Rowe

  No matter how much I’m tempted to just lie back and enjoy myself, no matter what sweet nothings Kurtis might whisper in my ear or where his mouth and hands might land on my body to make my skin burst into flames and my crotch turn wet and warm and ache for him, or how much lately I just wanna open my legs and scream, “Just do it already, for the love of God!” I’m always thinking in the back of my brain, “My movie won’t see the light of day once we do it.” And since that movie’s my rightful destiny, I can’t give in to my urges. I just can’t. I’m in a race against time to get my movie off the ground before I finally can’t take it anymore and give in—or before Kurtis loses patience or interest in me.

  And now, damn it all to hell, I’ve got this hiccup with Bettie Big Boobs to consider on top of everything else. I’m not sure what to do. Can I really expect a man like Kurtis—a porno king, for the love of all things holy—to stay celibate for six long months? It’s one thing to demand he keep his love muscle out of me, but can I really expect him not to stick it somewhere else while he’s waiting on me? Isn’t that like asking a lion not to hunt a prairie dog now and again while he waits to bag his golden zebra?

  I look into Kurtis’ eyes. They’re pleading with me to let the whole thing blow over. Damn. It boils my blood to say it, but I reckon I’m gonna have to look the other way while Kurtis bags himself a prairie dog, even if that prairie dog has hideously big boobs that make me want to vomit. But, believe me, I’m only gonna look the other way ’til I finally let Kurtis bag me, his golden zebra, because once Kurtis Jackman puts his one-hundred-percent-all-beef-thermometer inside me, he’d better forget about bagging anyone else ever again, especially some two-bit, big-boobed prairie dog with a heart-shaped pendant that doesn’t deserve to lick my boots.

  “Buttercup, there’s nothing going on between Bettie and me,” Kurtis says again. “She just works for me, that’s all.”

  “Kurtis, I want to believe you so much,” I say, “but it feels like you’re trying to sell me a five-gallon hat for a ten-gallon head.”

  “Believe me,” he pleads, sweating like a whore in church. “She works for me, that’s all.”

  I sigh deeply. “You two looked awfully comfy-cozy together when I first walked in.” I squinch my eyes at him.

  “We were talking business.”

  It doesn’t take a genius to know he’s lying like a no-legged dog. And, frankly, it hurts my heart. But so what? What good would it do me right now to call him out on his lies? And what if, by some miracle, I’m wrong? I scrunch my face into a pout. “Why are you making a movie with her and not with me?”

  “Because I make adult films, honey. You know that.”

  “But why haven’t you made my movie yet?”

  Kurtis exhales in exasperation. “I’ve told you, Buttercup, a million times, there’s a big difference between making an adult movie, which I can do in my sleep, and launching a mainstream feature. I need to get investors—”

  “And that’s another thing. Why on earth do you need investors, anyway? Just make the movie yourself. You’re richer than Croesus.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I’m ‘richer than Croesus,’ whatever the hell that means, because I’m smart enough to get investors for my movies. I’ve told you. First I make you a centerfold star, and then I make you a movie star. It’s a process. First things first, I need investors to make you a movie star. And to get investors, I need to raise your profile. Trust me, I know exactly what I’m doing. You need to be patient.”

  “I am being patient. But my patience won’t last forever.”

  “Well, neither will mine.” His tone has suddenly turned as cold as a banker’s heart.

  I glance up at his face and I’m surprised to see that his eyes are hard.

  Oh crap.

  I’ve known for quite a while that Kurtis has been slowly losing his mind with his pent-up desire for me, but this is the first time I’ve seen coldness flash in his eyes when he’s looking at me. I reckon something’s gotta give here, or else his unfulfilled desire might just start curling up into something different than passion—something angry and dark. Holy hell, it suddenly dawns on me clear as a bell—Kurtis Jackman isn’t gonna make his non-porno-legitimate movie starring me until I sleep with him, not the other way around. I’ve been a damned fool.

