“Yeah, all right. I’ll trust you on that.”
“You should try it!” he said. “It’s fantastic!”
She thought back to her one attempt in college, when the therapist had diagnosed her with Daddy Issues and convinced her she wasn’t God’s daughter. What a nice fantasy, but ultimately an unhelpful one. “I think I’m good.” Just before she threw her half of the torn page onto the table, she caught sight of the second headline. “Wait, what’s this?”
“Hold it up?” Wendy requested, and Jessica did. “Oh, yeah … that.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “One of Jimmy’s accusers. Eugene is running an expose on each as they come forward. Never mind that Jimmy has enough accusers to run a hit-piece a day for the next week and a half, let’s dig up every piece of dirt, every man she’s ever slept with, every church she’s ever attended, and every Tweet she’s ever drunkenly hit send on.”
The headline read Misandrist No. 10: Rachel Forrester. And below it was a picture of a woman, presumably in her late thirties who looked to be in her early fifties. She was slightly overweight with short, frizzy orange hair and was in the middle of eating a donut. “That’s awful. Wait, what’s a misandrist?”
Cash answered. “Someone who hates men.”
“Why are they saying she hates men?”
Wendy answered. “Because she’s one of the women accusing Jimmy of brainwashing her when she was a teen. Ergo …”
“Hold up. Hating Jimmy suddenly means you hate men? Psh. I guess I hate men, then.” She turned to Jameson. “Not you. Sorry.”
His arm was over the back of the couch again, and he raised a hand to assure her it was just fine.
“How can Eugene do this? Do people actually read this stuff?”
“Oh yes,” Wendy said tersely, “people read this stuff. They suck it down like it’s their morning Mountain Dew. And to answer your question, Thornton can do it because none of these women are more powerful than him or Jimmy. And he can keep doing it until someone more powerful than them decides to step up, fill her own damn shoes, and set the record straight once and for all about Jimmy Dean.”
Jessica tilted her head back, staring down her nose at Wendy. “I feel like that was pointed at me.”
“Mm-hmm.” Wendy forced a smile as she stood. “Glad you’re catching on. Whenever that time comes, you just let me know, and I’ll happily help you exonerate all those innocent women whose lives are being ruined. Until then, I better see you two in the papers. The best thing you can do for those women outside of, you know, womaning up and embracing your literally God-given role, is to knock them clean off the front page. And I believe we’ve already covered how to do that.” She winked at Jameson, and that concluded the meeting.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jessica surveyed the array of outfits draped over her comforter. She almost never made her bed anymore, but she had today, because this was important. She needed a canvas to help her make this impossible decision, and her cheap, lumpy white comforter would do the trick.
What did one wear to a music festival? There would be pictures galore taken of her, she was sure, but did that mean she should wear something nice? Maybe put on some makeup and try to curl her hair without burning the back of her neck like she always did?
She’d be outside all day, and while it was early October, that meant little in Texas. It was short-sleeve weather by a mile. Maybe a dress would allow for nice airflow. Except, her only dress was formal.
Shorts then.
She looked down at her legs where they stuck out from her cotton underwear. The leg hair she’d neglected shaving was noticeably lighter than the ash brown hair hair on her head. Maybe no one would notice.
No, surely the sunlight would make it more obvious.
Then again, this was Austin. Plenty of women didn’t shave.
But this wasn’t “I don’t shave” growth, though. That was the problem. This was “I can’t accept my own body hair, so I shave, but I’ve also let myself go,” growth. Her leg hair was a cosmetic cry for help if she ever saw one.
There was no wearing jeans, though. Much too hot for that. She’d have to shave. Unfortunately, she’d already showered, which meant it was dry shave time. And if she was going to wear shorts, her legs weren’t the only things she’d need to clean up.
Beauty is pain.
That still didn’t solve her wardrobe problems. She discarded the no-gos into a pile in the corner.
