Countdown to Killing Kurtis

by Lauren Rowe

  I whimper.

  “You should have ditched that sorry-ass loser years ago, but you just kept hanging on his every word and letting him make you cry.”

  I shake my head, my entire body quaking.

  “Honey, I gave your daddy a fair shake, okay? He had plenty of time to prove himself. Kurtis had already been in the big house for well over a month by the time I went down there and had a little chat with a friend of a friend. A whole month, and your daddy hadn’t yet made things right for you—after all the times he’d made you cry? Well, guess what. It was time for your daddy to answer to me.”

  I’m trembling with my horror. Wilber jumps onto the bed and I pull him onto my lap and clutch him fiercely.

  “I’m not sorry for what I did, Charlene,” Wesley says matter-of-factly. “It had to be done. You’re not Charlie Wilber’s Daughter anymore—you’re Wesley Miller’s Wife.” His eyes are like laser beams. “You’re my princess bride.”

  I cannot for the life of me think of something to say. I hold Wilber close and nuzzle my face into his soft fur.

  Wesley smiles. “I got a nice and tidy two-for-one for your husband and your daddy.” He snaps his fingers. “Easy as pie.”

  I close my eyes tight and tears squirt down my cheeks.

  Wesley tries to kiss me but I jerk away, squeezing Wilber in my arms. “No!” I scream. “No, Wesley!”

  Wesley leaps off the bed and begins pacing around the room like a lunatic. “I had to do it, Charlene. Don’t you understand?” His face morphs into pure anguish. “I never forgave myself for not being there to protect you when that fucker hurt you—I swore to myself I’d never let anyone hurt you again, no matter what. And I haven’t broken that promise since.”

  I’m confused. Is he talking about the time Kurtis walloped me? That makes no sense. Wesley couldn’t have protected me then—he was in jail.

  Wesley shakes his head at my look of confusion and gesticulates like he can’t come up with a word. “You know, the one who hurt you and your momma.”

  Oh my goodness, no. “Jeb?” I say, incredulous. “You’re talking about Jeb?”

  “That’s it. Jeb.” He’s spitting bile when he says the name. “Jeb the Motherfucker. The minute you told me what he did to you, I swore to myself no man would ever make you cry again, not on my watch, no matter who he was.” He literally spits at the ground. “Never again.”

  I bury my face in Wilber’s soft fur as the image of poor Jeb convulsing on the ground slams into me. Poor, poor Jeb. I wish to God I’d never baked that gosh-dang rat-poison cake for that sweet man.

  “It killed me knowing I wasn’t there to help you when he hurt you—thinking about what he did to you made me crazy. And it was even worse thinking, if only Grammy hadn’t died, I’d have been there all along, keeping you safe from him.”

  I feel like my brain’s been unplugged from the wall. “Wesley, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “If Grammy hadn’t died, I’d have been there all along.”

  Wesley seems to think repeating this sentence has made everything clear, but I still don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.

  He rolls his eyes. “Because then I wouldn’t have had to leave you to go to the group home.”

  I feel like I’ve just been slammed with a rock upside the head. “Wesley,” I say, my stomach doing jumping jacks. I pause as everything suddenly becomes clear to me. “Your grammy was Mrs. Miller?”

  A smile unfurls across his face. “I knew from the minute you knocked on the door of our trailer, you were the only one for me, forever and ever—the most beautiful girl in the world.”

  My racing mind suddenly locks into place. “You’re Mrs. Miller’s dopey grandson?”

  He nods.

  “With the scruffy little dog?”

  He looks as happy as a dog with two peters. “I knew you were my destiny the minute I laid eyes on you—you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. And when you walked right through the front door of the group home all those years later, thank you Sweet Jesus, I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. I knew it meant you were my destiny, and I was supposed to take care of you forever and ever, no matter what.”

  As Wesley’s talking, I glance down at the box. There’s still one item left inside. With a shaking hand, I reach inside and pull it out. It’s a white strip of plastic—about six inches long and a quarter-inch wide, easy to bend. I’m not sure exactly what it is. I bend it this way and that for a moment, trying to make heads or tails of it. Over and over, I bend that plastic back and forth; until finally, by chance, I manipulate it into the shape of a tiny “O.”

  I clutch Wilber to me and gasp.

  My stomach lurches violently at my sudden epiphany.

  Wesley motions to the strip of plastic in my hand. “That Jessica Santos made you cry?”

  “No, Wesley. No.”

  “Well, then, I reckon I made her fucking cry, too.”

  This isn’t a strip of plastic.

  It’s a teeny-tiny flea collar.

  Epilogue

  Hollywood, California

  1996

  24 Years Old

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Tears are streaming down my perfectly made-up face. I’m laughing and crying at the same time, which is all right, though, because I wore waterproof mascara tonight.