  I embrace Kurtis. “I know you’ve been incredibly patient, darlin’, bless your heart,” I say. “I swear I’ve never met a man with more honor or integrity in all my life.” I repress a smirk—I mean, I’m saying the words “honor” and “integrity” to a porno-king, after all. “And, baby, when the time is right, I promise, I’m gonna give you something you’ll never forget.”

  He presses into me and I can feel his one-eyed monster poking me something fierce. He takes a deep breath. “Something no other man’s ever experienced,” he says.

  I let out a long exhale. “I just worry you’re gonna lose interest in me when I finally give it to you.”

  He scoffs at me. “I could never lose interest in you, baby.” He leans slightly back from our embrace and takes my face in his hands. “Because I love you, Buttercup.”

  My mouth hangs open.

  “You didn’t know that?”

  I shake my head, stunned.

  His eyes soften. “Oh, Buttercup, of course. I love you.”

  I truly don’t know what to say. He loves me? My heart feels like a water balloon filled to bursting.

  “You just have to trust me,” Kurtis says. He drops his hands to my shoulders. “In every way.”

  Well, there you go. The jig is up. I’m pretty sure the man just gave me an ultimatum. “When do you think you’re gonna make my movie?” I ask, just in case I’m reading this situation wrong.

  “Well, when do you think you’re finally gonna trust me—in every way?”

  Damn. I’m not reading this situation wrong. Kurtis has just laid his cards on the table and he’s calling my bluff. No movie about Marilyn Monroe’s gonna come out until Kurtis gets in. Inside me, that is. If this is a game of chicken, it’s clear which of us is gonna have to swerve first—me. And I don’t like it one little bit.

  Chapter 17

  17 Years Old

  929 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  It’s late afternoon, and, having just finished a pretty enthusiastic kissing session under the big oak tree, Wesley and I are now lying on our backs on the ground, looking up at the sky.

  “You know what I just figured out?” he asks.

  I turn my head to look at him.

  “We’re fate,” he says.

  “What the heck are you talking about?” I ask.

  “I just realized we’re like Princess Bride.”

  I look at him blankly—I have no idea what the heck he’s talking about.

  “Princess Bride,” he repeats, as if saying those two words a second time will suddenly make me understand. “Wesley and Buttercup,” he adds.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Wesley?”

  “You haven’t seen that movie?”

  I shake my head. “I read my books,” I say. “We didn’t have a TV—and we certainly didn’t have money growing on trees enough to spend on going to the cineplex.”

  “Shoot, you don’t need money to go to the movies—you just sneak in.”

  “Well, anyway. I read my books.”

  “Well, Princess Bride you gotta see.” His eyes are sparkling. “Wesley loves Buttercup and he’d do anything for her. She’s his princess—just like you’re mine. You and I are fate—I knew it the minute I saw you that first day. There are no coincidences.”

  I roll my eyes. I don’t know where Wesley comes up with half the stuff he jabbers about. “Just kiss me, Wesley,” I say. “And stop talking like a no-count fool.”

  Wesley complies, and we kiss for a solid fifteen minutes. When we’re done, we lie on our backs again and look up at the sky between the branches of the big oak tree.

  “Hey, you know what else I just figured out?” Wesley says, t
urning onto his side to look at me.

  I turn my head toward him.

  “We’ve had ourselves a fifty-six day kissing streak lately.” His face brightens with a sudden epiphany. “I’m officially the Yankee Kisser.” He chuckles.

  I can’t help but smile at his joke, even though I hate to give him the satisfaction. No one else in the entire world would understand why this joke is funny as all get out, but I do, because Wesley and I are stuck together in a special kind of “consistency” hell with Mr. Clements and Joe DiMaggio.

  Mr. Clements is always talking about his boyhood idol, Joe DiMaggio—“The Yankee Clipper”—and about how “Joe DiMaggio’s record-setting fifty-six-game hitting streak could teach us all a thing or two about consistency.” Living with Mr. Clements means hearing about Joe DiMaggio just about every single day. Or, if not Joe, then Lou Gehrig, his other favorite player. Without fail, Mr. Clements goes on and on about Joe and Lou the most because, he says, those guys were the ones with record-setting streaks, the ones who really understood the meaning of “consistency.”