“Okay, jean shorts and …” She looked at her shirts. When did she buy so much green? Sure, It is Risen’s color was green, and she had purchased a few shirts in that color for work, but holy hell, this was all green. She would blend into the grass and trees at an outdoor music festival.
Actually, that didn’t sound so bad. Maybe she could slip off into the wilderness and make friends with the wildlife and leave everything behind …
A knock on her front door sent panic through her veins. She looked at the clock on her phone and cursed.
Sliding into a sage green tank-top and wiggling into jean shorts she hadn’t worn in two years (and realizing she’d gained a few pounds in the meantime), Jessica scrambled to the front door.
As soon as she saw what Jameson had on, she knew she’d picked wrong. And if his clothing didn’t tell her, his expression did.
“Come on in. Just need to shave my legs.”
“And change into your clothes, right?”
She paused. “Right. And that. Um … I’m not sure what I should wear.”
He shut the door behind himself and nodded. “Okay. This is fine. There’s no reason you should know how to dress for this.”
He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his bleached jeans, which he’d cut off just above the knee, and began poking at the screen. He wore a Texas flag muscle tank, a red bandana around his head, and his sunglasses rested just above the bandana, the temples tucked underneath. All Jessica could think of when she looked at him was a gay rodeo and she definitely didn’t have the clothes for that.
He held up his phone, and she squinted at the image. “That’s how women dress for festivals.”
“Oh. I don’t have a headdress, and even if I did—”
“No, no, forget the head dress. It’s super racist anyway. The girl next to her.”
Jessica zoomed in on the picture more. “Yeah, I don’t have any of that stuff, either.”
Jameson worried his lip for a moment then nodded. “Let me just call some people, and we’ll get you set up.”
He was already dialing by the time she asked, “Which people?”
While she felt bad about their late start leaving for the festival, she felt even worse about what she was wearing.
The emergency stylists Jameson called arrived like a hurricane and left her bedroom looking the part.
She adjusted her posture in the backseat of the ride share, fidgeting with her shirt. Only an hour before, it had been a standard black T-shirt, a size too small for her, with the It is Risen logo on the front. It was one among a couple dozen she’d ordered months before, with the intent to sell them, when she was feeling a little flush on money—Chris’s money. But she’d never gotten around to displaying them for sale, and the box of various sizes and colors had sat in her closet untouched, until Hailey, one of Jameson’s cavalry, had cautiously and curiously opened it like it was a newly discovered sarcophagus deep under a pyramid. And Jessica had been the recipient of the obligatory curse.
Hailey had proceeded to take scissors to the extra small until Jessica was left with a shamble of a sleeveless razorback top that exposed her midriff in a way that was unholy at best. Hailey and Amber had also done Jessica the solid of bringing two clear silicone blobs that were specially made for unpadded bras, to give a little lift. Then the two proceeded to dig out Jessica’s most padded bra, put the blobs in that, and strap it on her underneath the shredded shirt. The jean shorts, she got to stick with, but only after an inch and a half was cut off from the bottom so that the tip of the pockets
showed no matter what. They reminded her of little white flags, which was appropriate considering how she felt in the presence of her bullish stylists.
A borrowed pair of cowboy boots and a bedazzled elastic headband later, and Jessica was officially festival chic.
“You look amazing,” Jameson said from the backseat next to her.
She worried the skin underneath her boobs might tear. “Thanks.”
“Hailey and Amber for the win.” To his credit, he addressed her eyes and not her shelf-like and tender breasts.
She adjusted the headband, trying not to visualize her skull being squished like a stress ball but failing quite profoundly.
“So you’re aware,” said the driver, a man in his early twenties who Jessica assumed introduced himself to woman as “an entrepreneur,” “I can’t charge you for the traffic, but it’s, like, sort of expected that you’ll account for it in your tip.”
Jameson leaned forward, clapping the driver on the shoulder. “Yeah, man. Of course. We got you.”