  “Thank y’all so much,” I choke out, trying to catch my breath. Every single person in the entire theater, from top to bottom, is on their feet, showering me with a loud and raucous ovation. “Oh, goodness gracious, where to start?” I bring my manicured hand to my mouth, and it’s noticeably shaking. “Well, first off, of course, I’d like to thank the Academy. This is a tremendous honor and a dream come true.”

  The theater begins the slow process of resuming their seats.

  I wait a beat to make sure everyone has settled into their chairs—I don’t want anyone to miss out on a single word I say.

  “And, of course, I want to thank all the other nominees.” I look pointedly at the other actresses, each of whom is sitting prettily in their seats and dressed to the nines. Each woman smiles broadly at me, pretending to be happy for me, bless their hearts. “Y’all are so talented, and so deserving. It’s an honor to hear my name mentioned in the same breath as yours.” I wipe away a tear.

  I look for Wesley’s face in the third row.

  The stage lights are shining in my eyes and Wesley’s too far away to make out the expression on his face, but I reckon I can see his head. Holy shit on a shingle, if I don’t get this “thank you” exactly right, if I don’t go on and on in just the right way about how he always takes such good care of me, then I’m sure as heck gonna hear about it later tonight.

  “And, of course,” I begin, fixing my gaze on what I reckon is Wesley’s head, “I’ve got to thank my precious valentine, my husband, Wesley.” I shoot an adoring smile in Wesley’s direction. “You always take such good care of me, baby. I’m the luckiest girl in the world to be your princess bride. Forever and ever.”

  I can’t make out the details of Wesley’s face right now, but I reckon he’s smiling. Well, holy hell, he’d better be smiling, and not pouting and gritting his teeth about how I haven’t thanked him enough for all he’s done for me and I’m never grateful enough and blah, blah, blah. I’ve had about enough of that speech to last me a lifetime.

  My chest is heaving.

  I gaze out at the vast audience in the theater, catching my breath.

  I reckon it’s time to get my mind right and my butt off my shoulders and enjoy this special, one-of-a-kind moment. I can’t worry about Wesley and what he might be thinking right now. This moment is about me and my sacred destiny. I’ll deal with my husband and God knows what he’s gonna say or do later. But I can say one thing for sure, now that I’m a legendary actress—now that I’ve carried Lana and Marilyn’s torch into the catacombs of history—nobody’s gonna tell me what I can and can’t do, ever again. Nobody. Not even Wesley.

>   I take a deep breath.

  I feel the eyes of the entire world staring at me right now.

  I reckon I’d better give the people what they want.

  I smile broadly at my audience in the theater and then flash a beaming smile into one of the many TV cameras pointed in my direction.

  “Gosh, I feel like I’m riding a gravy train with biscuit wheels!” I say.

  The audience laughs in unison. My goodness, how Californians love themselves a girl who talks Texas.

  My blood is simmering down.

  The audience’s laughter is relaxing me.

  “More than anything,” I begin, “I just want to say this to anyone who might have a dream.” I take another deep breath. “Dreams really do come true.” The audience applauds. “When you know your sacred destiny, never let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do.”

  There’s more applause.

  Music begins playing, signaling the end of my allotted time.

  “Oh, gracious, hang on a minute,” I gasp. I begin jumping up down and the audience chuckles at me. “I just want to say, if you want something, if you really, really want something, never, ever quit on your sacred destiny, no matter what.” I’m shouting over the swelling music. “Just be consistent—consistency is key!”

  There’s a guy in the wings frantically motioning for me to come offstage now. I reckon I’d better go.

  “Thank y’all, so much,” I say, holding my golden statuette up high in the air. I blow the audience a kiss, and they applaud uproariously.

  I begin gliding offstage, waving as I go.

  My goodness, everyone loves me! I’m not The American Dream Gone Haywire anymore—I’m The American Dream Come True. I am Charlie Wilber’s Daughter. I’m a role model—an inspiration. I’m somebody.

  Yes, indeed, I’m living proof that a girl can have any happily ever after she wants, anything at all, if only she puts her mind to it. Yes, sir, a big ol’ brain can get a girl anything she wants in this life. Anything at all. Well, that and hard work. And having God-given talent sure doesn’t hurt, either. Of course, it also helps move things along like a greased berry through a goose if a girl happens to be as pretty as a picture, too.

  Well, like I always say, thank God I’m so gosh darned pretty.

  About the Author

  Lauren Rowe is the pen name of the USA Today bestselling author of The Club Trilogy, an erotic and suspenseful romance that’s taken the genre by storm, and the twisting thriller Countdown to Killing Kurtis. Lauren lives in San Diego, California, where, in addition to writing books, she performs with her band, writes songs, and narrates audiobooks. Find out more about Lauren Rowe and her books and sign up for her emails at www.LaurenRoweBooks.com.