  At the supper table, Mr. Clements is always asking us kids, “How do you think Joltin’ Joe got a hit, game after game?” And we kids always have to reply, “Consistency,” for the umpteenth time. “Yep, consistency,” Mr. Clements always says. “Remember that, kids. It’s what’s gonna get you everything good in life.”

  Every time Mr. Clements makes his Consistency Speech, it takes all my restraint not to say, Well, Mr. Clements, if “consistency” is gonna buy me a lifetime of sitting on a couch in a group foster home, watching baseball on TV with a box of baseball cards on my lap, then I’ll pass. But, of course, I never say that.

  Actually, I don’t mind Mr. Clements talking about Joe DiMaggio in particular because Joe was married to Marilyn. But when Mr. Clements also goes on and on about Lou Gehrig, too, and, occasionally about Babe Ruth and a million other two-bit-never-heard-of-’em players, and insists on showing us his entire baseball-card collection, filled with endless photos of old-timey Yankees holding baseball bats, and goes on and on wondering how he ever wound up rotting away in West Texas, I just want to ram Mr. Clements’ bald head into the brick wall behind the TV set.

  It’s funny, because the only baseball card I actually want to see, the one of The Yankee Clipper, Joe DiMaggio himself, Mr. Clements won’t let us see. Two days ago, when I asked Mr. Clements to show us that “priceless” card, he said, “No, Charlene, Joe’s gonna be my ticket to a golden retirement one day, so I’ve gotta keep him under lock and key in pristine condition.” And then he patted my hand like I was just too feeble-minded to understand what “pristine condition” meant.

  Oh man, did that little pat of my hand boil my blood.

  So, yesterday, while everyone else was out at work and school and Mrs. Clements was at the market and I was all alone doing my home study, I put down my book, put on the rubber gloves from the kitchen sink, and sneaked into Mr. and Mrs. Clements’ room. Sure enough, I found Mr. Clements’ usual baseball-card collection in a big box next to his desk. But when I sifted through the box, I knew right quick those cards weren’t his most prized ones—they were the ones he’s always got with him when he’s watching baseball on TV.

  A little more snooping, though, and I found a small combination safe tucked away in the back of his closet, covered by a quilt. When I tried to open the safe, the door was locked and wouldn’t budge. Just for the heck of it, I tried a few numbers on the combination lock—Mr. Clements’ birthday, Mrs. Clements’ birthday, the street address of the house—but no luck.

  Wesley runs his fingers down my arm, dangerously close to my right boob, and I snap back to the present with him under the big oak tree. Wesley leans into me and presses his body against my thigh, and I can feel the hardness in his pants that tells me just how badly he’s dying to touch my boob.

  “Have you ever been to a baseball game?” Wesley asks, gazing at me.

  I shake my head.

  “I have,” Wesley says. “Once, when I was really little, before I went to live with my grammy.”

  Unlike me, Wesley loves to talk about his childhood and anything else that happens to pop into his head. I don’t mind, of course—I actually like listening to Wesley talk. The sound of his voice keeps me from feeling so lonely, I reckon.

  I’m amazed at how good and kind Wesley’s managed to remain after all he’s been through in his life. Wesley once told me his momma was a teenager when she’d had him without so much as a nickel to buy a hummingbird on a string, and he never even knew his daddy. “When I was seven,” Wesley explained, his tone matter-of-fact, “my momma hanged herself, and I went to live with my grammy. But when I was ten, Grammy died, so I had to come here.”

  And now, Wesley’s at it again, telling me buckets and buckets about who-knows-what. “I’m gonna take you to a baseball game one day,” he says, pressing his body into mine and stroking my hair. “I’m gonna take you everywhere, to see everything, Buttercup.” I know Wesley’s never really liked calling me Buttercup, but sweet ol’ Wesley pretty much does anything I tell him to do. I swear, that boy lives to make me smile.

  Wesley leans in for a kiss, and I give him one, happily—a good and long and enthusiastic one—and while we’re kissing, his hand moves to my cheek and then to the base of my neck and finally starts working its way down my chest until he’s just about to...