I wonder if he only reminds passengers he knows are loaded, or if he’s a douchebag all the time.
ALL THE TIME. HE SHOULD HAVE FAILED THE BACKGROUND CHECK.
She found herself more eager than ever to get to the festival and out of this Kia.
A year ago this week, she realized. She’d been stuck in the same traffic, but on her way to a loan meeting, not the music festival that caused all the congestion, and she’d been riding in an F-150 instead. How much things could change in a single year. Some for the best, some not.
But one thing remained the same: this traffic could suck a sack of shit.
“Oh, screw it,” she said, and she closed her eyes.
Please don’t let this result in an accident.
She inhaled, summoning the power, and then pushed outward with her hands on the exhale.
Rubber screeched around them as cars slid sideways in both directions. There was a moment of eerie silence before the honking began.
“Holy shit,” breathed the driver.
“Yes, it is,” said Jessica. “Now you’d better get going.”
She relaxed back into her seat, leaning her head against the headrest and shutting her eyes.
That was probably a mistake.
WHY WOULD YOU THINK SO?
Because it’s unnecessary. And it draws unnecessary attention to me.
THAT SHIP HATH SAILED, DAUGHTER. DID YOU SEE WHAT YOU’RE WEARING?
In contrast to the warmth of the sun on her exposed skin, Jameson’s hand felt cool as it slipped onto her knee. Her eyes popped open, and she rolled her head toward him to see what was the matter.
Oh. Ohh …
It seemed Chris wasn’t the only one positively affected by her miracles.
“You just …” He licked his lips instead of finishing.
“Parted the traffic. Yeah.” She flashed an apologetic half-smile. “Sort of a useless skill.”
From the front seat, the driver added, “Useless my ass! You know what kind of tips you would get if you had my job? Part traffic, get people across town in half the time. You could make a killing.”
“Huh.” Maybe that was the answer to her money woes. Maybe she could start driving for …
But when her eyes landed on Jameson again, the most minute shake of his head knocked some sense into her. Yeah. That was stupid. If she didn’t care how she made her money, she would have already been rich by now.
She let her gaze dance to his hand on her thigh, and a strange idea washed over her. She acted upon it before she could think better, and placed a hand on top of his. He didn’t pull away.
And when they pulled up to the festival drop-off ten minutes later, Jameson hurried around to her door, opening it before she could, and offered his hand to help her out. She took it, but once she was on her feet, she didn’t let go, and neither did he.
“I have a couple friends who flew in for this,” Jameson said as they crossed the crowded field. “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to freak out.”
“Why would I freak out?”
He shrugged. “They’re kind of famous, too.”
Maybe it was the energy of the festival or the shots of vodka they’d snuck in the backseat just before they arrived, but she was starting to feel like this might not be a terrible day. What’s more, the fact that she was thinking that didn’t strike her as a giant omen of impending doom like it usually did. “So what? I’m famous too.”
Jameson laughed. “That you are. And they’re excited to meet you.”
“They don’t think I’m the antichrist or … whoever?” As they walked, her gaze locked onto a man equipped in nothing but a loin cloth and shield made of soldered beer cans.
“Not at all. Two of them think you might actually be who you say you are, and the other is a scientologist, so I think believing in you might be too … obvious?”
They passed two women on the ground, one crushing the other into the soft earth with forceful pelvic thrusts, both giggling while a male counterpart aimed a cell phone their way.
“Two might think I am who I say I am?” Jessica said, struggling to keep hold on the thread of the conversation.
“Trust me, that’s big for Hollywood types. Our default is to assume nobody is anything like what they say they are.”
Her confidence bottomed out the moment immediately following when Jameson let go of her hand to shout and wave and Jessica saw who, specifically, they were meeting.
Not one for keeping up with pop culture, Jessica had assumed she would recognize maybe one of Jameson’s celebrity friends, not all three, and definitely not as immediately as she did.