  Lauren loves to hear from readers. Send an email from her website, follow Lauren on Twitter @laurenrowebooks and/or come by her Facebook page by seaching Facebook for “Lauren Rowe author” (or use this link:

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lauren-Rowe/1498285267074016).

  Additional books by Lauren Rowe:

  The bestselling The Club Trilogy, all books available:

  The Club (The Club Trilogy Book 1)

  The Reclamation (The Club Trilogy Book 2)

  The Redemption (The Club Trilogy Book 3)

  Acknowledgments

  I need to thank so many people for helping me hone this crazy-ass story:

  First, to the men in my life: My husband (who, after reading this book, said, and I quote, “Should I be sleeping with one eye open?”); Baby Cuz (who read this book and called me a “fucking savage,” which, of course, is the best compliment any woman could ever receive); and, most of all, to my own sweet Daddy (who has read this book through every single draft and says it’s his absolute favorite of anything I’ve written, even though I’ve yet again written yet another bastard father who bears absolutely no resemblance to him). You three men in my life have not only helped shape this book (which is so very precious to me), but even more importantly, you have helped shape me so very much. I love all three of you bigger than a sky full of stars.

  To the gloriously twisted women in my life who read this book and loved Buttercup, even though, I reckon, she’s a wee bit scary: Mom, Aunt Harriet, Lyn, Sophie, Nicki, and Lucy. You six loved this book and my darling Buttercup from the first page and gave me confidence to keep venturing out of my comfort zone and give free reign to the twisted voices inside my head. Without your encouragement, I’m not sure I would have written this book so honestly. Without you, I might very well have stopped short of revealing just how abnormal my brain can be. In particular, a special shout-out to my mom. Mom, you bear no resemblance whatsoever to Momma, I promise, other than the fact that you often pass out on a dirty mattress and piss yourself. Just kidding, Mom. You in particular were a huge voice of encouragement for this book and that meant the world to me. The fact that you got such a kick out of Buttercup right from the start, the fact that you loved her like I do, gave me confidence to be brave and reveal the depths of my socio-pathy to the entire world. Hey, Mom. Think of it that way! You’ve spawned a sociopath! Aren’t you proud?

  Thank you to Stacy Carlson, Colleeny Roppé, and Heather Dinsdale. Your early insights into Buttercup were invaluable. You absolutely helped shape the direction of this novel, for the better, and I thank you so much. Stacy in particular, you have been with me every step of the way, psychoanalyzing Buttercup and helping me brainstorm, and I am so grateful. You made me earn it, girl, as I should. Thank you.

  A superstar shout-out to Jessica McEntire, the Girl from Texas with the cutest accent I’ve ever heard. You figured me out, girl, when no one else did; and I’m grateful beyond words. I cannot thank you enough for all you’ve done in relation to this book, and beyond, from supplying me with endless authentic Texas sayings and slang, to sending me recordings of Buttercup’s accent to help guide my audiobook narration and also hone Buttercup’s “voice” on the page, too. And, most of all, I thank you for talking me off the ledge when I freaked out and thought no one would ever want to read this crazy-ass story. I truly cannot thank you enough for all you’ve done for me in relation to this book, so I did the one thing a writer can do to express utmost thanks: I gave Buttercup your name.

  Huge thank you also to my devoted agents and friends, Jill Marr and Kevin Cleary for your early reads and input and encouragement, and also for always believing in me like you do, no matter which new direction I happen to go.

  I’d also like to thank the following early readers who profoundly impacted the direction of this book and, in particular, gave me much-needed confidence to forge ahead and make Countdown to Killing Kurtis my follow-up release after The Club Trilogy: Joe Rossi (King Silverback), Elizabeth Robbins, Elmarie Pieterse, Kelly Wilson, and Keri Grammer. As you all know, I wasn’t sure about putting out a psychological thriller after having found success in the genre of erotic/romantic suspense, but you all so enthusiastically encouraged me to follow my muse and not worry about genre, not worry about “rules” or “this is how you’re supposed to it.” You all really made a difference in my life and touched my heart. Thank you.

  Melissa Saneholtz. Oh, woman. Thank you is not enough. Your suggestions, input, honesty, and support were invaluable to me. There are not enough words to express my gratitude. Thank you also to Sharon Goodman, too. You two ladies of Sassy Savvy Fabulous are rock stars of PR. I’m so lucky to work with you.

  And last, but certainly not least, a special shout-out to my beloved army of Love Monkeys—the devoted and hilarious and wonderful fans of The Club Trilogy. Thank you for going along on this crazy journey with me. I love you. I adore you. I lurve you. I feel like I have gained a world of friends—literally. I can’t thank you lovely people enough. You are so dear to me. xoxoxo Lauren

 

 

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