  I swat his hand away and pull back from our kiss. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Wesley? You can’t touch my boob.”

  Wesley’s eyes light up at the word “boob.” “Aw, I’d give anything to touch it,” he moans, pressing that hard bulge in his pants into my thigh. “I just wanna touch it once. Please.”

  I sit up and look him in the eye. The poor boy looks desperate.

  It’s not news to me that Wesley wants to do more than kiss me, of course. For months now, I’ve known he’d do just about anything to touch my boob, and other places, too. In fact, I’d be willing to bet poor Wesley would set his own hair on fire if it meant I’d let him touch my boob. But I can’t. I’d like to say it’s because he’s so dang dopey (which is true) or because I don’t want him touching my boob (not true). But neither is the reason.

  The true reason I don’t want Wesley touching my boob is that I like kissing him too much. In fact, I love kissing him. Kissing Wesley feels so good, it’s like flying with a jetpack or sliding down a rainbow or some other stupid thing like riding a unicorn when I do it. When he’s pressed against me and I feel that little bulge in his jeans grinding into me and pleading for more, lord have mercy, it’s like I’m losing my mind. I’ve never felt so damned good in all my life as I do when I’m smashed against Wesley’s skinny body, my lips against his, his tongue inside my mouth, that hardness in his pants making me moan and clutch him closer to me.

  Kissing Wesley like that, feeling him stroke my hair, even just listening to him talk about movies or baseball games or whatnot, all of it makes my heart ache and my skin sizzle and my crotch throb and my face flush. And all that’s just from kissing the damn boy.

  If I let Wesley touch my boob, or, God help me, both of them at once, then I’m pretty sure I’d let Wesley do a whole lot more, too. In fact, I’m positive I would, and then some, because there’s something about him I just can’t resist. And, unlike my daddy, I’m not gonna let the entire trajectory of my life change with one little ejaculation. No, sir. I can’t let anyone—not even sweet and good and dopey Wesley—keep me from going to Hollywood to find my daddy and fulfill my destiny to become a legendary movie star like Lana Turner and Marilyn Monroe, seen by audiences in cineplexes around the world. I am Charlie Wilber’s Daughter. Amen. I’m gonna be somebody. I’ll finally be free of this place in about seven months, and I’ve just got to keep Wesley from touching my boob, or anything else, ’til then.

  “The thing is...” I say, choosing my words carefully, “I’m just not comfortable being touched like that... because...”

  Wesley props up ont
o his elbow so he can look down onto my face. He looks concerned.

  “The man my momma... murdered...” I continue slowly.

  Wesley nods, encouraging me. Despite the calm expression he’s managing, I know he’s flipping out on the inside that I’m about to reveal some personal information to him after all this time.

  “His name was Jeb. And Jeb was... a bad man,” I say quietly. Wesley’s face darkens with concern. “A very, very bad man,” I continue, my voice thick with intensity. I look down, and tears begin to flood my eyes as I remember poor Jeb’s contorted face right after he’d swallowed that first huge chunk of rat-poison cake. “And now... after all he did to me... I’m sorry, but I just can’t stand for anyone to touch me like that ever again.”

  Wesley envelops me in a firm and fervent embrace—well, as best that skinny boy can manage with his scrawny arms, anyway. “Shhh,” he soothes. “You don’t have to talk about it. I’m the one who’s sorry. You never have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with. I’ll wait. Forever if I have to. Destiny put us together as kids so we can be together our whole lives—so I could always take care of you, forever.” He kisses my lips gently. “I’ll wait forever if I have to.”

  I nuzzle into him. “He hurt me, Wesley. Real bad. And now, I just... I can’t.”

  “Shhh,” Wesley says again. “It’s all right. That bastard’s dead and gone now, Buttercup.” He pulls back from me and looks me in the eyes. “He can never hurt you again. No one can ever hurt you again, ’cause I’m here now.”

  “I’ve never told anyone that before, Wesley. Only you.”

  Wesley pulls me into him again, this time even closer. “There, there,” he says.