He wrapped an arm around her waist and steered her toward a giant Mexican blanket spread out below a large flag. The flag bore the image of a squirrel shotgunning a beer, and Jessica wanted to know and didn’t want to know all at once.
More than a few nearby concert-goers had their backs to the crew, snapping supposedly incognito selfies with the celebs in the background that would undoubtedly be captioned with “OMG look who I found!” and “Just hanging with my bffs. Nbd.”
Before hugs could commence, though, Jameson positioned Jessica a half-step ahead of him and shouted over the music from the two distant stages, “Jessica McCloud.” He pointed at her eagerly, and Bolt Stevens, star of the Dark & Dirty action franchise was the first to wrap her in his bulky, exposed arms. “Bolt,” he said as he let her go. “So glad to meet you Jessica!” Was he the scientologist? And what was a scientologist? Jameson had said it like it should mean something to her. Maybe it was a fancy name for “atheist.”
She supposed it didn’t matter. He gave one hell of a hug, and that wiped away any minor strikes against him like holding completely wrong spiritual beliefs or none at all.
Valerie Villarreal was the next to offer a hug after sharing a long one with Jameson. She, too, had starred in every Dark & Dirty movie that had come out in the past ten years.
While Jessica had personally boycotted the Dark & Dirty movies when the first three came out, due to her intense desire at the time to avoid anything with Jameson Fractal in it, post-assassination, they were the kind of iconic franchise one knew all about by cultural osmosis. Each time a new one was released, and she was pretty sure there were five or six now, the commercials were everywhere. Jessica must have watched the one-second clip of Jameson tearing off Valerie’s shirt in the back of an eighteen-wheeler a thousand times on the dorm TV during her freshman year of college.
The memory caused the age gap to sting acutely. She felt small and insignificant in the presence of real adults she’d seen on screen since she was child.
Lastly came Jon Damien. She’d seen him in more movies than the rest of them, and he always reminded her of her old teammate Romeo—short but built like a cinderblock, always ready with a joke. Or at least the characters he played were.
Not now, though. He nodded at her with an overly serious expression and she quickly thought, I bet h
e’s the scientologist, before realizing she was judging him unfairly for not living up to her unrealistic expectation. She knew him as a funny guy because he read funny lines, but he had every right to be serious outside of work.
Rather than a hug, he offered a hand and they got on a first-name basis as they shook.
Jameson leaned close and spoke in her ear. “Jon is incredibly high right now. Don’t take it personally.” She laughed, and immediately felt better.
Valerie patted the blanket next to her, and Jessica complied, trying to make sure she didn’t flash vag as she maneuvered down on the ground in her short shorts.
NEVER BEEN TO A MUSIC FESTIVAL BEFORE.
With all the noise around her, Jessica wasn’t sure if the voice was in her head or not. Surely God didn’t just say he’d never been to a music festival.
God?
YES.
How have you never been to a music festival? I know you can’t be everywhere at once, but come on.
LOOK AROUND YOU. DOES THIS SEEM LIKE A PLACE WHERE I’M WELCOME?
Since when has that stopped you? You haven’t been welcome in my head for twenty-two years.
Jessica scanned the crowd. An older couple, the man in short khaki shorts and white socks pulled up his calves and the woman wearing a sundress with tiny floral print and clunky leather sandals, watched a semi-nude woman manage five hula hoops at once.
Besides, this seems like a place where everyone is welcome. Sure, you may not be hot stuff here, but does everything have to be about you all the time for you to feel welcome?
FIGURES YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND.
For the love of yourself, please stop sulking.
I’M NOT SULKING. YOU’RE SULKING.
What about Christian music festivals? They’re all about you.
… HAVE YOU LISTENED TO CHRISTIAN MUSIC?
Remember Mason White? Sure, the lyrics were a little strange and nonsensical at times, but his music was great. Nice, complex melodies. Interesting beats.
God didn’t respond immediately, but she could still feel his presence in her head.
In the Details Page 17
